That evening happened to be blank. She gave him the desired permission, and feeling that she had perhaps shown her irritation too plainly, asked him to accompany her.
“It’s an afternoon affair,” she explained, “and of course you won’t care to come in; but you may see me that far if you like, and the car will set you down anywhere.”
As they entered the waiting car a gentleman on the other side of the street raised his hat. Miss Garwood bowed, and Joe acknowledged the salute mechanically. It was only when the car shot by the pedestrian that he recognized him as Mr. Stanley Ackerman.
“Hello!” he exclaimed. “Do you know that fellow?”
“Really, Joe,” she replied, “I wish you wouldn’t speak of my father’s friends in that way.” Her annoyance was genuine, but his words were not the cause of it. She disliked Ackerman and distrusted him. Also he knew the young man with the real estate pedigree.
“I can’t congratulate your father on that particular friend,” Kent observed bluntly, and became thoughtful.
Mr. Ackerman looked after the car and became thoughtful also. Shortly afterward he entered Hugh Garwood’s office.
The president of the O. & N. would have been spare and shapely if he had taken ordinary exercise; but being far too busy a man to spend any time on the trifling matter of physical well-being his figure had run to seed. Only his head was lean and alertly poised, by virtue of the keen, ever-working brain within. The face was narrow, hard, and determined; and the mouth, set awry beneath the close-clipped gray moustache, was ruthless and grim. It was, in fact, a fairly good indication of his character and methods. He was never known to forego an advantage of any kind, and he was accustomed to bludgeon opponents into submission without being particular where he cut his clubs.
“Well, Ackerman,” he said, “what’s the news?”
Mr. Ackerman had no news. It was a fine day, though cool. Beautiful weather. Made a man want to be outdoors.