“Five formal warnings,” said Desbrough. “I’ve just given them a sixth. That’s why I’m delaying.”
“Six. That’s too many. We’ve been more than fair.”
“George, if I go ahead—I send two of your wife’s own cousins to the pen—and disgrace her father—drive him out of public life.”
A long silence. Then Helm said quietly:
“Do you think they’ll pay attention to the warning?”
“No,” replied Desbrough. He watched the lines growing slowly taut in George Helm’s rugged face, and hastily added, “Now, see here, old man—for God’s sake don’t do another unpractical thing—the worst yet. The others only wrecked you politically. This’ll wreck your home.”
In the same tranquil way Helm said:
“Have I ever done a single unpractical thing? You know I haven’t. You know—or ought to—that Sayler— There’s a politician!—he put up the whole game on me. He fixed it so that I’d be forced either to do dirty work or to offend one after another every power in this state and so kill myself politically.”
Desbrough suddenly saw the whole plot—simple, devilish, inevitably successful. And all his love for Helm was concentrated in the deep, passionate fury of his exclamation—“The dirty devil!”
“No use calling names,” rejoined Helm placidly. “He plays his game; we play ours. And anyhow, he has lost.”