“Oh, yes,” said Stacey indifferently, “or I wouldn’t use it. But, to tell you the truth, I haven’t the slightest interest in the story. It doesn’t even amuse me. I merely see it as a possible weapon.”
Mr. Jeffries continued to gaze at him sharply. “Do you know anything about this young woman, Ethel Wyatt?” he inquired presently, his voice frigid.
Stacey was wary. “A little,” he returned.
“Then you doubtless know the sort of person she has proved to be. She has been the mistress of Ames Price, among others.”
“Well?”
“You would take the word of a harlot in the matter of this libellous—”
“Oh,” Stacey exclaimed scornfully, “let’s not go in for rhetoric! There’s no dictograph in the room. Let’s not be benevolent millionaire and returned hero deserving well of his country!”
“Very well!” snapped Mr. Jeffries, his cheeks slightly flushed. “You’d take this girl’s word against mine?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Jeffries said nothing for a moment, merely regarding Stacey intently. “How you do dislike me, don’t you?” he asked then. He had quite recovered his calm.