“Your father was killed in Mexico, wasn’t he?”
“No. He went down there to save some of his investments and just managed to escape with his life. He’s sick, and in bad shape, and I’ve sent him back East to recover his health.”
“I see. What about his Mexican investments?”
“He lost everything he had, down below the line. The revolutionists cleaned him out.”
“Too bad, too bad!” murmured Rockwell. “John Clancy was well off, and a good sort of a man. But what’s all this to do with me?”
“The way things are now, Mr. Rockwell,” pursued Clancy, “the governor needs all the money he can get hold of. He let you have a thousand dollars and you gave him a note for it. The note is long past due, and I’m here to collect the money.”
Rockwell’s brows wrinkled in a hard frown.
“Where’s that note?” he demanded.
Clancy drew an old black wallet from the breast of his shirt, opened it, and removed an oblong slip of paper.
“Here,” said he, pushing the paper over the steering wheel and under the eyes of Rockwell.