Again Sanders gave his quick nod and smiled. “It isn’t always wise to knock, Bolton. For instance, you might have mistaken my politeness. Since it’s an informal hour to call, you might not have invited me in—and I hate talking on doorsteps. I want a serious talk with you, Bolton.”
Bill made no comment.
“You know, Bolton,” he went on, knocking the ash from his cigarette, “you’re on a fool’s errand. Quite bluntly, you’re taking part in a losing game. I’m being plain with you. Your side hasn’t the foggiest hope of success—for, frankly, I hold all the cards.”
“Well—and so what?”
“Look here!” He punctuated his words with a long forefinger. “Haven’t you brains enough to see you’re being made a catspaw. You’re the one that’s to do the dirty work—you are the lad that’s to run the risks and take all the hard knocks. How do you like the job?”
“I’m not kicking,” said Bill.
Sanders smiled again. “Well, how much are you getting out of it? That’s the point.... Oh, yes, it’s not my business. I know your type—stupid—loyal. I admire stupidity and loyalty because they are generally exerted in a good cause. But when they are wasted qualities—wasted on one of the worst scoundrels in America, it pains me. I’m a student of these things, Bolton—it’s part of a lawyer’s job to weigh motives.”
“A lawyer’s?” Bill looked surprised.
“Certainly,” he returned affably. “It’s an honorable enough profession, eh? I started to read for the English bar and chucked it. I’m a Londoner by birth, you see. But I had a knack for the law. In America I’ve practised ten years as an attorney. However, my energies at present are devoted to tracking down a scoundrel named Evans. Do you follow me?”
“Go on.”