"No. And Tricot's no fool—nor Pochard——"
"But they lack imagination—like yerself——"
Harry Horton aroused himself. "He was drugged, I tell you—to the limit. I saw him before I came here to see Moira. He was clean out. Tricot was for dropping him into the river when we 'got' him—but I wouldn't let them do that—no—not that."
"Ye were always lacking in a pinch, Harry——"
"But my brother—my own brother——"
Quinlevin shrugged. "I can see yer scruples. A brother's a brother, even if he does wean away yer wife."
Harry started up, his face livid at the cool, insulting tones.
"And ye can't blame Moira," continued Quinlevin coolly, "if he's turned out a better man than yerself."
His fiery eyes burned in his pale face and challenged the other man—intimidated him until the hot words on Harry's tongue died unuttered.
"A fine mess! And he's no baby—this frolicsome brother of yours! How much does he know of the de Vautrin affair?"