pected just this.

"Be careful," he warned. "What are you talking about?"

"What the whole town talks about," Dalrymple burst out. "You know her. I
ask you. Hasn't she enough without selling herself, body and soul? No
better than an unmentionable----"

George sprang. He didn't stop to tell himself that Dalrymple was
unaccountable, in a sense, out of his head. He didn't dare stop, because
he knew if Dalrymple finished that sentence he would try to kill him.
Dalrymple's mouth fell open, in fact, before the unexpected attack. He
couldn't complete the sentence, didn't try to; drew back against the
desk instead; grasped a convenient ink container; threw it; called
shrilly for help.

George shook the streaming black liquid from his face. With his stained
hands he grasped Dalrymple. His fingers tightened with a feeling of
profound satisfaction. No masks now! Finally the enmity of years was
unleashed. He had Dalrymple where he had always wanted him.

"One more word----You been saying that kind of thing----"

The hurrying of many feet in the outer office recalled him. The
impulsive George Morton crept back beneath the veneer. He let Dalrymple
go, drew out his handkerchief, looked distastefully at the black stains
on his clothing.

Lambert and Goodhue closed the door on the curious clerks.

"What in heaven's name----"

It was Lambert who had spoken. Goodhue merely shrugged his shoulders, as
if he had all along expected such a culmination.

Dalrymple, fingering his throat spasmodically, sank in a chair. His face
infused. His breath came audibly.

"Caught him harder than I realized," George reflected. He spoke aloud
with his whimsical smile.

"Looks as if I'd lost my temper. I don't often do it."

He had no regret. He was happy. He believed himself nearer Sylvia than
he had ever been. He felt in grasping Dalrymple's throat as if he had
touched her hands.

He failed to give its true value, consequently, to Lambert's angry
turning on him after Dalrymple's shaking accusation.

"Sorry, Lambert. Had to--to do what I could. He--he was rotten
impertinent about--about--Sylvia."

XVIII

Goodhue caught Lambert's arm. In a flash George read the meaning of
Dalrymple's charge. Naturally he was the one to do something of the
sort, had to try it. He had been afraid of Lambert's knowing of the
loan. How much less could he let Lambert learn why George had
justifiably shut his mouth.

"Keep quiet," George warned Lambert. "D