From the adjoining room came the sound
of voices.
"I thought you told us Mr. Bromfield had gone to sleep and the doctor
said he wasn't to be wakened," said Beatrice with a broad, boyish smile
at the man's discomfiture.
"The person inside wouldn't take no, Miss, for an answer."
"He was like us, wasn't he? Did he give his name?" asked the young
woman.
"No, Miss. Just said he was from the Omnium Club."
Whitford and his daughter exchanged glances. "Same business we're on.
Announce us and we'll go right in."
They were on his heels when he gave their names.
Bromfield started up, too late to prevent their entrance. He stood
silent for a moment, uncertain what to do, disregarding his fiancee's
glance of hostile inquiry lifted toward the other guest.
The mining man forced his hand. "Won't you introduce us, Clarendon?"
he asked bluntly.
Reluctantly their host went through the formula. He was extremely
uneasy. There was material for an explosion present in this room that
would blow him sky-high if a match should be applied to it. Let Durand
get to telling what he knew about Clarendon and the Whitfords would
never speak to him again. They might even spread a true story that
would bar every house and club in New York to him.
"We've heard of Mr. Durand," said Beatrice.
Her tone challenged the attention of the gang leader. The brave eyes
flashed defiance straight at him. A pulse of anger was throbbing in
the soft round throat.
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