“A fine story it will make in the press.”
“Eh——!”
“The morals of a millionaire.”
“Maybe you wouldn’t like this to appear in print?...”
And then Jim saw it all. It was like a story from a magazine. He had never believed those things could be true. But here it was in real life. A frame-up—a dirty piece of blackmail.
“Can’t we come to terms, Mr. Conlan....”
The suave voice got no farther than that. He saw six-feet-odd of bone and muscle rear up like a piece of steel and descend on him. A great hard hand caught him by the neck and bounced him up and down the room.
“You swab! You tinhorn! I’ve manured a potato patch with better stuff, by Gawd! And she’s your wife, you dirty trash! She ain’t your wife—no, sir. I savvy what she is. Suffering rattlesnakes! I’m waitin’ to hear about it. When did you frame to put this over me? Talk up or I’ll yank you outer the window into the street.”
“Damn you—let me go!”