VI
“So,” said Homer Dean, the millionaire, to Jenkins, the reporter. “So I got the job, went on the road, my luck began.”
Jenkins had listened without interruption; now he nodded slow acquiescence. “And he handed it to you. How did you find it out?”
“I’m ashamed of that part,” Homer admitted. “Will and I talked it over at the time, decided Charlie had been mistaken. Old Jasper came in to-day, to talk about old times. I’d never asked him before; to-day I did ask: Why he gave me the job? And he told me what Will did that day.”
“Think it was an accident?” Jenkins asked curiously.
Dean shook his head. “I know Will too well. Besides, the ink might have been an accident, but not the cravat, for he had his cravat on when I came in that morning. No, I can see it beyond any doubting, now.”
The writer nodded. “A pretty decent thing,” he commented. “What became of Matthews?”
“He’s our head bookkeeper, at the office downtown. I was going straight to find him when you came.”
Jenkins reached for his hat. His words were commonplace enough, but there was eloquence in his tone.
“Don’t let me keep you, Mr. Dean,” he said.