“No, you won't follow me home; you'll come with me, when it's all over. Now is it very plain to you, Mr. Quarrier?”
Quarrier said, without emotion: “I repeat that it would be easy for you and me to merge our differences on a basis absolutely satisfactory to you and to me—and to Harrington.”
“You are mistaken,” said Plank, rising. “Good afternoon.”
Quarrier rose, too. “You decline to discuss the matter?” he asked.
“It has been discussed sufficiently.”
“Then why did you come here?”
“To see for myself how afraid of me you really are,” said Plank. “Now I know, and so do you.”
“You desire to make it a personal matter?” inquired Quarrier, in a low voice, his face dead white in the late sunlight which illuminated the room.
“Personal? No—impersonal; because there could be absolutely nothing personal between us, Mr. Quarrier; and the only thing in the world that there ought to be between us are a few stout, steel bars. Beg pardon for talking shop. I'm a shopkeeper, and I'm in the steel business, and I lack opportunities for cultivation. Good day.”
“Mr. Plank—”