"You can get some one to go through a ceremony for you that would satisfy her and wouldn't peach afterwards--"
"What a damned scoundrel you are, Plume!" said Mr. Wickersham, coldly.
Plume's expression was between a smile and a scowl, but the smile was less pleasant than the frown.
"Get her to go to New York--When you've got her there you've got her. She can't come back. Or I could perform it myself? I've been a preacher-am one now," said Plume, without noticing the interruption further than by a cold gleam in his eyes.
Wickersham laughed derisively.
"Oh, no, not that. I may be given to my own diversions somewhat recklessly, but I'm not so bad as to let you touch any one I--I take an interest in."
"As you like," said Plume, curtly. "I just thought it might be a convenience to you. I'd help you out. I don't see 't you need be so--squeamish. What you're doing ain't so pure an' lofty 't you can set up for Marcus Aurelius and St. Anthony at once."
"At least, it's better than it would be if I let you take a hand in it," sneered Wickersham.
The following afternoon Wickersham left New Leeds somewhat ostentatiously. A few strikers standing sullenly about the station jeered as he passed in. But he took no notice of them. He passed on to his train.
A few nights later a tremendous explosion shook the town, rattling the windows, awakening people from their beds, and calling the timid and the curious into the streets.