Peter Bolton waved him back to his seat, and with an effort gasped out:
"The Council of Nine! What do you mean by that nonsense? I never heard of such damned foolery before!"
"Oh, yes," said I, pressing my advantage. "Waldorf was up here night before last, you remember, and got thirty thousand dollars. I thought you would like to know that your contribution was being spent with a liberal hand."
Peter Bolton's face assumed a gray-green tint, and he cried out:
"I don't know what you're talking about. You've gone crazy--" Then, as if he feared that I would take offense at the words, he fell from the attitude of protest to one of cringing obsequiousness. "No, I don't mean that--I mean that I want you to do some business for me."
The man appeared carried away with fright; his claw-like hands worked convulsively, and a perspiration started on his forehead. I saw in his eyes a foretaste of the terrors of unsuccessful crime, and that as he remembered the purposes that lay behind those rifles in the Council's armory, his conscience conjured up the vision of the police and the hangman stretching forth their hands to seize him.
"Good God, Bolton!" cried General Wilson again. "What have you been doing? You couldn't look more upset if you had murdered your grandmother and Hampden had uncovered the corpse."
"It's nothing--nothing," gasped Bolton, recovering himself with an effort; "just a little joke we have--just a little joke." And he framed his thin lips into the semblance of a ghastly smile.
General Wilson's red face grew redder yet as an angry color swept over it.
"Well, you've got too many jokes to suit me, and a damned queer taste in humor--that's all I've got to say about it. I came to talk business, and you've been wasting my time with your tomfoolery." And with an angry wave of his hand he got to his feet and strode out.