something, for Ivan said sharply, though in a very soft voice:
"Then you will not undertake it? That is final?"
"It is not worth my while," growled Chu-Chu. After all, I am the one to risk my liberty—not you."
"You risk nothing if you carry out my directions to the very foot of the letter," snapped Ivan.
Chu-Chu shrugged. "Perhaps," said he, "but you must remember that I am the only man who could do the job."
"It is very plain," said Ivan, in about as nasty a tone as a man could use, "that you are suffering from the malady of egoism, Monsieur Maxeville—though why, I cannot imagine. One would have thought that your recent misfortunes might have taught you a little modesty. I could name a man who could do this piece of work in a way to make you look like a tyro!"
"And who is that?" growled Chu-Chu. And I wondered at Ivan's daring. I had sized him up as the least bit afraid of his operator; but either he was very angry, or else had more nerve than I had given him credit for.
"That, my friend," Ivan answered, in a catty voice, "is our American friend, Monsieur Clamart, alias the 'Tidewater Clam,' alias 'The Swell,' alias 'Sir Frank.' Did you ever hear of him, you Basque apprentice?" There was a snarl of rage in his voice, and I began to think that Ivan was a more dangerous man than I had thought. "He stood you in a corner of my study while he took
