Evans, I think, was unconscious of my presence. He gave Sheener a name; his name. Also, he told him the name of the family lawyer, in one of the Midland cities of England, and added certain instructions....
When he had drifted into uneasy sleep Sheener came out into the hall to see me off. I asked him what he meant to do.
“What am I going to do?” he repeated. “I’m going to write to this guy’s lawyer. Let them send for him. This ain’t no place for him.”
“You’ll have your trouble for your pains,” I told him. “The old soak is plain liar; that’s all.”
Sheener laughed at me. “That’s all right, bo,” he told me. “I know. This guy’s the real cheese. You’ll see.”
I asked him to let me know if he heard anything, and he said he would. But within a day or two I forgot the matter, and would hardly have remembered it if Sheener had not telephoned me a month later.
“Say, you’re a wise guy, ain’t you?” he derided when I answered the phone. I admitted it. “I got a letter from that lawyer in England,” he told me. “This Evans is the stuff, just like I said. His wife run away with another man, and he went to the devil fifteen years ago. They’ve been looking for him ever since his son grew up.”
“Son?” I asked.
“Son. Sure! Raising wheat out in Canada somewhere. They give me his address. He’s made a pile. I’m going to write to him.”
“What does Bum say?”