Dan McReady shrugged, as if Arthur could think what he liked.

‘Did you buy them?’ asked Arthur. ‘How much did you pay?’

‘They’re temporarily mine, sir, as collateral against a heavy loss at cards. I’m a gambler, you see, by profession. You can ask around anywhere, and folks’ll know me. As it happened, I was playing poker with the original owner of these blankets, and he went down by twelve thousand dollars.’

‘I see. So he gave you the blankets in lieu of the debt?’

‘That’s right, sir. Although the arrangement is, if he can raise the cash by midnight tonight, he can have the blankets back. That’s if I haven’t sold them first.’

Arthur Teach rubbed his moustache. He didn’t speak for more than a minute, and the silence in the office became tense and oppressive. From outside the hammered-glass door, there was the heavy slam of the Salamander safe being closed and locked for the night, and the clatter of inkstands being tidied up and nibs put away.

‘Why did you come to me?’ asked Arthur, at last.

Dan McReady’s opaline gaze didn’t falter. ‘I know what goes on, sir, in the business district, and almost everybody got to hear of the way those blankets were bought from the Aria’s master before she docked.’

‘Yes,’ said Arthur, not particularly pleased. ‘I suppose everybody did.’

There was another, shorter silence. Then Dan McReady said, ‘Do you want the blankets, sir? They’re not much use to me.’

Arthur cleared his throat. ‘As I said before, it depends on the price.’

‘The price depends on the weather, sir, wouldn’t you say? Right now, the weather’s warmish, and almost too pleasant for blankets, so I can’t in all conscience ask for much. Say, two dollars the blanket, just to cover my outlay, and that includes commission, storage, and expenses.’

‘Two dollars?’ Arthur frowned. ‘That’s — what, ten thousand blankets in twenty-five short tons? — that’s twenty-thousand dollars.’

‘Yup,’ said Dan McReady. ‘Your arithmetic’s correct, sir.’

‘Impossible,’ said Arthur. ‘Twenty-thousand dollars is too much. Why, you got the blankets for twelve. Do you really believe I should pay you eight just for handing them over?’

Dan McReady’s face didn’t register the slightest hint of emotion. He could have been one of those bland, blank outlaws on a wanted poster; or a slightly simple second cousin peering out of the background of a family daguerreo-type.

‘Handing them over is only a part of what you’re paying for, sir,’ he told Arthur, in a whispery, collusive voice. ‘You’re also paying, aren’t you, for the privilege of having them offered you private, without the necessity to bid for them at auction; and the great satisfaction of having your revenge on the original owner.’