Sidwell took the cigar from his lips. An exultation he could not quite repress flooded him. His eyes met the other's fair.
"No," he said, "it was anything but consideration for you. I knew she was going to refuse you."
In the corner the negro's eyes widened. Even Hough held his breath; but not a muscle of Ben Blair's body stirred.
"You say you knew," he said evenly. "How did you know?"
Sidwell flicked the ash from his cigar steadily. He was regaining, if not his courage, at least some of his presence of mind. This seeming desperado from the West was a being upon whom reason was not altogether wasted.
"I knew because her mother told me—about all there was to tell, I guess—of your relations before Florence came here. I knew if she refused you then she would be more apt to do so now."
Still the figure in brown was that of a statue.
"She told you—what—you say?"
Sidwell shifted uncomfortably. He saw breakers ahead.