CHAPTER XV
CALEB CONOVER LIES
One morning, a week or so later, Caine strolled into Conover’s private office. Under the young newspaper owner’s customary jauntiness was a hint of something more serious. Conover, as skilled in reading men as he was ignorant in deciphering any problem relating to woman, was aware, at a glance, of the subtle change.
“Sit down,” he said, nodding to his secretary to go, “What’s wrong? If you’re scared because Steeloid fell off three-quarters of a point yesterday, you can rest easy. I did it myself on ‘match’ sales; and a few others—”
“It isn’t Steeloid,” said Caine, “It’s nothing that really concerns me. But I thought you would want to know about it.”
“Fire away, then,” vouchsafed Caleb, “Have a cigar? These with the gold-an’-red life belts are nice to look at. But if you want something that tastes better’n it looks, try one of the panatelas. The ones without illustrations on ’em. Now what is it?”
“It’s about Miss Shevlin,” began Caine, with reluctance.
Conover’s massive calm fled. He brought down his crossed legs from the desk corner with a bang and whirled his chair about.
“Speak it out, quick!” he ordered sharply. “Ain’t sick, is she?”
“No, no. This is different. You’ve heard of Ex-Governor Parkman’s plan to start an anti-graft crusade, of course?”
“Sure!” grinned Caleb, “Them croosades are as certain as measles. Ev’ry city goes through ’em ev’ry once in so often. They don’t do any real hurt and they can’t tie up my bus’ness so’s to bother me any. Let ’em croosade till they’re black in the face. It’ll be good for you noospaper fellers, an’ it won’t harm anybody it’s aimed at. But,” uneasily, “what’s that got to do with Dey?”