Castro was chiding the girl when Stone returned to the table, chiding in a voice huskily caressing but with an undertone of emphasis, like a steel wire inside a silken cord. She stood sullen, stroking her arm.
"You geev me too much trouble, Lola," said Castro. "You mus' not ac' so like the snob. Yes'r'-day eet is complain to me you are too cold, you take the teep, you pocket your commission, but you sulk at the kind word. Eet is not right. You are here to make money for yourself an' for me. To-night, Carramba, you flare up at what is not meant as the insult! I hear you hav' quarrel with Padilla. You upset my business. Padilla is too good a leader of my orchestra for me to lose. An' you geev me that knife. Sabe? Eh, do you sabe, leetle one?"
She did not wince but a light leaped in her eyes like the fire in a black opal. As Castro released her she took a bone-handled stiletto from her bosom, laid it down, and moved away without a word. Castro laughed, a softly husky laugh, like a muffled rasp, and Stone felt an itching to slap his fat chops for him. He knew such an action would boomerang upon, not only himself, but the girl, and sipped his liquor to cover his mood.
"She is not yet broken, that leetle filly," commented Castro. "But she mus' not spoil my business."
The mescale was pungent, its native fieriness cunningly subdued in the mixing of the punch. Stone felt its insidious warmth running through his
