He was uneasily conscious that Gregory, while nervous and tense, was carrying the situation with a certain assurance. If he was acting it was very good acting. And that opinion was strengthened when he threw open the door and Gregory advanced into the room.
“Well, Clark,” he said, coolly. “I guess you didn't expect to see me, did you?”
He made no offer to shake hands as Dick turned from the window, nor did Dick make any overtures. But there was no enmity at first in either face; Gregory was easy and assured, Dick grave, and, Bassett thought, slightly impatient. From that night in his apartment the reporter had realized that he was constantly fighting a sort of passive resistance in Dick, a determination not at any cost to involve Beverly. Behind that, too, he felt that still another battle was going on, one at which he could only guess, but which made Dick somber at times and grimly quiet always.
“I meant to look you up,” was his reply to Gregory's nonchalant greeting.
“Well, your friend here did that for you,” Gregory said, and smiled across at Bassett. “He has his own methods, and I'll say they're effectual.”
He took off his overcoat and flung it on the bed, and threw a swift, appraising glance at Dick. It was on Dick that he was banking, not on Bassett. He hated and feared Bassett. He hated Dick, but he was not afraid of him. He lighted a cigarette and faced Dick with a malicious smile.
“So here we are, again, Jud!” he said. “But with this change, that now it's you who are the respectable member of the community, and I'm the—well, we'll call it the butterfly.”
There was unmistakable insult in his tone, and Dick caught it.
“Then I take it you're still living off your sister?”
The contempt in Dick's voice whipped the color to Gregory's face and clenched his fist. But he relaxed in a moment and laughed.