Duane looked at him, stunned. Dysart stepped nearer, speaking almost in a whisper:
"Well, what about it? Once I warned you to keep your damned nose out of my personal affairs——"
"I make some of them mine!" said Duane sharply; "when crooks get hold of an honest man, every citizen is a policeman!"
Dysart, face convulsed with fury, seized his arm in a vicelike grip:
"Will you keep your cursed mouth shut!" he breathed. "My father is in the next room. Do you want to kill him?"
At the same moment there came a stir from the room beyond, the tap-tap of a cane and shuffling steps across the polished parquet. Dysart's grip relaxed, his hand fell away, and he made a ghastly grimace as a little old gentleman came half-trotting, half-shambling to the doorway. He was small and dapper and pink-skinned under his wig; the pink was paint; his lips and eyes peered and simpered; from one bird-claw hand dangled a monocle.
Jack Dysart made a ghastly and supreme effort:
"I was just saying to Duane, father, that all this financial agitation is bound to blow over by December—Duane Mallett, father!"—as the old man raised his eye-glass and peeped up at the young fellow—"you know his father, Colonel Mallett."
"Yes, to be sure, yes, to be sure!" piped the old beau. "How-de-do! How-de-do-o-o! My son Jack and I motor every morning at this hour. It is becoming a custom—he! he!—every day from ten to eleven—then a biscuit and a glass of sherry—then a nap—te-he! Oh, yes, every day, Mr. Mallett, rain or fair—then luncheon at one, and the cigarette—te-he!—and a little sleep—and the drive at five! Yes, Mr. Mallett, it is the routine of a very old man who knew your grandfather—and all his set—when the town was gay below Bleecker Street! Yes, yes—te-he-he!"
Nervous spasms which passed as smiles distorted the younger Dysart's visage; the aged beau offered his hand to Duane, who took it in silence, his eyes fixed on the shrivelled, painted face: