I might have expected it.
You've always been an impertinent meddler."
"Mebbeso," agreed Clay serenely, showing no surprise at this explosion.
"But I'm here. And I put a question. Shall I ask it again?"
"No need. I'm going to take what the law allows me--what I and my
friends have bought and paid for in the open market. The more it hurts
Whitford the better I'll be pleased," answered Bromfield, his manner of
cynical indifference swept away by gathering rage. The interference of
this "bounder" filled him with a passion of impotent hate.
"Is that quite correct? Did you buy control in the market? In point
of fact, aren't you holdin' a bunch of proxies because Whitford wrote
and asked the stockholders to sign them for you to vote? What you
intend doing is a moral fraud, no matter what its legal aspect is.
You'd be swindling the very stockholders you claim to represent, as
well as abusing the confidence of Whitford."
"What you think isn't of the least importance to me, Mr. Lindsay. If
you're here merely to offer me your advice, I suppose I shall now have
regretfully to say good-day." The New Yorker rose, a thin lip smile
scarcely veiling his anger at this intruder who had brought his hopes
to nothing.
"I reckon I'll not hurry off, Mr. Bromfield," Clay replied easily.
"You might think I was mad at you. I'll stick around awhile and talk
this over."
"Unfortunately I have an engagement," retorted the other icily.
"When?"
"I really think, Mr.
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