"And I could put my hand on double that sum—yes, sir, DOUBLE—if you'd just step round with me to old Driscoll's office before five P. M. See the connection, Mr. Spragg?"
The older man remained silent while his visitor hummed a bar or two of "In the Gloaming"; then he said: "You want me to tell Driscoll what I know about James J. Rolliver?"
"I want you to tell the truth—I want you to stand for political purity in your native state. A man of your prominence owes it to the community, sir," cried Moffatt. Mr. Spragg was still tormenting his Masonic emblem.
"Rolliver and I always stood together," he said at last, with a tinge of reluctance.
"Well, how much have you made out of it? Ain't he always been ahead of the game?"
"I can't do it—I can't do it," said Mr. Spragg, bringing his clenched hand down on the desk, as if addressing an invisible throng of assailants.
Moffatt rose without any evidence of disappointment in his ruddy countenance. "Well, so long," he said, moving toward the door. Near the threshold he paused to add carelessly: "Excuse my referring to a personal matter—but I understand Miss Spragg's wedding takes place next Monday."
Mr. Spragg was silent.
"How's that?" Moffatt continued unabashed. "I saw in the papers the date was set for the end of June."
Mr. Spragg rose heavily from his seat. "I presume my daughter has her reasons," he said, moving toward the door in Moffatt's wake.