'd lose," said Whitey. "I had three of 'em in the drawer for a
coon's age; feller asked me for 'em jus' the other night."

"Yes?" He masked his eagerness as he thrust a quarter forward. "The
drink's on me then. Let me have a cigar."

Whitey also took a cigar, indicating friendliwise the better box.

"Who was it asked you for the paper money?" Steve went on. "He might
have one he doesn't need."

"It was Stumpy Collins. The bootblack across the street."

"I'll look him up; yesterday he had them, you say?"

Wimble shook his head, gave the matter his thought a moment, and said:

"It was las' Saturday night; I remember 'cause there was a right smart
crowd in an' I was busy an' Stumpy kep' pesterin' me until I 'tended to
him. He won't have nothin' lef by this, though; it ain't Stumpy's way
to save his money long. Firs' time I ever knowed him to have three
dollars all at once."

From the Old Trusty Steve went across the street, leaving his horse in
front of Wimble's door where there was a big poplar and a grateful
shade. Crossing the second of the two bridges he turned his eyes
toward the railroad station; the red touring-car stood forth
brilliantly in the sunshine, a freight train was just pulling in, Terry
was not to be seen.

"She'll eat before she starts back home," he thought, hastening his
stride on to Hodges's place, the Ace of Diamonds. "I'll see her at the
lunch-counter."

Tucked in beside the Ace of Diamonds was a bootblack stand, a crazy,
home-made affair with dusty seat. The wielder of the brush and polish
was nowhere in evidence. Steve passed and turned in at the saloon
door, wishing to come to Hodges, Blenham's pal. For it required little
imagination to suspect that it had been Hodges at Blenham's behest, or
Blenham himself, who had sent Stumpy across the street to the Old
Trusty.

Here, as in Wimble's place, a few men loitered idly; here as there the
proprietor stood behind his own bar. Hodges, a short, squat man with a
prize-fighter's throat, chest, and shoulders and a wide, thin-lipped
mouth, leaned forward in dirty shirt-sleeves, chewing at a moist
cigar-stump.

"Hello, stranger," he offered offhandedly. "What's the word?"

"Know Blenham, don't you?" asked Steve quietly. "Works for old man
Packard."

"Sure, I know him. What about him?"

"Seen him lately?"

"Ten minutes ago. Why? Want him?"

Packard had not counted on this, having no idea that Blenham was in
town. He