The old man crooked his shoulder at a steam-yacht riding at anchor in the harbour.
"Damn pretty boat, that, Petie."
Pete whistled.
"So that's his game!"
"Ay tank so," said the Pink Swede simply.
Within, Philip was gazing sullenly at the blackleg and gambler. To the eye of an unbiased spectator he would have been infinitely more satisfying than most of his ilk, drab fellows enough outwardly and designedly unobtrusive. MacAllister was ever smooth, polished, immaculate. His well-fitting suit, eyes, and close-trimmed mustache were black, all contrasting strangely with the deadwhite of his complexion. In his dark scarf sparkled a three-carat stone, bluewhite and cold; its twin on a hand manicured to an alabaster finish, yet somehow suggesting a high degree of dexterity and power.
"Huntington, you can do me a favour, in return for the one I've just done you, and a lot more it isn't necessary to itemize."
"A pretty lot of favours you've done me, MacAllister."
"Have it your way, then, but you wouldn't have enjoyed maggoty bread and worm-eaten pork on a trip to Rio." The smooth deft fingers extended a cigarette-case. "Try one—they're French—now, as it happens I'm a little short, and—"
"N-o-t-h-i-n-g d-o-i-n-g! MacAllister."
"Never 'pass' before you look at your cards, my dear boy. Isn't my golden silence worth something—in gold?"
