The hurrying of many feet in the outer office recalled him. The impulsive George Morton crept back beneath the veneer. He let Dalrymple go, drew out his handkerchief, looked distastefully at the black stains on his clothing.
Lambert and Goodhue closed the door on the curious clerks.
"What in heaven's name——"
It was Lambert who had spoken. Goodhue merely shrugged his shoulders, as if he had all along expected such a culmination.
Dalrymple, fingering his throat spasmodically, sank in a chair. His face infused. His breath came audibly.
"Caught him harder than I realized," George reflected. He spoke aloud with his whimsical smile.
"Looks as if I'd lost my temper. I don't often do it."
He had no regret. He was happy. He believed himself nearer Sylvia than he had ever been. He felt in grasping Dalrymple's throat as if he had touched her hands.
He failed to give its true value, consequently, to Lambert's angry turning on him after Dalrymple's shaking accusation.
"Sorry, Lambert. Had to—to do what I could. He—he was rotten impertinent about—about—Sylvia."