"Indirectly? I? What do you--?"

"Through your once having dropped a few words. Wine in, wits out!"

The fellow scowled; edged his chair closer.

"Keep where you are!" John Steele's hand touched the revolver now on the
table before him; even as it did so, the room seemed to sway, and it was
only by a strong effort of will he kept his attention on the matter in
hand, fought down the dizziness. "And let's get through with this! I
don't care to waste much more of my time on you."

"You're sure nothing will happen to me, if--" The man watched him
closer.

"This paper need never be made public."

"Then what--"

"That's my business. It might be useful in certain contingencies."

"Such as the police discovering he hadn't gone to Davy Jones' locker?"
shrewdly.

John Steele's answer was short, as if he found this verbal contest
trite, paltry, after the physical struggle that had preceded it.

"And what am I to get if I do what you--" The pupils of the fellow's
eyes, fastened on him, were now like pin-points.