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"You wouldn't get into trouble," argued the mine owner impatiently. "I keep telling you that." Beatrice, watching the younger man closely, saw as in a flash the solution of this mystery the explanation of the tangle to which various scattered threads had been leading her. "Are you sure of that, Dad?" "How could he be hurt, Bee?" The girl let Bromfield have it straight from the shoulder.
The man's business was to protect him until he had recovered. But he could not flatly turn his master's fiancée out of the apartment. His eye turned to Whitford and found no help there. He fell back on the usual device of servants. "I don't really think he can see you, Miss. The doctor has specially told me to guard against any excitement. But I'll ask Mr. Bromfield if if he feels up to it."
The wisest thing the city of New York ever did, next to the introduction of the Croton water, was the creation of the Central Park; the one feature which redeems the city from the disgrace of its dirty streets and its agonizing tenement region. This John Bromfield, merchant, was just such a thoughtful and benevolent man as we should naturally expect to find him from his bequest.
But this boy was not the kind that gives up. He had been supplementing his school work in physics with experimentations upon his own behalf. Let us let Mr. Carty tell in his own words how he next occupied himself. I had often visited the shop of Thomas Hall, at 19 Bromfield Street, and looked in the window.
Miss Whitford introduced the two young men and Bromfield looked the Westerner over with a suave insolence in his dark, handsome eyes. Clay recognized him immediately. He had shaken hands once before with this well-satisfied young man, and on that occasion a fifty-dollar bill had passed from one to the other. The New Yorker evidently did not know him.
"That's not true," said the girl quickly. "So Lindsay's your friend, eh? Different here, Miss." Jerry pieced together what the clubman had told him and what he had since learned about her. He knew that this must be the girl to whom his host was engaged. "How about you, Bromfield?" he sneered. The clubman stiffened. "I've nothing against Mr. Lindsay." "Thought you had." "Of course he hasn't.
In the dim light Clay knew that tragedy impended. "Slim" Jim had his automatic out. "I've got you good," the chauffeur snarled. The gun cracked. Bromfield bleated in frenzied terror as Clay dashed forward. A chair swung round in a sweeping arc. As it descended the spitting of the gun slashed through the darkness a second time. "Slim" Jim went down, rolled over, lay like a log.
"Don't forget, Bromfield. Keep outa this or you'll be sorry." His voice was like the crack of a trainer's whip to animals in a circus. For once Bromfield did not jump through the hoop. "Oh, go to the devil," he said in irritation, flushing angrily. "Better not get gay with me," advised Durand sourly. After the door had closed on him there was a momentary pause. The younger man spoke awkwardly.
I shouldn't know him if I saw him." "But you heard shots. You're sure of that!" cried Beatrice. "Y-yes." The girl turned triumphantly to her father. "He saw the gun and he heard shots. That proves self-defense at the worst. They were shooting at Clay when he struck with the chair if he did. Clarendon's testimony will show that." "My testimony!" screamed Bromfield.
It is not yet enough to convict him. We can probably arrange it with the district attorney to have the thing dropped. You can make your own terms with Durand. I'd rather not have anything to do with it myself." Bromfield rose, pulled on the glove he had removed, nodded good-bye without offering to shake hands, and sauntered out of the office.
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