“Yes, I know,” interrupted Hanson, “but the black man, the black man.  Out with him.”

Gallito’s face had grown livid, his mouth had tightened until it was drawn and pinched.  “Have it, then,” he growled.  “Sweeney’s straight.  Sweeney hasn’t left one wife in Colina while he eloped with one of his head-liners.  He’s not in one scrape after another with a woman, until he’s a joke in the coast newspapers, and every woman he features in his shows has got a black smirch on her—­”

“By God, you’ve got your nerve,” cried Hanson violently, interrupting him.

Gallito made a deprecating motion with his hands, as if to say:  “Don’t mention it, I beg of you,” and then carefully selected another cigarette from the box between them.  “My nerve is something that rarely deserts me, Mr. Hanson,” he replied, “but I wish to finish what I was saying.  My daughter has a future.  She will not only be a great dancer, but she has the making of a great actress in her, too.  And Dios!” he still maintained his cold restraint, but now, in spite of himself, his tones vibrated with passion, “just at the beginning of her career, to be made cheap by you, or any like you—­”

He lifted his hooded hawk’s eyes and looked at Hanson, who in turn looked boldly back at him with something indefinable yet unmistakable, something that was not only defiance, but also a threat in the blaze of his angry eyes.

And Gallito caught it and raised his brows ever so slightly, pondering surprisedly for a moment, and then resolutely putting the matter aside for the present.  But Hanson continued to gaze across the table at him.

“Read me my pedigree, ain’t you?” he snarled.  “All right.  Now just let me tell you something, Gallito.  I take my answer from your daughter, and from no one else.  Understand?”

“No,” returned Gallito, “I do not understand.”

Hanson controlled himself with difficulty.  For a moment it was on the tip of his tongue to tell Gallito that the latter’s connivance in the escape of the notorious Crop-eared Jose was known to him; also, he was perfectly cognizant of the present whereabouts of that much-desired person, and that he, Hanson, had but to step to the telegraph office and send a wire to Los Angeles, and not only Jose, but Gallito would be in custody before night.  An admirable method for securing Gallito’s consent to his daughter’s acceptance of this professional engagement which Hanson offered.  But, carefully considered, it had its flaws, and Hanson was not the man to overlook them.  Indeed, he sat there in a baffled and furious silence, going over them mentally and viewing them from every possible angle.

In the first place, it was extremely doubtful if, after communicating his knowledge to Gallito, he would ever be permitted to reach the telegraph station, and, in the second place, he would, he was convinced, have not only Gallito, but the, to him, more formidable Bob Flick to deal with.  Therefore, and most reluctantly, he decided to keep his information and his threats to himself for the present and, certainly, until he was better able to enforce the latter.