His large gray eyes were mainly responsible for this feeling, and they blazed out feverishly from what was almost a death's-head, so thin was the face, the skin of which was a ghastly, dull, dead white.
Not more than fifty, thatched with a sparse growth of iron-gray hair, he looked several times the age of Dowsett.
Yet Nathaniel Letton possessed control—Daylight could see that plainly.
He was a thin-faced ascetic, living in a state of high, attenuated calm—a molten planet under a transcontinental ice sheet.
And yet, above all most of all, Daylight was impressed by the terrific and almost awful cleanness of the man.
There was no dross in him. He had all the seeming of having been purged by fire.
Daylight had the feeling that a healthy man-oath would be a deadly offence to his ears, a sacrilege and a blasphemy.
They drank—that is, Nathaniel Letton took mineral water served by the smoothly operating machine of a lackey who inhabited the place, while Dowsett took Scotch and soda and Daylight a cocktail.
Nobody seemed to notice the unusualness of a Martini at midnight, though Daylight looked sharply for that very thing; for he had long since learned that Martinis had their strictly appointed times and places.
But he liked Martinis, and, being a natural man, he chose deliberately to drink when and how he pleased.
Others had noticed this peculiar habit of his, but not so Dowsett and Letton; and Daylight's secret thought was:
"They sure wouldn't bat an eye if I called for a glass of corrosive sublimate."
Leon Guggenhammer arrived in the midst of the drink, and ordered Scotch.
Daylight studied him curiously.
This was one of the great Guggenhammer family; a younger one, but nevertheless one of the crowd with which he had locked grapples in the North.
Nor did Leon Guggenhammer fail to mention cognizance of that old affair.
He complimented Daylight on his prowess—"The echoes of Ophir came down to us, you know.
And I must say, Mr. Daylight—er, Mr. Harnish, that you whipped us roundly in that affair."
Echoes!
Daylight could not escape the shock of the phrase—echoes had come down to them of the fight into which he had flung all his strength and the strength of his Klondike millions.
The Guggenhammers sure must go some when a fight of that dimension was no more than a skirmish of which they deigned to hear echoes.
"They sure play an almighty big game down here," was his conclusion, accompanied by a corresponding elation that it was just precisely that almighty big game in which he was about to be invited to play a hand.
For the moment he poignantly regretted that rumor was not true, and that his eleven millions were not in reality thirty millions.
Well, that much he would be frank about; he would let them know exactly how many stacks of chips he could buy.
Leon Guggenhammer was young and fat. Not a day more than thirty, his face, save for the adumbrated puff sacks under the eyes, was as smooth and lineless as a boy's.
He, too, gave the impression of cleanness.
He showed in the pink of health; his unblemished, smooth-shaven skin shouted advertisement of his splendid physical condition. In the face of that perfect skin, his very fatness and mature, rotund paunch could be nothing other than normal. He was constituted to be prone to fatness, that was all.
The talk soon centred down to business, though Guggenhammer had first to say his say about the forthcoming international yacht race and about his own palatial steam yacht, the Electra, whose recent engines were already antiquated.
Dowsett broached the plan, aided by an occasional remark from the other two, while Daylight asked questions.
Whatever the proposition was, he was going into it with his eyes open.
And they filled his eyes with the practical vision of what they had in mind.
"They will never dream you are with us," Guggenhammer interjected, as the outlining of the matter drew to a close, his handsome Jewish eyes flashing enthusiastically.
"They'll think you are raiding on your own in proper buccaneer style."
"Of course, you understand, Mr. Harnish, the absolute need for keeping our alliance in the dark," Nathaniel Letton warned gravely.
Daylight nodded his head.
"And you also understand," Letton went on, "that the result can only be productive of good.
The thing is legitimate and right, and the only ones who may be hurt are the stock gamblers themselves.
It is not an attempt to smash the market.
As you see yourself, you are to bull the market.
The honest investor will be the gainer."
"Yes, that's the very thing," Dowsett said.
"The commercial need for copper is continually increasing.
Ward Valley Copper, and all that it stands for,—practically one-quarter of the world's supply, as I have shown you,—is a big thing, how big, even we can scarcely estimate.
Our arrangements are made.
We have plenty of capital ourselves, and yet we want more.
Also, there is too much Ward Valley out to suit our present plans.
Thus we kill both birds with one stone—"
"And I am the stone," Daylight broke in with a smile.
"Yes, just that.
Not only will you bull Ward Valley, but you will at the same time gather Ward Valley in.