Mr. Wentz had a notion, fostered by his wife, that he was rather a handsome fellow. True, years of steaming had given to his complexion a look not unlike that of an evaporated apple, but this small defect was more than offset by a luxuriant brown mustache which he had trained carefully. His hair was sleek and neatly trimmed, and he used his brown eyes effectively upon occasions. His long hands with their supple fingers were markedly white, also from the steaming process. Being tall and of approximately correct proportions, his ready-made clothes fitted him excellently—as a matter of fact, Vernon Wentz would have passed for a “gent” anywhere.
Not unmindful of the presence of Mr. Pantin, of whom he secretly stood in awe, although he knew of his own knowledge that Pantin sheared his collars, Wentz swung about in his office chair and said abruptly:
“Didn’t expect I’d have to send for you.”
Kate’s troubled eyes were fixed upon him.
“I had nothing to come for.”
It pleased Mr. Wentz to regard her with a smile of tolerant amusement.
“Don’t know anything about finance, do you?”
“I’ve never had any business to attend to. I will learn, though.”
Wentz smiled enigmatically. Then, brusquely:
“We might as well come to the point and have it over—do you know them sheep’s mortgaged?”