The forward legs of O'Malley's chair came down with a loud thump. Wesley started, but the boss only impaled him with another cold glance.
"See here," said he, "before we can do business we'd better altogether understand each other. Just what is it you want?"
"I—I think I've made that clear."
"I think not."
"I want this Légère woman pinched for running a white-slave place. I want to see her taught a lesson that the other women down her way will profit by."
"Of course you do. But what do you want for yourself?"
The issue was too conclusively joined to permit of further evasion. Wesley took his courage in his hands.
"Why, I've not made any secret of that," he said, "and neither has headquarters. I want the next election for magistrate. I told you that long ago."
He launched his declaration with the bravado of weakness at bay, and then breathlessly awaited the answer.
Michael O'Malley leaned back again in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and closed his keen eyes, reflecting.