Suddenly she turned to me with a swift question:—
"So you're to be our new Mr. Carmichael?"
It was not woman's mere haphazard quizzing: she demanded the truth.
"No," I replied gravely, after a moment's hesitation. "Mrs. Dround, I have come here to tell Mr. Dround that I must decline his offer. I have other—"
"You are going over to them!" she cried quickly. There was no reproach in her voice, but she gave me a keen look that read to the bottom of my mind. "You will be a tool for the Jew and the Irishman!" There was a smile on her lips and a touch of scorn in her voice. "Tell me, why?"
And I told her, as I might a man whom I trusted, just what the situation was—how disastrous had been the row with Carmichael, and how foolish the cause, as I thought. She listened without questions, and I went on to cover the whole matter—to tell of the large plans that our great rival undoubtedly had in view, plans which meant ultimately the consolidation of the entire business in some great corporation under his control. It was as clear to me as handwriting what he was aiming for—the entire food-products business of the country; and it would take a stronger man than Henry I. Dround to stand against him.
"So, Mrs. Dround," I concluded, "the best thing you and I can do for Mr. Dround is to advise him to retire, to sell out—"
"He would never do that," she interrupted me quietly.
"You must make him see it," I urged.
"There are some things I cannot do. You will not understand; I cannot tell you—it is not my right. Only he will go on to the bitter end."