Macgowan waved his cigar genially. "Tut, tut, my boy! Never worry over little things like that."
"But it may become serious." Findlater frowned, as though displeased by this light response. "Everything's being done in my name, and I should have a clear idea of the program ahead of us."
"Oh, leave the legal affairs to me," and Macgowan's shoulders shook in a hearty laugh. "Haven't I taken care of them pretty well so far?"
Findlater reddened. He was ruffled, irritated by this evasion.
"Confound it, Mac, why can't you be talked to? Why, look at Armstrong! He'd let a man sit down and talk an hour. With all his cursed blue-law character, he'd listen to any proposition—he's big enough to do it. But not you. Why are you stalling about these suits?"
Macgowan's eyes narrowed, then a smile crept into them; not a nice smile. This unfavorable comparison with his enemy, particularly coming from Findlater, stung him unbearably.
"All right, have your way—and pay for it," he said, a rasp in his voice. "You want to know how I'm going to deal with that crowd, eh?"
"Exactly. But what do you mean by paying for it?"
Macgowan waved this query aside, ignored it temporarily.
"Armstrong's going to give up this fight," he said, mouthing his cigar and regarding Findlater with an air which appeared to cause that gentleman some uneasiness. "Our suits against Armstrong can be dismissed any time now. As for the suits against us, they can be postponed. All we want is delay. Armstrong will give up."