“I tell you it ain’t time for that yet,” Dillon snarled. “Suppose you leave this to me?”
“Am I seein’ you today?”
Dillon looked round his office, a harassed expression on his face. “You gotta have patience—” he began.
“That’s another tune I’m getting sick of,” Fanquist said bitterly. “You make me tired. I guess I’m a sucker to stand for it. All right, if that’s the way you feel I guess you can stay away.” She hung up.
Dillon slammed the receiver down on the prong and mopped his face with his handkerchief. Women were hell, he thought. Before Myra had come along and he had started fooling with her, he just kicked women around; now they had him crawling. What the hell had come over him?
The door opened and Hurst walked in. For a moment Dillon was startled. Hurst never came to this place. He got to his feet. Hurst looked at him thoughtfully, then nodded. He walked over to a chair and sat down. “I was passing, so I thought I’d look in and hear how things were going,” he said.
Dillon sat down. “They’re all right.”
“No trouble?”
Dillon shook his head. He gave a bland smile. “Why, no, Mr. Hurst, I guess things are goin’ mighty smooth just now.”
Was Hurst looking at him in an odd way, or was he imagining things?