“The old fox!” thought he scornfully.  “Does he hope to bluff me into giving myself away?”

Finally Gallito spoke, directly and to the point, surprising the other man, in spite of himself, by a most unexpected lack of diplomatic subterfuge and subtlety.

“I received a letter from Sweeney yesterday,” he drew it slowly from his pocket, “and he doubles his offer to my daughter, making her salary, practically, what you are willing to pay her.  Now, Mr. Hanson, your offer is very fine.  I appreciate it; my daughter appreciates it; but she cannot accept it.  She treated Sweeney badly, very badly.  She is an untaught child, headstrong, wilful,” his brow darkened, “but she must learn that a contract is a contract.”  He took another sip of cognac.  “She will go back to Sweeney.”

He slightly shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands as if to say:  “I deprecate this for your sake, but the question is definitely settled; I beg you, therefore, to advance no useless counter-arguments.”

But Hanson ignored this unspoken request.  “I’m sorry you feel that way about it,” he said, “but your daughter is of age.  I guess I’ll wait and see what she has to say about this.”  He spoke pleasantly, almost carelessly, no hint of a threat in his tone, at least.

Gallito looked at him from under his brows in surprise, then he laughed, one single, menacing note.  “My daughter will say what I have said.”

“I’m not so sure,” returned Hanson, and had some difficulty in restraining himself from speaking violently.  Then he forced the issue.

“Look here, Gallito,” he cried, “what’s all this about, anyway?  I came down here to the desert anxious to secure the Black Pearl as a new attraction for my vaudeville houses.  I see her and I know that she’s all to the good.  So, banking on my own judgment, I make her an offer that’s more than generous, just because I’ve the courage of my convictions and am willing to back my enthusiasms.  Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose,” he snapped his fingers lightly, “but I’m always ready to take the chances.

“Well—­what happens?  In the first place, instead of jumping at my offer, like any sensible man would—­I’m talking plain now, Gallito—­you got to drag Sweeney into the game, which, look at it any way you please, wasn’t particularly square.  Pah!” scornfully, pitching his cigarette with a single muscular sweep of the arm into the heart of the garden, “you don’t know it or you wouldn’t have been talking to me like you have, but I’ve got Sweeney pigeon-holed, know all his resources, and know positively that he can’t come up to my offer.  I tell you what, Gallito, it’s cards on the table now, and,” he tapped the table between them with his knuckles, “I’m politely requesting you to draw your nigger from the woodpile.”

Gallito’s glance was like the stab of a poignard.  “But this is strange talk.”  He drew back haughtily.  “I do not have to make explanations.  I have my daughter’s interests at heart.”