"It was I who induced him to take up this venture," said Cherry, proudly. "I found him discouraged, ready to give up; I helped to put new heart into him. I have something at stake in the enterprise, too—but that's nothing. I hate to see a good man driven to the wall by a scoundrel like Marsh."
"Wait! There is something to be said on both sides. Mr. Marsh was magnanimous enough to overlook that attempt upon his life."
"What attempt?"
"You must have heard. He was wounded in the shoulder."
"Didn't Boyd tell you the truth about that?"
"He told me everything," said Mildred, coldly. This woman's attitude was unbearable. It would seem that she even dared to criticise her, Mildred Wayland, for her treatment of Boyd. She pretended to a truer friendship, a more intimate knowledge of him. But no—it wasn't pretense. It was too natural, too unconscious, for that; and therein lay the sting.
"I shall ask him about it again this evening," she continued. "If there has really been persecution, as you suggest, I shall tell my father."
"You won't see Boyd this evening," said Cherry.
"Oh yes, I shall."
"He is very busy and—I don't think he can see you."