"It's legitimate."
"Perhaps; but I don't choose to do it. I refuse to force your
confessedly inexperienced and incompetent services upon my men. What you
ask is impossible."
He expected an outburst but none came; instead, she sat looking at him
with a twisted smile.
"You'd better reconsider," she said at last, and there was in her voice
and manner the taunting confidence of a "gun-man" who has his hand at
his hip.
Symes spat out a particle of tobacco with angry vehemence and his ruddy
face turned redder.
"My answer is final."
Her composure grew with his loss of it.
"I hoped it wouldn't be necessary to remind you of your first visit
here, but it seems it is."
That was it then--the source of her assurance--she meant to trade upon,
to make capital of a professional secret. It was like her to remind him
of an obligation, to attain her ends.
"I've not forgotten," he answered with an effort, "but the favor you ask
is one I cannot conscientiously grant."
She laughed disagreeably.
"Since when has your conscience become a factor in your affairs?"
He could have throttled her for her insolence, but she gave him no
chance to reply.
"Supposing I insist?"
"Insist?" Was she threatening him?