''
``I've got to consider my wife,'' said Frank. ``I
can't do as I'd like.''
``You are going to insist on your third?'' said
Conover, with an accent that made Frank quiver.
``I can't do otherwise,'' said he in a dogged, shamed
way.
``Um,'' said Conover. ``Then, on behalf of my
sister and her daughter I'll have to insist on a more
detailed accounting than you have been willing to give
--and on the production of that small book bound in
red leather which disappeared from my brother-in-law's
desk the afternoon of his death.''
A wave of rage and fear surged up within Frank
Gower and crashed against the seat of his life. For
days thereafter he was from time to time seized with
violent spasms of trembling; years afterward he was
attributing premature weaknesses of old age to the
effects of that moment of horror. His uncle's words
came as a sudden, high shot climax to weeks of
exasperating peeping and prying and questioning, of
sneer and insinuation. Conover had been only moderately
successful at the law, had lost clients to Frank's
father, had been beaten when they were on opposite
sides.
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