“Discuss my revered employer with an outsider? I should think not,” returned Vickers.
“At least he is your employer, which not many men who knew your record would care to be.”
“Ah, but Emmons doesn’t know my record.”
“Really, Bob, you are tiresome,” said Nellie. “Do I show so much evidence of believing you that you are encouraged to persist in your absurd story? There is a proverb about sticking to a good lie, but no one could advise you to stick to such a particularly stupid one as this.”
“Facts are stubborn things, however,” said Vickers. “Lee, if you care to know, died just ten days ago. I saw him dead. He died of drink. Doesn’t that sound likely?”
“Very likely, if I did not see you before me at the moment.”
“Don’t be absurd,” he answered, coming nearer to her. “I knew Lee. We were not even so very much alike. He was not as tall as I am, for one thing. Look at me.”
“I can’t. I’m busy.”
“By George, you will, too,” he cried, taking her by the shoulders. “You did not have to look up as much as that to Lee. He was not built like me—not so well. He was older, too, and had led the devil of a life, and showed it. Can’t you see, you stupid girl? Look at me;” and he gave her a faint shake.
She was not in the least flustered, angered, or in any way upset by his violence, apparently. She simply would not look at him. Her eyes roved up and down and sideways, but would not meet his, and in the course of their wanderings they encountered the figure of Mr. Lee, just entering.