Dave moved to one side. “Beat it,” he ordered again.
In the pocket of Muldoon was a request of the district attorney for admission to the house for the party, with an O.K. by the captain of police in the precinct, but Tim did not show it. He preferred to let Dave think that he had been breaking the rules of the force for the sake of a little private graft. There was no reason whatever for warning Durand that they were aware of the clever trick he had pulled off in regard to the partition.
TWO AND TWO MAKE FOUR
From Maddock’s the Whitfords drove straight to the apartment house of Clarendon Bromfield. For the third time that morning the clubman’s valet found himself overborne by the insistence of visitors.
“We’re coming in, you know,” the owner of the Bird Cage told him in answer to his explanation of why his master could not be seen. “This is important business and we’ve got to see Bromfield.”
“Yes, sir, but he said—”
“He’ll change his mind when he knows why we’re here.” Whitford pushed in and Beatrice followed him. From the adjoining room came the sound of voices.
“I thought you told us Mr. Bromfield had gone to sleep and the doctor said he wasn’t to be wakened,” said Beatrice with a broad, boyish smile at the man’s discomfiture.
“The person inside wouldn’t take no, Miss, for an answer.”
“He was like us, wasn’t he? Did he give his name?” asked the young woman.
“No, Miss. Just said he was from the Omnium Club.”
Whitford and his daughter exchanged glances. “Same business we’re on. Announce us and we’ll go right in.”
They were on his heels when he gave their names.
Bromfield started up, too late to prevent their entrance. He stood silent for a moment, uncertain what to do, disregarding his fiancee’s glance of hostile inquiry lifted toward the other guest.
The mining man forced his hand. “Won’t you introduce us, Clarendon?” he asked bluntly.
Reluctantly their host went through the formula. He was extremely uneasy. There was material for an explosion present in this room that would blow him sky-high if a match should be applied to it. Let Durand get to telling what he knew about Clarendon and the Whitfords would never speak to him again. They might even spread a true story that would bar every house and club in New York to him.
“We’ve heard of Mr. Durand,” said Beatrice.
Her tone challenged the attention of the gang leader. The brave eyes flashed defiance straight at him. A pulse of anger was throbbing in the soft round throat.
Inscrutably he watched her. It was his habit to look hard at attractive women. “Most people have,” he admitted.
“Mr. Lindsay is our friend,” she said. “We’ve just come from seeing him.”