A faint tinge of color showed in Mr. Baxter's white cheeks. "I see you're a grafter, too!" he said, yielding to an uncontrollable desire to strike back. "Well—what's your price?"
Tom sat bolt upright and glared at the contractor.
"Damn you!" he burst out. "If it wasn't for this ankle, I'd kick you out of the room, and down to the street, a kick to every step! Now you get out of here!—and quick!"
"I'm always glad to leave the presence of a blackmailer, my dear sir." Mr. Baxter turned with a bow and went out.
Tom, in a fury, swung his feet off the couch and started to rise, only to sink back with a groan.
At the door of the flat Mr. Baxter thought of the morrow, of what the public would say, of what his wife would say. He came back, closed the door, and stood looking steadily down on Tom. "Well—what are you going to do about it?"
"Give it to the papers, that's what!"
"Suppose you do, and suppose a few persons believe it. Suppose, even, people say what you think they will. What then? You will have given your—ah—your information away, and how much better off are you for it?"
"Blackmailer, did you call me!"
Mr. Baxter did not heed the exclamation, but continued to look steadily downward, waiting.