“Estelle isn't altogether a fool, you know. Not so bad as Roche—or you. If I were you, I'd stick to Madge. If you don't, some better fellow will.”
“Who do you mean now, for instance?”
“Never mind who I mean. I don't think you've seen yet how mussy this business is. Here Estelle is, like enough, on our hands. Now we can't leave her behind. She wouldn't come along with you; and even if she would, she isn't strong enough. If we did leave her here, it simply means that she would be blabbing out the whole story to the first goodlooking chap that asked her a few questions.”
“But don't you see? I can't let a man insult me like Roche done.”
“No, you can't. But if you could fix things so Roche nor nobody could get her, and still you'd be free to go back to Madge, you wouldn't object, would you?”
“Why, no—sure not. How do you mean?”
“If you find her there at the house, or in the barn, or anywhere around, you'd better just—here, your knife ain't much good. Take mine.” He opened his clasp knife—the blade was five inches long—and held it out.
McGlory took it, stood still in his tracks looking at it, and then raised his eyes to the face of his companion.
“Well—have you got the nerve?”
“Have I got the nerve!” McGlory laughed out loud, and thrust the open knife into his belt, at the side, under his coat.