He knew that this must be the girl to whom his host was
engaged. "How about you, Bromfield?" he sneered.
The clubman stiffened. "I've nothing against Mr. Lindsay."
"Thought you had."
"Of course he hasn't. Why should he?" asked Beatrice, backing up
Clarendon.
Durand looked at her with a bold insolence that was an insult. His
eyes moved up and down the long, slim curves of her figure. "I expect
he could find a handsome reason if he looked around for it, Miss."
The girl's father clenched his fist. A flush of anger swept his ruddy
cheeks. He held himself, however, to the subject.
"You forget, Mr. Durand, that Lindsay was his guest last night."
Jerry's laugh was a contemptuous jeer. "That's right. I'd forgot
that. He was your guest, wasn't he, Bromfield?"
"What's the good of discussing it here?" asked the tortured host.
"Not a bit," admitted Whitford. "Actions talk, not words. Have you
seen the police yet, Bromfield?"
"N-not yet."
"What's he gonna see the police about?" Jerry wanted to know, his chin
jutting out.
"To tell them that he saw Collins draw a gun and heard shots fired,"
retorted the mining man instantly.
"Not what he's been tellin' me. He'll not pull any such story--not
unless he wants to put himself in a cell for life."
"Talk sense. You can't frighten Bromfield. He knows that's
foolishness."
"Does he?" The crook turned derisive eyes on the victim he was
torturing.
Certainly the society man did not look a picture of confidence.
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