This, being the exact truth, was hard to deny. Her uncle did not deny it. Instead he returned to the subject of Mr. Clark.
“The blackguard!” he snarled. “Why, Esther, do you know why he was so set on telling me his yarn? Me and nobody else? Why, because he expected to get money for it. Thought I’d pay him for keeping his mouth shut. Well, he hasn’t kept it shut and when he comes crawling around to get his price I’ll—I’ll— Oh, by the Almighty, let him come! I’ll be glad to see him.”
She paid no heed. Plainly she was not at all interested in what might happen to Millard Clark.
“What are you going to do about it?” she asked.
“Do? About what?”
“What are you going to do, now that you know Bob Griffin was not in the least responsible for Seymour Covell’s hurt? Are you going to tell every one that? You must.”
He pulled at his beard. “Why—why, yes, of course I am,” he admitted, frowning. “That is, I shall pretty soon. Now, now—hold on! There are a good many loose ends to this business. There is a lot to be considered before we do anything rash. Of course, if any one was to say out and out that Griffin was responsible I should put a stop to it. But nobody can say that because it isn’t true. They talk and guess and so on, but they are bound to do that. It doesn’t harm Griffin any, really. He is going off—to Paris—in two or three days.”
“And you would let him go—and not tell?”
“Hold on, hold on! I said I should tell, didn’t I? But we don’t know anything yet. We must think about—well, about poor Seymour for one. There he is, up in that hospital, senseless, can’t say a word—”
“Oh, stop!” scornfully. “Is that the reason why you don’t want to tell? You are so afraid his feelings or reputation may be hurt. And yet you will let Bob leave home under a cloud, while the people here lie about him as much as they like. Oh, shame on you!”