The active center of the attack upon him was the group around Clay
Lindsay. To it was now allied the office of the district attorney and
all the malcontent subordinates of the underworld who had endured his
domination so long only because they must. The campaign was gathering
impetus like a snowslide. Soon it would be too late to stop it even if
he could call off the friends of the Westerner.
Durand tried to make an appointment with Whitford. That gentleman
declined to see him. Jerry persisted. He offered to meet him at one
of his clubs. He telephoned to the house, but could not get any result
more satisfactory than the cold voice of a servant saying, "Mr.
Whitford does not wish to talk with you, sir." At last he telegraphed.
The message read:
I'll come to your house at eight this evening. Better see me for
Missie's sake.
It was signed by Durand.
When Jerry called he was admitted.
Whitford met him with chill hostility. He held the telegram in his
hand. "What does this message mean?" he asked bluntly.
"Your daughter's engaged to Bromfield, ain't she?" demanded the
ex-prize-fighter, his bulbous eyes full on his host.
"That's our business, sir."
"I got a reason for asking. She is or she ain't. Which is it?"
"We'll not discuss my daughter's affairs."
"All right, since you're so damned particular. We'll discuss
Bromfield's. I warned him to keep his mouth shut or he'd get into
trouble."
"He was released from prison this afternoon.
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