"Worse than slanderin' my fat!" added Peter Broderick.
Before Murgatroyd could speak again, Thorne took another tack.
"What evidence have you, I should like to know?" he said; "you can't prove these things, Murgatroyd."
"That," returned Murgatroyd, "is for me to worry about—not you. I'm going on, and when I'm through, you can stake your last dollar that I'll know all about this rotten system that you call your organisation—from the most insignificant ward politician up to Peter Broderick!"
The accusing forefinger shifted from Thorne to the County Chairman; under it the avoirdupois of that gentleman seemed to shrivel and grow less. In all his career no man had ever honoured Broderick with this kind of talk, and he wasn't used to it. All at once, he felt that his courage was slipping from him.
"I've got to see a man—" he began, looking nervously at his watch; then hunching his shoulders, he stole softly and almost on tiptoe to the door.
"Broderick!" sung out the prosecutor sharply.
Broderick stopped, but did not look back.
"Broderick!" thundered Murgatroyd, "I want you in this office to-morrow afternoon at four o'clock—I want to have a talk with you—alone. If you don't come, I'll—send for you. Do you understand?"
Broderick did not answer; he opened the door, and slipping through it, disappeared.