Allen dragged the table more evenly between them, as a general works on his defenses even while he parleys with the enemy.  “It’s you who are the idiot!” he cried.  “Suppose you could overcome me, which would be harder than you think, what are you going to do with the money?  Do you suppose I’d let you leave this country with it?  Do you imagine for a moment that I would give it up without raising my hand?  I’d have you dragged to prison from your bed this very night, or I’d have you seized as you set your foot upon the wharf.  I would appeal to our Consul-General.  As far as he knows, I am as worthy of protection as you are yourself, and, failing him, I’d appeal to the law of the land.”  He stopped for want of breath, and then began again with the air of one who finds encouragement in the sound of his own voice.  “They may not understand extradition here, Holcombe,” he said, “but a thief is a thief all the world over.  What you may be in New York isn’t going to help you here; neither is your father’s name.  To these people you would be only a hotel thief who forces his way into other men’s rooms at night and—­”

“You poor thing,” interrupted Holcombe.  “Do you know where you are?” he demanded.  “You talk, Allen, as though we were within sound of the cable-cars on Broadway.  This hotel is not the Brunswick, and this Consul-General you speak of is another blackguard who knows that a word from me at Washington, on my return, or a letter from here would lose him his place and his liberty.  He’s as much of a rascal as any of them, and he knows that I know it and that I may use that knowledge. He won’t help you.  And as for the law of the land”—­Holcombe’s voice rose and broke in a mocking laugh—­“there is no law of the land. That’s why you’re here! You are in a place populated by exiles and outlaws like yourself, who have preyed upon society until society has turned and frightened each of them off like a dog with his tail between his legs.  Don’t give yourself confidence, Allen.  That’s all you are, that’s all we are—­two dogs fighting for a stolen bone.  The man who rules you here is an ignorant negro, debauched and vicious and a fanatic.  He is shut off from every one, even to the approach of a British ambassador.  And what do you suppose he cares for a dog of a Christian like you, who has been robbed in a hotel by another Christian?  And these others.  Do you suppose they care?  Call out—­cry for help, and tell them that you have half a million dollars in this room, and they will fall on you and strip you of every cent of it, and leave you to walk the beach for work.  Now, what are you going to do?  Will you give me the money I want to take back where it belongs, or will you call for help and lose it all?”

The two men confronted each other across the narrow length of the table.  The blood had run to Holcombe’s face, but the face of the other was drawn and pale with fear.