Blair's voice made him start.
"He can't entertain me," said Perry. "Not a little bit."
And suddenly with that Devereau was suave no longer. He leaped up and thumped upon a desk. He slitted his pale eyes.
"Say, what d'yuh think you are?" he raved. "Talking to me like that!"
Blair did not attempt to shout him down, and yet he made himself heard.
"Not Pig-iron Dunham's man," he answered. "Nor yet yours. Are you thinking to tell me how I shall talk?"
Devereau could not have told why his rage was so red. Why he hated the other so swiftly. But he mastered his voice. He had seen something like this coming, not so unpleasant, however, or so difficult to handle. He had imagined when the time came they would talk it over, amicably, like good business men. But that was out of the question now. It had always been out of the question, but he'd realized that tardily. But they'd have it out. There could be no better time.
"No?" he drawled. "No?" Sarcasm lent his words a sing-song quality.
"No? Not Dunham's man? Not mine? Well-well! Ha-ha!"
And then, savagely: