He bent suddenly forward, gripping the edge of the desk with both hands. His face was slightly flushed; his eyes, fixed intently on Crane, held in their depths a gleam of singularly disconcerting triumph.
“I’ll tell you,” he said rapidly. “J. G. Brown, of Porltand, had two million feet, didn’t he? Creighton, of Rockland, bought half as much. There was Cox, of Portsmouth—Blanchard—Manning—Lafitte. You see, I know!”
There was a ring in his voice which made Tweedy begin to tingle and sit forward, suddenly erect, in thrilling anticipation of the bombshell he felt sure was coming.
“Why don’t you ask the questions you’re dying to? How? Why? You’re wild to know; I can see it in your eyes.” Bob laughed again, and Crane winced at the sound. “I’ll tell you. I know because they’re only my agents—buying—for—me!”
“It’s a lie!” burst from Crane’s white lips. “They paid cash! You haven’t a cent.”
“I have something better—unlimited credit. Shall I tell you who’s backing me because he hates the trust, and has faith in my ability to fight you? Wolcott Sears, of Boston. Now do you understand? Instead of ruining us by cutting rates, you’ve played straight into our hands. Timber values can’t go down. We’ll sell at market prices what we bought from you and clean up a cool half million on the deal.”
With an inarticulate cry of fury, Crane leaped to his feet, and stood glaring at Bainbridge with flaming, maddened eyes. The mask of inscrutability had vanished from his face. One saw the real man now, stripped of the veneer of temperament and civilization.
“It’s a plot!” he raved, shaking a skinny fist in Bob’s face. “It’s a vile conspiracy. I’ll take the case to court. I’ll have you jailed for——”
“Sit down!”
Bainbridge’s tone was not loud, but there was a compelling quality about it which stopped the boiling torrent of fury with amazing suddenness. Crane gulped hard, caught his trembling lips between his teeth—and finally subsided into his chair.