Maillard started.
"That safe! Why—why—damn you, I'll do nothing of the sort!"
"If you don't," was the cool threat, "I'll shoot you through the abdomen. A man fears a bullet there worse than death. It may kill you, and it may not; really, I care very little. You—you financier!"
Scorn leaped into the quiet voice, scorn that lashed and bit deep.
"You money trickster! Do you think I would spare such a man as you? You draw your rents from the poor and destitute, your mortgages cover half the parishes in the state, and in your heart is neither compassion nor pity for man or woman. You take the property of others from behind the safety curtain of the law; I do it from behind a pistol! I rob only those who can afford to lose—am I really as bad as you, in the eyes of morality and ethics? Bah! I could shoot you down without a qualm!"
In his voice was so deadly a menace that Maillard trembled. Yet the banker drew himself up and struggled for self-control, stung as he was by this flood of vituperation before the group of his closest friends.
