“Then what HAS this to do with Banf?”
“Nothing!” Her tone was annoyed, reproachful. “That was only to bring you here.”
His disappointment was so keen that it threatened to exhibit itself in anger. Recognizing this, before he spoke Wharton forced himself to pause. Then he repeated her words quietly.
“Bring me here?” he asked. “Why?”
The woman exclaimed impatiently: “So you could beat the police to it,” she whispered. “So you could HUSH IT UP!”
The surprised laugh of the man was quite real. It bore no resentment or pose. He was genuinely amused. Then the dignity of his office, tricked and insulted, demanded to be heard. He stared at her coldly; his indignation was apparent.
“You have done extremely ill,” he told her. “You know perfectly well you had no right to bring me up here; to drag me into a row in your road-house. ‘Hush it up!’” he exclaimed hotly. This time his laugh was contemptuous and threatening. “I’ll show you how I’ll hush it up!” He moved quickly to the open window.
“Stop!” commanded the woman. “You can’t do that!” She ran to the door.
Again he was conscious of the rustle of silk, of the stirring of perfumes.
He heard the key turn in the lock. It had Come. It was a frame-up. There would be a scandal. And to save himself from it they would force him to “hush up” this other one. But, as to the outcome, in no way was he concerned. Through the window, standing directly below it, he had seen Nolan. In the sunlit yard the chauffeur, his cap on the back of his head, his cigarette drooping from his lips, was tossing the remnants of a sandwich to a circle of excited hens. He presented a picture of bored indolence, of innocent preoccupation. It was almost too well done.