“Not at all.”
But Nolan was slow to begin. He sat, newspaper on his knee, his deep-set eyes thoughtful. When he began it was slowly.
“I am one of Clay Spencer's oldest friends,” he said. “He's a white man, the whitest man I know. Naturally, anything that touches him touches me, in a way.”
“Well?”
“The name stands for a good bit, too. His father and his grandfather were the same sort. It's not often in this town that we have three generations without a breath of scandal against them.”
Rodney flushed angrily.
“What has that got to do with me?” he demanded.
“I don't know. I don't want to know. I simply wanted to tell you that there are a good many of us who take a peculiar pride in Clayton Spencer, and who resent anything that reflects on a name we respect rather highly.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Not at all. I was merely calling your attention to something I thought perhaps you had forgotten.” Then he got up' and his tone changed, became brisk, almost friendly. “Now, about this building thing. If you're in earnest I think it can be managed. You won't get any money to speak of, you know.”