“What for?  I thought yore father was a mighty competent operator.  Don’t the stockholders know when they’re well off?”

She looked at him enigmatically.  “Some one he trusted has turned out a traitor.  That happens occasionally in business, you know.”

It was from Colin himself that Clay learned the name of the traitor.

“It’s that fellow Bromfield,” he explained.  “He’s the secretary and second largest stockholder in the company.  The annual election is to be to-morrow afternoon.  He’s got me where the wool’s short.  I was fool enough to ask the smaller stockholders to make out their proxies in his name.  At that time he was hand in glove with us.  Now I’m up against it.  He’s going to name the board of directors and have himself made president.”

Clay ventured on thin ice.  The name of Bromfield had not been mentioned to him before in the last twenty-four hours by either Beatrice or her father.  “Surely Bromfield wouldn’t want to offend you.”

“That’s exactly what he would want to do.”

“But—­”

“He’s got his reasons.”

“Isn’t there some way to stop him, then?”

“I’ve been getting a wrinkle trying to figure out one.  I’d certainly be in your debt if you could show me a way.”

“When is the election?”

“At three o’clock.”

“Where?”

“At the company offices.”

“Perhaps if I talked with Bromfield—­”

Whitford laughed shortly.  “I’d talk an arm off him if it would do any good.  But it won’t.  He’s out for revenge.”

Clay’s eyes alighted swiftly on the older man.  They asked gravely a question and found an answer that set his heart singing.  Beatrice had broken her engagement with Bromfield.

“He won’t do, Clay.  He’s off color.”  Whitford did a bit of mental acrobatics.  “Why do you suppose he took you to Maddock’s?”

Again Lindsay’s appraising gaze rested on his friend.  “I’ve never worked that out to my satisfaction.  It wasn’t the kind of place he would be likely to go for pleasure.  But I don’t think he’d arranged a trap for me, if that’s what you mean.  It doesn’t look reasonable that he would want me killed.”

Whitford told him all he knew about the affair.  The story told him banished any doubts Clay may have had about a certain step he had begun during the last few minutes to hold in consideration.  It did more.  It hardened a fugitive impulse to a resolution.  Bromfield was fair game for him.

It was a little after eleven o’clock next morning when the cattleman walked into an apartment house for bachelors, took the elevator, and rang the bell at Bromfield’s door.

Clarendon, fresh from the hands of his valet, said he was glad to see Lindsay, but did not look it.  He offered his guest a choice of liquors and selected for himself a dry martini.  Cigars and cigarettes were within reach on a tabouret.