“And now, what has the loose-board telephone told you?” she asked, two hours later when flushed of face from frequent attacks on the bottle—Braman rather more flushed than she—they relaxed in their chairs after a tilt at poker in which the woman had been the victor.
“You’re sure you don’t care for Trevison any more—that you’re only taking his end of this because of what he’s been to you in the past?” demanded the banker, looking suspiciously at her.
“He told me he didn’t love me any more. I couldn’t want him after that, could I?”
“I should think not.” Braman’s eyes glowed with satisfaction. But he hesitated, yielding when she smiled at him. “Damn it, I’d knife Corrigan for you!” he vowed, recklessly.
“Save Trevison—that’s all I ask. Tell me what you heard.”
“Corrigan suspects Trevison of blowing up the stuff at the butte—as everybody does, of course. He’s determined to get evidence against him. He found Carson’s pipe at the door of the dynamite shed this morning. Carson is a friend of Trevison’s. Corrigan is going to have Judge Lindman issue a warrant for the arrest of Carson—on some charge—and they’re going to jail Carson until he talks.”
The woman cursed profanely, sharply. “That’s Corrigan’s idea of a square deal. He promised me that no harm should come to Trevison.” She got up and walked back and forth in the room, Braman watching her with passion lying naked in his eyes, his lips loose and moist.
She stopped in front of him, finally. “Go home, Croft—there’s a good boy. I want to think.”
“That’s cruelty to animals,” he laughed in a strained voice. “But I’ll go,” he added at signs of displeasure on her face. “Can I see you tomorrow night?”
“I’ll let you know.” She held the door open for him, and permitted him to take her hand for an instant. He squeezed it hotly, the woman making a grimace of repugnance as she closed the door.