Stacey raised his eyebrows. “That has nothing to do with it,” he remarked coldly.
“Hasn’t it? You can say that and still be ready to smirch my good name and make my wife miserable?”
Stacey drew himself up. “What’s a man’s smirched name or a weeping wife compared with a man who’s under-nourished and a wife who can’t buy proper clothes for her children?” he demanded bitterly. “It’s useless! You can’t see why I’m doing this thing. For you I must have some other motive. Well, I haven’t.”
“And you’re going to use this story unless I give in on the strike—is that the idea?”
“Yes. I don’t say I’m going to throw it around broad-cast. Perhaps. I shall anyway tell it to my father. If you are a man and not just a popular legend, that ought to hit you almost as hard as the other thing. Because if I were you and had a friend like my father, I should want to keep him.”
For the first time Mr. Jeffries withdrew his eyes from his enemy and looked away, frowning. “You’ll hurt him a good deal,” he said quietly. “When are you going to tell him?”
“To-morrow morning. I won’t spoil his evening, anyway.” Stacey got up.
“Just a minute!” said the older man sharply. “I suppose you understand that you force me to play the same kind of game. I shall of course endeavor to learn where—and how—you have known this girl, since I’ve no doubt you got the story direct from her.”
“Oh, I should,” said Stacey indifferently. “It might prove discreditable. Also I should fancy that what I am doing is a criminal offence. I am really sorry for one thing,—to have taken up so much of your time,” he added sincerely.
Mr. Jeffries considered him grimly. “You have peculiar compunctions,” he observed.