“That'll do,” I interrupted roughly. “I suppose you've been talking that way to Hector?”
“Why, certainly. I have his best interests at—”
“Good-day, sir!” I said, and turned in at the hotel and left him, with Hugo Siffles's little bright pig's eyes peeking at me round Trimmer's shoulder.
Sore enough I was, and cursing Trimmer and Hector in my heart, so that when some one knocked on my door, while I was washing up for supper, I said “Come in!” as if I were telling a dog to get out.
It was Joe Lane and he was pretty drunk. He walked over to the bed and caught himself unsteadily once or twice. I'd never seen him stagger before. He didn't speak until he had sat down on the coverlet; then he shaded his eyes with his hand and stared at me as if he wanted to make sure that it was I.
“I've just been down to Hugo Siffles's drugstore,” he said, speaking very slowly and carefully, “and Hugo was telling a crowd about a conver—conversation between you and Passley Trimmer. He said Trimmer said Hector Ransom ought to drop Miss Rainey—and 'hand her over to Joe Lane,' Is that true?”
“Yes,” I answered. “The beast said that.”
“There was more,” Joe said heavily. “More that im—implied—might be taken to imply scandal, which I believe Trimmer did not seriously intend—but thought—thought might be used as an argument with Hector to persuade him to jilt her?”
“Yes.”
“What was said ex—-actly? It is being repeated about town in various forms. I want to know.”