He laughed mirthlessly. “You are such a queer mixture of good, hard sense and back-number romanticism,” he commented. “Can’t you realize that I’ve got to be a man among men?”
“That is what you ought to be—in the other and better meaning of the phrase. You won’t make a very successful villain, David.”
“Perhaps not; but I shall try mighty hard not to let the other man make a wooden Indian of me,” he returned grimly.
“And you haven’t stopped, even at—murder.” She shuddered over the final word, but she would not qualify it.
He was regarding her through half-closed eyes. “Having said that much, you ought to say more, don’t you think?” he suggested.
“I am going to say more; lots more. That man in the tunnel last night: he wasn’t blown up by a blast.”
“How do you know he wasn’t?”
“One of your men carried or dragged him half-way to the mouth of the tunnel before the blast was fired.”
“Well?” he prompted.
“It comes to this; either it was a sheer accident—a stone falling from the roof—or there was foul play. Mr. Lushing says it was foul play.”