Lomney came in smiling in the morning.
“Rennard,” he said, “is there no way of getting out of this contract cheaper than by paying the indemnity?”
“Why doesn’t Murchison pay it? Good God! it’s scarcely a mutual document at that!”
“Well, if he has to, he’ll have less respect for us.”
Both of them knew that Murchison could afford to be fair: that Sampson could not afford to be cheated. But, “It’s not a question of that,” said Lomney, “It’s a question of how we are going to stand at 79 Broadway.”
“Let’s have all the facts—since the contract.” Tom easily devised a plan. He had taken it to Lomney, who rejoiced.
“Come out to lunch, oh, Daniel!” He flourished a silver-headed cane.
“No, I’ve an engagement.”
“Very well. Ta-ta. I’ll not be back to-day.”
Tom sulked at his lonely lunch. He did not mind the trick he had played for Lomney’s client. But the unctuous pleasure of his partner was an ill thing to accept. It made him clear away his desk that afternoon with a fresh disgust: and be improperly amiable to Ladd, their abject clerk: and smile at Lomney’s fizzle of a brief to be argued in the morning.