“How much you reckon it’s worth?”
“As much as I can get for it.”
“Well, I might——” Sutherland stopped abruptly. Robin saw the change of expression cross his face. He heard the front door click. Out of one corner of his eye he saw Shining Mark come striding down between the counters.
“You might what?” Robin prompted.
But Sutherland clasped his hands over his rotund stomach and leaned back in his chair, silent and expressionless as a poker player nursing a pat hand.
“Hello, Tyler.”
Robin turned his head at Mark’s greeting. The quality of the man’s voice was the same, arrogant, subtly menacing.
Robin didn’t even trouble to reply. He looked at Mark calmly, an outward, deceptive calm for within something was beginning to burn, a flame that he knew he must keep down. It was like being too close to a venomous snake—only, somehow, for Robin the snake’s fangs were drawn. He didn’t know why he felt so sure of that but he did. He was no more afraid of Shining Mark than he was afraid of Sutherland’s elderly bookkeeper, who was mildness personified, years of clerical work and domestic infelicity having rendered him harmless. He gazed at Mark with deliberate, insolent scrutiny.
“They tell me you had an accident with your gun down on Birch,” he said at length.
“Yeah. Fool thing to do,” Steele growled. It struck Robin that Shining Mark was a little uneasy.