"No." The monosyllable was spoken quietly, but the gleam in Whitney's eyes was a silent warning. "We will leave my daughter's name out of the discussion. Was there anything else you wished to see me about? If not…." and he half rose.
Instead of answering Spencer lolled back in his chair and, taking his time, lighted a cigar.
"Your note for twenty thousand dollars is due in ten days," he announced.
"Are you prepared to take it up?"
There was a protracted pause before Whitney spoke. "Are you willing to let me curtail your note with a payment of five thousand dollars?" he asked.
"No."
Whitney's hand closed spasmodically over the bottle of whiskey, and he was livid with anger as he glared at the younger man. Spencer's good looks were marred by signs of recent dissipation, and the coarse lines about his thin lips destroyed the air of refinement given him by his well-cut clothes. Whitney cast a despairing look about the room, at the pretty knick-knacks, pictures, and handsome furniture—all indicated a cultivated woman's taste. How his wife loved her belongings!
With the curtailing of his income through the shrinking and non-payment of dividends, he had drawn upon his principal and—keeping up appearances was an expensive game. Every piece of property that he owned was heavily mortgaged, and every bit of collateral was already deposited to cover notes at his bank. Slowly Whitney's fingers loosened their grip upon the bottle of whiskey.
"Well," and his voice cut the stillness like a whiplash. "What is your pound of flesh?"
Spencer knocked the ash from the end of his cigar into the tray with care that none should fall upon the polished mahogany table top.
"Kathleen might reconsider—eh?" suggestively. "And—eh—there is your invention—your latest invention."