The latter looked away, making only a slight negative motion with his head.
"The knife?" observed Hartt. "That would merely hasten matters."
"Yes," Bushnell affirmed....
There was a brief uneasy silence in the gloomy consulting room. Then Whitaker rose.
"Well, how long will you give me?" he asked in a strained voice.
"Six months," said Greyerson, miserably avoiding his eye.
"Three," Hartt corrected jerkily.
"Perhaps...." The proprietor of the last word stroked his chin with a contemplative air.
"Thanks," said Whitaker, without irony. He stood for an instant with his head bowed in thought. "What a damned outrage," he observed thoughtfully. And suddenly he turned and flung out of the room.
Greyerson jumped to follow him, but paused as he heard the crash of the street door. He turned back with a twitching, apologetic smile.