"I mean precisely what I say," said Morehead, his voice ringing prophetically, "that this verdict and this sentence are going to be affirmed."
"I'll spend five—ten million to reverse it."
"Spend it, then, and I'll help you, and when you're through you'll know that I spoke the truth—affirmance, not reversal." He stopped abruptly, then rising and plunging his hands deep in his trousers pockets, he suddenly put the question to him: "I wish you'd tell me, Peter, whom your daughter is going to marry? I'm interested."
"What the devil has that got to do with this case?"
"By the way," went on Morehead, ignoring purposely the other's outburst, "where is your daughter now?"
"Home."
"Then you'd better swing the Marchioness about. When you get home you can find out if you do not already know."
"How should I know? There's a dozen cubs hanging around—none of them good enough for her. Leslie's got to marry well."
"Has she? A fine chance she has, with her father a convict under a prison sentence! Come, come, man, why don't you give your captain orders? I want to know whom this girl of yours is going to marry—and right away."