"I will not guess," he flung out fiercely. "There is nothing in it. If there had been, Mary would have let me know long ago. She has never hinted such an attachment."
"You are logical, Rob. But you are wrong. You have hit the wrong premise. Sometimes a good girl is induced into a clandestine amour. It has often happened. It has happened now. Unsympathetic parents are not auspicious persons in which to confide the tender sentiments. The parent might have a positive hostility to the dear object of one's regard. This is pointedly true in your own case. I know there is no love lost between you. And now you know the party."
McClure leaned forward, a sudden intelligence flashing a wild light in his eye.
"You don't mean——?"
McClure read Sykes' cold, bright eyes. He understood.
"It is Ned Pullar?"
"Pullar's the man, Ned Pullar," was the deliberate agreement.
Slowly the indecision vanished from McClure's face and in its place appeared a black resolution. A malignant light darted from his eyes. Seizing the neck of the black bottle before him, he clutched it menacingly, as if about to hurl it at his companion.
"Rather be excused," said Sykes, lifting a defensive hand. "Remember I am not Pullar."
Banging the bottle on the desk, McClure whirled about and began pacing about the room, muttering vengeful execration, oblivious apparently of the other's presence.