“Then I’ll smash you, flat as a pancake. You young fool.”
“Kite,” Wint murmured gently. “I don’t give a damn what you do. I’m in to stay.”
Kite banged his fist on the table. “Then the whole story comes out.”
“Let it come,” said Wint.
“You mean you want me to tell these men here? The black shame?”
“Yes,” Wint assented. “Tell them anything you please.” He lowered his eyes again, resumed his study of the carpet, puffed at his pipe. Kite stared at the boy’s bent head as though he could not believe his eyes, or his ears. He had counted so surely on Wint’s surrender; he had been so sure that Wint would yield.
But Wint.... The fool sat there, passively defying him; daring him. Kite’s face twisted with a sudden furious grimace. He jerked back his head. So be it. He flung defiant eyes around the room; he said abruptly, curtly:
“Very well. Here it is. This young rip is the father of Hetty Morfee’s child.”
There was a moment’s terrible silence in the room. Then Jack Routt cried: “Good Lord, Kite, that can’t be! Wint’s a decent chap.”
Kite snapped at him: “Can’t be? It is. Here’s the very check he gave her, to go away.” He shook the slip of paper in the air. “What do you say to that?”