“I don't feel that we are being fairly treated,” he said. “We most naturally assumed that your clients wanted to—to extend our option on the property for at least another six months. We assumed that from the fact that we had no notification from them that they would be ready to pay the note to-day. That's where we feel injured, Mr. Miller.”
Rayburn threw his cigar into a cuspidor; his attitude of being a non-interested agent was simply a stroke of genius. Behind this plea he crouched, showing himself only to fire shots that played havoc with whatever they struck.
“I believe my clients did feel, I may say, honor bound to you to sell for the price they offered; but—now I may be mistaken—but I'm sure they were under the impression, as I was, too, that you only wanted the property provided you could build a railroad from Dar-ley to it, and—”
“Well, that's true,” broke in Wilson. “That's quite true.”
“And,” finished Miller, still behind his inevitable fortification, “they tell me that you have certainly shown indifference to the project ever since the note was given. In fact, they asked me pointedly if I thought you meant business, and I was forced, conscientiously, to tell them that I thought you seemed to have other fish to fry.”
Wilson glared at the lawyer as if he wanted to kick him for a stupid idiot who could not do two things at once—work for the interests of his clients and not wreck his plans also. It had been a long time since he had found himself in such a hot frying-pan.
“So you think the thing is off,” he said, desperately, probably recalling several purchases of land he had made in the section he had expected to develop. “You think it's off?”
“I hardly know what to say,” said Miller. “The old gentleman, Mr. Bishop, is a slow-going old-timer, but his son is rather up to date, full of energy and ambition. I think he's made up his mind to sell that property.”
Wilson went to his desk, hovered over it like a dark, human cloud, and then reluctantly turned to the big iron safe against the wall, obviously to get the note. His disappointment was too great for concealment. With his fat, pink hand on the silver-plated combination-bolt he turned to Miller again.
“Would you mind sitting down till I telephone one or two of the directors?”