“You ought to believe in fairies, Clifford. You really ought. With that imagination of yours, you’d coin money, writing fairy-stories for children—simply coin money.” He turned to Bradley. “What do you say to Clifford’s proposition?”
“Tell him to go to hell!” said Bradley, his old hatred flaring out.
“You’ll excuse Fido’s behavior, Clifford,” Loveman said apologetically. “He hasn’t had a biscuit all day.”
“The real question is,” returned Clifford, “what does Peter Loveman say to the proposition?”
“What do I say? Well, now, well,” Loveman said pleasantly, “you know I never did believe in fairies and so I can’t be expected to gulp down this remarkable little story you’ve told me. But since you are interested in Miss Regan, and are concerned that nothing goes wrong with her—why, for your sake, of course I’ll do it—I’ll do anything you say.”
Clifford stared penetratingly at the round face, which never before looked more like the face of an amiable monk. Behind that amiable face was a swift thought that, after all, he might slip Nina Cordova into this situation and that he’d square matters with Nina the first thing in the morning.
“You’ll do it to-morrow?” demanded Clifford.
“To-morrow—sometime before noon.” And as Clifford continued his keen glance: “You doubt me? All right.” He walked to a section of his bookshelves and came back with a large, dingy volume. “Here’s a Bible—a Gutenberg, 1455. There can’t be a holier Bible than this; just think, man, what it cost. Go ahead—swear me.”
“I guess you’ll do it,” said Clifford. He rose. “I believe that’s all, gentlemen. Good-night.”
As he started away Bradley glowered at him; but Loveman, slipping an arm through his, escorted him to the door. There Loveman held him for a moment.