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It's shoot or suit in these unromantic days, Dysart, otherwise the newspapers laugh at you." Dysart's well-shaped fists relaxed, the chair dropped, but even when he let it go murder danced in his eyes. "Yes," he said, "it's shoot or a suit in these days; you're perfectly right, Mallett. And we'll let it go at that for the present."
Don't move, I tell you.... Wipe that blood off and go and set the silly girl's heart at rest.... And keep away from her afterward. Do you hear?" He set his teeth and shook him so wickedly that Dysart's head rolled and his wig fell off. "I know something of your sloppy record," he continued, still shaking him; "I know about your lap-dog fawning around Miss Seagrave.
"I'm going to fix it," he added, and, pushing his way toward his hostess, disappeared in the crush. Later young Grandcourt reappeared from the crush to take her in. Every table seated eight, and, sure enough, as she turned involuntarily to glance at her neighbour on the right, it was Dysart's pale face, cleanly cut as a cameo, that met her gaze.
His father felt the effort his son was making; looked up wearily, strove to smile, to relight his cigar; which Duane did for him, saying: "As long as you are not mixed up in that Klawber, Skelton, Moebus crowd, I'm not inclined to worry. It seems, as of course you know, that Dysart's brokers failed to-day." "So I heard," said his father steadily. He straightened himself in his chair. "I am sorry.
If anything threatens either, he won't tell me, but don't you think I ought to know?" "You ask too hard a question for me to answer." "Then can you answer me this? Is father at all involved in any of Jack Dysart's schemes?" "I had better not answer, Duane." "You know best.
There was reason for his gloom. Unknown to his father he had invested heavily in Dysart's schemes. It was his father's contempt that he feared more than ruin.
"Meant to?" interrupted Mallett, laughing; "I mean to ask for this dance, and I do." Once more she turned and encountered Dysart's darkening gaze, hesitated, then with a nervous, gay little gesture to him, partly promise, partly adieu, she took Mallett's arm.
Now, do you understand, damn you!" A stray glimmer from the distant lanterns fell across Dysart's masked visage. The skin around the mouth was loose and ashy, the dry lips worked. "That was a dirty trick of yours," he stammered; "a scoundrelly thing to do." "Do you suppose that I dreamed for an instant that she was convicting herself and you?" said Duane in bitter contempt.
Instead of the servant returning, there came a click from the elevator, a quick step, and the master of the house himself walked swiftly into the room wearing hat and gloves. "What do you want?" he inquired briefly. "I want to ask you a question or two," said Duane, shocked at the change in Dysart's face.
Dysart's name, too, figured in it. And, somehow, he conceived an idea that his father once received some mining engineer's reports covering the matter; he even seemed to remember that Guy Wilton had been called into consultation. Whatever associations he had for the name of the Cascade Development and Securities Company must have originated in Paris the year before his father returned to America.
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