“And didn’t you send Miss Armstrong into Bleachers to see that villain Ricketts? What connection have you with him?”
“None at all, Mr. Dean. I never saw Ricketts in my life, and never heard of him before the day you mistook me for the sheriff.”
Dean glanced at his companions, who had taken no part in the colloquy, but who listened with an interest at once critical and suspicious. It was evident that their distrust could not be dissipated, or even mitigated, by strenuous talk, and for a moment Stranleigh was tempted to tell them that he had lent three thousand dollars to Miss Armstrong, in the hope that this money, added to her own, would gain some sort of concession from the obdurate lawyer. But he remembered that the girl was in constant communication with these men, and if she had not already informed them of his futile assistance, it was because she did not want them to know.
Dean pondered for a few moments before he spoke. He seemed to have gathered in the purport of his men’s thoughts without the necessity for words. At last he said:
“May I take it you agree hereafter to attend to your own business?”
Stranleigh laughed.
“There would be no use in my making that promise, for I have never in my life attended to my own business. My business affairs are all looked after by men who are experts. They live in New York and in London, and although I make a decision now and then, I do that as seldom as possible. It fatigues me.”
“So you are a loafer?”
“That’s it exactly, Mr. Dean, and I freely give you my promise not to loaf about your silver mine.”