it a month ago when Losada’s man was here turning things over; but I couldn’t do it then. Now it’s different. I want a thousand dollars, Goodwin; and you’ll have to give it to me.”
“Only last week,” said Goodwin, with a smile, “a silver dollar was all you were asking for.”
“An evidence,” said Blythe, flippantly, “that I was still virtuous—though under heavy pressure. The wages of sin should be something higher than a peso worth forty-eight cents. Let’s talk business. I am the villain in the third act; and I must have my merited, if only temporary, triumph. I saw you collar the late president’s valiseful of boodle. Oh, I know it’s blackmail; but I’m liberal about the price. I know I’m a cheap villain—one of the regular sawmill-drama kind—but you’re one of my particular friends, and I don’t want to stick you hard.”
“Suppose you go into the details,” suggested Goodwin, calmly arranging his letters on the table.
“All right,” said “Beelzebub.” “I like the way you take it. I despise histrionics; so you will please prepare yourself for the facts without any red fire, calcium or grace notes on the saxophone.
