“What do you know about the Wheeler business, kid?” Keefe inquired, after Mr. Appleby had left them.
Genevieve leaned back in her chair, her dimpled chin moving up and down with a pretty rhythm as she enjoyed her chewing-gum, and gazed at the ceiling beams.
Appleby’s offices were in his own house, and the one given over to these two was an attractive room, fine with mahogany and plate glass, but also provided with all the paraphernalia of the most up-to-date of office furniture. There were good pictures and draperies, and a wood fire added to the cheer and mitigated the chill of the early fall weather.
Sidling from her seat, Miss Lane moved over to a chair near the fire.
“I’ll take those letters when you’re ready,” she said. “Why, I don’t know a single thing about any Wheeler. Do you?”
“Not definitely. He’s a man who had an awful fight with Mr. Appleby, long ago. I’ve heard allusions to him now and then, but I know no details.”
“I, either. But, it seems we’re to go there. Only for a night, and then, on to Boston! Won’t I be glad to go!”
“We’ll only be there a few days. I’m more interested in this Wheeler performance. I don’t understand it. Who’s Wheeler, anyhow?”
“Dunno. If Sammy turns up this morning, he may enlighten us.”
Sammy did turn up, and not long after the conversation young Appleby strolled into the office.