"Then I guess it's all right. When I sell out Mackay he'll get out of the district likely. Just as well. He might find out something if he stayed around here."
"He might," French agreed. "He suspects that we split up the biggest part of the price that Winton was supposed to pay for the land."
"He can't prove it."
"And possibly he suspects that you are responsible for his failure to get a new loan. He may even suspect that you had something to do with what happened to his water supply.
"No; but when a man begins to suspect he interprets things which otherwise would carry no meaning. So far he connects us only through the original transaction with Winton. If he knew the truth he'd probably twist your neck like a chicken's."
Mr. Braden moved that threatened part of his anatomy uneasily. "He wouldn't dare to attempt physical violence."
French laughed. "You don't know that young man, Braden, because you're a different breed. I know him, because I've seen his kind before. I made a mistake in quarreling with him."
"I'd like to see him beaten to a pulp," said Mr. Braden viciously, "but after all, it's the money we want. I'm having a devil of a time to keep my head above water, and you're broke."
"Yes, I'm broke," French admitted. "These things are the only chance I see of getting money. When a man reaches my age and faces poverty to which he is unaccustomed, he will do almost anything for money. I want to see the cities and some of the men I knew thirty years ago, before I die. For money to do that I'd give—give—I would—give—"
Something seemed to have gone wrong with Godfrey French's enunciation. It resembled nothing so much as a phonographic record with a running-down motor. He did not stammer, but the words came slowly and then blurred, as if his tongue had lost power. His face, on which a look of blank wonder had come, suddenly contorted, his hand caught at his breast, he threw his head back, chin up, mouth open, gasping.