Essex sat pushed back from the table, his hands in his pockets, his pipe nipped between his teeth, his face partly obscured by the floating clouds of smoke that hung about his head.
“A first-rate story,” he said slowly; “have some more whisky.”
And he pushed the bottle toward Harney, who seized it and fumblingly poured the fiery liquor into the glass.
“And it’s true,” he said hoarsely—“every blamed word.”
He drank what he had poured out, set down the glass and stared at Essex with his face puckered into its expression of evil cunning.
“And she don’t know anything about it, does she?” he asked.
“If you mean Miss Moreau, she certainly appears to think she is the child of the man who brought her up.”
“That’s what I heard. But Shackleton, when Moreau died, was goin’ to do the square thing by her. At least, I heard talk of his sendin’ her to Europe to be a singer. Ain’t it so?”
“I heard something about it myself. But I’m no authority.”
There was a pause. Harney settled back in his chair. The room was exceedingly hot, and impregnated with the odor of whisky and the smoke from Essex’s pipe.