"You don't quite understand, Mr. Lyman."
"Oh, yes I do. The trouble with you is that I understand too well. Go ahead with your absolute truth."
McElwin cleared his husky throat. "I went home, sir, and passed a most anxious night; I suffered, sir, far more than you did."
"No doubt of that. I enjoyed myself."
"Mr. Lyman, will you please not make a joke of this affair."
"Oh, I won't make a joke of it. It will be earnest enough by the time it is over with. I am informed that Mrs. Sawyer is very old and that to introduce her son's name in connection with the White Caps would greatly distress her, and I have resolved not to do this. But there are punishments, moral lessons to be served out, and I think it well to begin with you."
"Mr. Lyman, we are not friends, but would you ruin me in the estimation of the public?"
"No, I will say nothing to the public. I will tell your daughter."
McElwin started. His mind had been so directly fixed upon the public that he had not thought of his home. Being the master there he could command respect, and it was on the tip of his tongue now to say that his daughter would not believe Lyman, but, as if a bitter taste had suddenly arisen in his mouth, he felt that this man's word out-weighed his own. He had a strong hope that when his daughter should be set free and left to choose at will, her judgment would finally settle upon Sawyer. But he knew that should she be convinced that her father had counciled him to engage the services of lawless men or had even connived at the brutal procedure—he knew that, convinced of this, she would turn in scorn upon Sawyer and, in a moment, wreck the plans that it had taken years to build.
"Mr. Lyman," he said, "I admit that I am largely to blame, and I now throw myself upon your mercy, sir. Please don't tell my daughter."