"Look here, Leech, I'll compromise with you. You take half a million...."
"Not in a hundred years!" exclaimed Leech, threateningly.
Wilkinson continued to chuckle.
" ... a half million," he repeated, "and I'll let the old lady, my wife, get a divorce, and you can have her. But Leslie...."
Leech gripped the table with both hands.
"Wilkinson," he said firmly, "the girl will marry me, never fear! She likes me, loves me, and she's promised to be my wife. But you've promised to cough up a million to me, and I want it."
"What if I don't?" growled the other.
"If you don't," cried Leech, "I'll let the whole world know that you've got a hundred million or so salted away in your daughter Leslie's name, and then you'll have a hornet's nest about your head."
"Never thought of that," returned Wilkinson, paling slightly. "By the way," he mused, "after Leslie marries you I'll have to find some other dummy to hold those stocks and bonds for me, otherwise, you'll get your hooks on them." He laughed. "Cleverest scheme in the world, boy—Flomerfelt and I concocted it. Why, look here, I've been joking, nothing else. I'm not going to give you a million."
"You're not!" cried Leech, growing white.