“No, thank you.”
“Say, you’re making a host look dam’ inhospitable,” humorously complained the little man. “How about a little whist? I’ll run the dummy. Bradley there loves it: he’s acting vice-chairman of the Daughters of Brooklyn Memorial and Bridge Associ—”
“Cut it out!” growled Bradley. “Ask him what he wants.”
“Pardon him, Clifford: Bradley’s a gentleman of no social parts. But since he has mentioned the point—is there anything special you came for?”
“I came to talk,” said Clifford.
“Talk—good! Talking’s my trade!” Loveman drew up a chair, so that the three of them formed a square, the table of bottles filling the fourth side. “Let ’er go—guest has the opening speech.”
“I suppose, Clifford, that this is where you’d like to have me make a quick exit,” said Bradley—and he crossed his legs, folded his arms, bit upon his invariable big cigar, and gave Clifford a challenging look.
“On the other hand, Bradley,” Clifford returned, “I count it luck that I found you here, and I beg you as a favor to remain. Bradley, Loveman,” he said sharply, “I’ve come here for a show-down—to tell you that I’m on to your little game!”
“Our game?” queried Loveman, with puzzled blandness.
“Your game with Mary Regan and the Mortons.”