"Then you'll be right out in front of the guns. You—alone."
"There aren't any guns."
"I'm surprised at you!" exclaimed his wife. "Don't you know Horace Armstrong better than that!"
"The treacherous hound!"
"He has his bad side, I suppose, like everybody else," said Mrs. Trafford, who felt that it was not wise to humor him in his prejudices that evening. "His character isn't important just now. It's his ability you've got to consider."
"Atwater's got him helpless."
"Impossible!" declared Mrs. Trafford, in a voice that would have been convincing to him, had her words and his own doubts been far less strong. "You may count on it that there's to be a frightful attack on you next week. Neva Carlin knew what she was about."
"There's nothing they can say—nothing that anybody'd believe." His whiskers and his hair were combed to give him a resolute, courageous air. The contrast between this artificial bold front and the look and voice now issuing from it was ludicrous and pitiful.
Mrs. Trafford flashed scorn at him. "What nonsense!" she exclaimed. "I never heard of a big business that could stand it to have the doors thrown open and the public invited to look where it pleased. I doubt if yours is an exception, whatever you may think."
"But the doors won't be thrown open," he pleaded rather than protested. "Our private business will remain private."