He examined the ferule of his Malacca cane
nervously.
"I've come to you, Mr. Durand, about--about a fellow called Lindsay."
The bulbous eyes of the other narrowed. He distrusted on principle all
kid gloves. Those he had met were mostly ambitious reformers.
Furthermore, any stranger who mentioned the name of the Arizonan became
instantly an object of suspicion.
"What about him?"
"I understand that you and he are not on friendly terms. I've gathered
that from what's been told me. Am I correct?"
Durand thrust out his salient chin. "Say! Who the hell are you?
What's eatin' you? Whatta you want?"
"I'd rather not tell my name."
"Nothin' doin'. No name, no business. That goes."
"Very well. My name is Bromfield. This fellow Lindsay--gets in my
way. I want to--to eliminate him."
"Are you askin' me to croak him?"
"Good God, no! I don't want him hurt--physically," cried Bromfield,
alarmed.
"Whatta you want, then?" The tight-lipped mouth and the harsh voice
called for a showdown.
"I want him discredited--disgraced."
"Why?"
"Some friends of mine are infatuated by him. I want to unmask him in a
public way so as to disgust them with him."
"I'm hep. It's a girl."
"We'll not discuss that," said the clubman with a touch of hauteur.
"As to the price, if you can arrange the thing as I want it done, I'll
not haggle over terms."
The ex-pugilist listened sourly to Bromfield's proposition. He watched
narrowly this fashionably dressed visitor.
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