“Well, yes, maybe she might. But she shows speed, don’t she?” He whispered. “You’re a pretty good friend of mine, now, and maybe if I’d give you a tip you’d throw something in my way later on—eh?”
“What?”
“Oh, you might start a hotel here—or something. And I’m thinking of blowing this joint. This town’s booming, and it can stand a swell hotel in a few months.”
“You’re on—if I build a hotel. Shoot!”
The clerk leaned closer, whispering: “She receives other men. You’re not the only one.”
“Who?”
The clerk laughed, and made a funnel of one hand. “The banker across the street—Braman.”
Corrigan bit his cigar in two, and slowly spat that which was left in his mouth into a cuspidor. He contrived to smile, though it cost him an effort, and his hands were clenched.
“How many times has he been here?”
“Oh, several.”