"What the whole town knows by this time—added to what little Bartrow tells me in his wire. You or your partner have stumbled upon an abandoned claim which promises to be a bonanza. One of you—public rumor is a little uncertain as to which one—tried to euchre the other; and it seems that you have won in the race to the Recorder's office, and have come out of it alive. Is that the summary?"
He called it public rumor, but it was rather a shrewd guess. Jeffard did not hasten to confirm it. On the contrary, his reply was evasive.
"You may call it an hypothesis—a working hypothesis, if you choose. What then?"
The promoter was not of those who swerve from conclusions. "It follows that you are a stout fighter, and a man to be helped, or a very great rascal," he said coolly.
Again the knife and fork paused, and the wounded man's gaze was at least as steady as that of his conditional accuser. "It may simplify matters, Mr. Denby, if I say that I expect nothing from public rumor."
The mine-owner shrugged his shoulders as an unwilling arbiter who would fain wash his hands of the ethical entanglement if he could.
"It's your own affair, of course,—the public opinion part of it. But it may prove to be worth your while not to ignore the suffrages of those who make and unmake reputations."
"Why?"
"Because you will need capital,—honest capital,—and"—
He left the sentence in the air, and Jeffard brought it down with a cynical stonecast.