"Do you remember telling me one day," Irons asked, fixing his narrow
eyes on the other's disturbed face, "that you could make your sitters
tell you things?"
Fenton stared at his questioner in angry silence, but did not answer.
"Now, if," continued Irons; "I say if, you observe,--if Stewart Hubbard
should chance to tell you where the new syndicate mean to locate their
mills, it might be a mighty good thing for you."
Still Fenton said nothing, but his regard became each moment more
wrathful.
"Of course," the sitter continued, with an assumption of airy lightness
which grated on every nerve of the hearer, "you are not in a position
to turn such knowledge to advantage; but I am, and I am always inclined
to help a bright fellow like you when there is a good chance. So if you
should come to me and say that the mills are to be so and so, I'd do
all I could to make things pleasant for you. I happen to belong to a
syndicate myself that has bought a mill privilege at Wachusett, and it
is important to us to have the new railroad go our way, and we'd like
to know how far the other fellows' plans are dangerous to our
interests, don't you see."
Still Fenton did not speak. He had grown very pale, and his lips were
set firmly together. His hands clasped the arms of his chair so
strongly that the blood had settled under the middle of the nails.
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