“Yes. It is in a black wallet in the breast of his flannel shirt.”
“Where does he hang out nights?”
“He’ll be in the little room back of the garage,” was the significant rejoinder. “I’m having him sleep there to help out the night man in case there is a rush of work. You know all about the garage, Hibbard. The trick ought to come easy for you. All I want is a little more time on that note—and this is about the only way I can get it.”
Hibbard, knowing Rockwell so well, felt positive in his own mind that the note, once in the signer’s hands, would be destroyed. The garage man had a way of giving a plausible touch to his rascally undertakings that fooled very few of those who understood his character.
“Are you going to help me, or aren’t you?” demanded Rockwell.
“I’m going to earn that two hundred, and get even with Clancy, providing——”
Hibbard paused, looking at Rockwell out of the tails of his eyes.
“Providing what?” the other asked.
“Providing you give me young Clancy’s job, or another where the chance of a rake-off is as good, after the thing is over. I’ve got to live—and where, in this burg, can I get another job as chauffeur without a recommendation from Pembroke?”
“I’ll take care of you, Hibbard,” said Rockwell.