"What do you mean?"
"That you'd better get out of town unless you want an uglier scandal on your hands."
Dysart stood breathing fast and with such effort that his chest moved visibly as the lungs strained under the tension:
"Do you mean to say that drunken whelp suspects anything so—so wildly absurd——"
"Which drunken whelp? There are several in town?"
Dysart glared at him, careless of what he might now believe.
"I take it you mean that little cur, Quest."
"Yes, I happen to mean Quest."
Dysart gave an ugly laugh and turned short on his heel:
"The whole damn lot of you make me sick," he said. "So does this club."