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Even if the typometer could by some means keep afloat until that day arrived, it would take a couple of years for such a timing-machine to regain its prestige in a foreign country. Justin had no excess of sentiment; no quixotic impulse urged him to go and tell Cater what he had learned. It was Cater's business to look after his end of the game.
To use secret information against Cater, that could never have been had but for Cater's kindness to him in helping him to those bars in time of need, was first, last, and every time impossible to Justin Alexander. It was vain for argument to suggest that this very deed of kindness had worked his disaster the fact remained the same.
He might do other things; he might do worse things: this thing he could not do not though the refusal worked his own ruin, not though Cater's ruin with Hardanger was insured anyway, but too late for the typometer to profit by it.
Brute anger never had any effect on Justin but to give him a contemptuous, chill self-possession. "You're sure the agreement's made?" "Cater's been sending new consignments as fast as they could go for the past three days; he's loaded up with machines." Leverich swore again. "Confounded fools, not to have made terms with Hardanger first! If we'd only known!
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