"Very well," was the decisive reply. Ingolby pressed a bell, and, in an
instant, Jim Beadle was in the room. He had evidently been at the
keyhole. "Jim," he said, "show the gentleman out."
But suddenly he caught up a box of cigars from the table and thrust it
into the Romany's hands. "They're the best to be got this side of
Havana," he said cheerily. "They'll help you put more fancy still into
your playing. Good night. You never played better than you've done
during the last hour, I'll stake my life on that. Good night. Show Mr.
Fawe out, Jim."
The Romany had not time to thrust back the cigars upon his host, and
dazed by the strategy of the thing, by the superior force and mind of the
man who a moment ago he would have killed, he took the box and turned
towards the door, taking his hat dazedly from Jim.
At the door, however, catching sight of the sly grin on the mulatto
servant's face, his rage and understanding returned to him, and he faced
the masterful Gorgio once again.
"By God, I'll have none of it!" he exclaimed roughly and threw the box
of cigars on the floor of the room. Ingolby was not perturbed. "Don't
forget there's an east-bound train every day," he said menacingly, and
turned his back as the door closed.
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