“Indeed! And when would you like it?”
The visitor glanced at the clock.
“Say, an hour.”
“Come, now! You are n’t so innocent of business as to suppose that deals of this importance are put through on any such hair-trigger basis.”
“Not ordinarily. This is rather special, is n’t it?” insinuated the other.
“Frankly, I don’t like your attitude, Mr. Robson.”
“Consider your own.” Jeremy’s eyes hardened. “You’re fiddling and faddling within a step of the penitentiary. They’ll get you if you try to hang to The Guardian. Public sentiment will demand it. Do you know that the Bellair papers are carrying the story?”
“Damn ’em!” said Mr. Wymett and visited the decanter again.
“So, you see how far it’s gone. Now, if it is known that you’re out of the paper, they’ll let up on you, won’t they? That looks to me like the politics of it.”
“Probably,” agreed Mr. Wymett.