Moran's eyes gleamed.
"Well, then, it's the only way, unless—unless...."
"Unless what?"
"Unless your daughter marries him, and it all comes into the family." Upon that point, Moran wished to know just where he stood.
"I've never made a dollar through my daughter yet, and I never will," said the Senator grimly. "I'm not selling my own flesh and blood. I'll rot in the poor-house first."
Moran gently breathed his relief. He would have fought to the fullest extent of his power to have aborted such a marriage, but if the Senator had favored it, he knew that it would have been difficult to prevent.
"Wade has a foreman he's mighty fond of, an old man named Santry," the agent remarked, trying another tack.
"That's a horse of another color." Rexhill appeared aroused, at last. "I remember the old fellow. He must be nearly ready for the bone yard by this time anyhow. Saddle it on him, if you can. Wade's devoted to him. He'd do as much for Santry as for himself, maybe more."
"I've heard about that kind of devotion," the agent sneered, "but I've yet to see a sample of it."
"Well, you may before long. Your first proposition's no good anyway. It would simply further antagonize Wade's friends. It's quite possible, though, that Santry might have been mixed up in such a brawl. Get him arrested, and then we'll let Wade know, gradually, that our influence is at his command, for a price. I've no objection to that—none at all. By Heaven, we've got to do something."