It makes up for the bad times, in between.
The Babbler has turned up. He's been living abroad for a few years. I
saw him at a tea last week."
"Did he say anything?"
"Yes. He tried to be coy and facetious. I snubbed him soundly. Perhaps
it wasn't wise."
"Why shouldn't it be?"
"Well he used to have the reputation of writing on the sly for The
Searchlight."
"That sewer-sheet! You don't think he'd dare do anything of the sort
about us? Why, what would he have to go on?"
"What does The Searchlight have to go on in most of its lies, and hints,
and innuendoes?"
"But, Io, even if it did publish--"
"It mustn't," she said. "Ban, if it did--it would make it impossible for
us to go on as we have been. Don't you see that it would?"
He turned sallow under his ruddy skin. "Then I'll stop it, one way or
another. I'll put the fear of God into that filthy old worm that runs
the blackmail shop. The first thing is to find out, though, whether
there's anything in it. I did hear a hint...." He lost himself in
musings, trying to recall an occult remark which the obsequious Ely Ives
had made to him sometime before. "And I know where I can do it," he
ended.
To go to Ives for anything was heartily distasteful to him. But this was
a necessity.
Pages:
614
615
616
617
618
619
620
621
622
623
624
625
626
627
628
629
630
631
632
633
634
635
636
637
638