Findlater grunted. "Maybe—and maybe not. I know Armstrong as well as you do."
"Not quite as well. You don't know where he's vulnerable; I do." Macgowan chuckled. "He's the heart and soul of the crowd that's fighting us. If he quits, we'll have a clean sweep, eh?"
"Yes," admitted Findlater.
Macgowan smiled as he regarded his confederate.
"D'you know what's happened? Armstrong's wife has left him—gone home."
Findlater stared for a long moment, until gradual realization came to him. Something in the voice and eye of Macgowan wakened his comprehension, conveyed to his brain that these brief words not only constituted a statement of fact, but also held a note of triumphant boasting.
Even Findlater was stupefied by this admission. Bad though he was, Findlater had certain bounds which he disliked to cross.
"Lord!" he ejaculated. "You—Mac, you didn't do this?"
"I?" Macgowan's brows went up. "Certainly not, certainly not! I've not spoken a word to Mrs. Armstrong in months."
A momentary snarl lifted his lip, as the memory of that scene in the Waldorf smote into him. The snarl crept into his voice as he went on speaking.