THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
along under these lighted ports, William heard laughter—men's laughter. He raised his hand quickly to signify that he wished to stop. He was not overscrupulous to-night.
"… And so I sent it back to New York."
"But why didn't you keep it?"
"What good would that have done? Besides, the jackal isn't so much a thief as he is a taker of leavings. Bah!"
There followed the light tinkle of glass. William strained his ears. The voice of the man who called himself a jackal was tantalizingly familiar and at the same time it persistently eluded identification.
"I tell you the whole thing smacks of cheap melodrama," declared the jackal.
"I wish you'd drop that lecturing tone," replied the other voice, which was not familiar at all.
"The jackal apologizes."
"Jackal?"
"Well, what am I if not a jackal? Why put frills on it and call me your man of affairs? Why try to get around it with verbal soft-soap? I'm a sneak. It doesn't matter that once upon a time I lived on the decent side of the street. The fact is incontrovertible that I'm your jackal. I've done this kind of work for you before; so what the devil? True, I never bargained for a chase like this. I've done the work you've hired me to do, and here's my little bill for the same, Orestes!"
"Orestes," murmured William; "sounds like dago or Spanish."
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