"You wanted to talk with me?" Wickersham inquired as he entered the
room that evening.
Somehow Wickersham's unending politeness had always irritated Allison.
That night his smoothly infectionless question nettled him.
"Your damned fool, Harrigan, bungled last night!" he blurted out. "He
messed things up, beautifully. He not only failed, but he failed to
get away without being seen. That's what comes of entrusting a job
like that to a drunken sot."
Wickersham seated himself--sat and caressed a cigarette. Coolly he
waited and blinked his eyelids.
"My man?" he murmured. "My man?"
"Ours then," Allison corrected sharply. "Ours." Then he seemed to
recollect himself and his voice became less abrupt. "Listen. This
afternoon I had a talk with O'Mara. That is, I started to have a talk
with him, but--but he beat me to it. And in just about three minutes
he told me that he'd caught Harrigan on the job--not mentioning any
names, I don't mean--but he didn't need to, And he told me more than
that. He as good as gave me to understand that he'd know where to
place the blame, if there was any more interference with his men."
Wickersham crossed a long leg and blew a thin blue streamer of smoke.
"Yes?" he intoned bodilessly.
It brought a blaze to Allison's eyes--that nerveless monosyllable.
"That doesn't interest you, eh?" he snapped.
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