“A dark horse, likely,” returned Appleby, speaking in an absorbed, preoccupied manner, as if caring little who fell heir to his candidacy.
“I don’t agree with you, Mr. Appleby,” spoke up Jeff Allen, “as to the inefficiency of the two men on this case. Seems to me they’re doing all they can, and I can’t help thinking they may get at the truth.”
“All right, if they get at the truth, but it’s my opinion that the truth of this matter is not going to be so easily discovered, and those two bunglers may do a great deal of harm. Good-bye, Maida, keep up a good heart, my girl.”
The group on the veranda said good-bye to Sam Appleby, and he turned back as he stepped into the car to say:
“I’ll be back as soon as the funeral is over, and until then, be careful what you say—all of you.”
He looked seriously at Maida, but his glance turned toward the den where Mr. Wheeler sat in solitude.
“I heard him,” stormed Burdon, as the car drove away, and the detective came around the corner of the veranda. “I heard what he said about me and Hallen. Well, we’ll show him! Of course, the reason he talks like that——”
“Don’t tell us the reason just now,” interrupted Keefe. “We men will have a little session of our own, without the ladies present. There’s no call for their participation in our talk.”
“That’s right,” said Allen. “Maida, you and Miss Lane run away, and we’ll go to the den for a chat.”
“No, not there,” objected Burdon. “Come over and sit under the big sycamore.”