Mr. Leslie started as though stung. "It's true, then! You—you!—" He choked with rage.
"I thought that would reach you," commented Blake.
"You rascal! you blackguard!" spluttered Mr. Leslie. "So that's your game? You know she's an heiress! Think you have the whip-handle—bleed me or force her to marry you!—Alone with her after the other man—! You—you scoundrel! you blackguard! I'll—"
"Shut up!" commanded Blake, his voice low-pitched and hoarse, his face white to the lips. For the second time during the interview Mr. Leslie cringed before his look. His pale eyes were like balls of white-hot steel.
Slowly the glare faded from Blake's eyes, and the color returned to his bronzed face. He relaxed his fists.
"God!" he whispered huskily. "God! … But you're her father!"
Something in his tone compelled conviction, despite Mr. Leslie's bitter prejudice. He jerked out reluctantly: "I'm not so sure—perhaps I spoke too—too hastily. But—the indications—"
"Needn't try to apologize," growled Blake.
"I'll not—in words. How about a twenty-five-thousand-dollar position?"
"What?" demanded Blake, astonished.