"What's that got to do with it?"
"Perty good friend o' yourn, ain't she?"
"I hope so. What are you driving at?"
"Oh, nothin' much. Only if John was still on this earthly sp'ere your chances would be more limited, wouldn't they?"
Lamar laughed. "Perhaps so," he said. "You've got a long head, Bricky."
"Sure, I've got a long head. I can put two an' two together as well as the next man. The widder wants to smash Dick Malleson's pocketbook. You want to smash the widder's heart. I ain't blamin' either of ye. Ye've both got plenty of aggravation. So you want my help, do you, Steve?"
"I want your help."
"An' you're willin' to pay for it?"
"I'll pay you well."
"All right! Let's git down to brass tacks. Push that button, will ye? I'm dry."
Lamar pushed the button. More liquid cheer was brought in. After that the conference was still more confidential. At the end of twenty minutes they rose, clinked their glasses, drank to each other's success, and left the place.
Stephen Lamar went straight from the Silver Star saloon to the home of Mary Bradley on Factory Hill.
"I beg to report," he said to her, "that your orders concerning Richard Malleson are in process of execution."
"What have you done to him?" she asked.
"I've compelled him to sign a new agreement to avoid a strike."
"I know you have. You've given him a chance to save himself when you might have crushed him."
"Don't be too fast. I know what I'm about. The new agreement will hurt him more than two strikes would."
"How do you make that out?"
