"Of course not"—her tone was rank flattery. "Wants you to take care of him. Threatens to squeal. I know.... So you've got to hide him out."
"You are a wise one. Where'd you get it?"
"I didn't always sell cigars for a living.... He isn't apt to break loose and spoil this thing, is he?"
"Too scared to show his face.... If we can pull this across he can show it whenever he wants to—I'll be gone."
So Ovid Nixon was here—in town. It was as she had reasoned. If here, he was somewhere in the building Mr. Peaney occupied as a bucket shop.
"It's understood we divide—if I introduce my farmer to you—and show you how to get it."
"You bet, sister."
"Have you any money? Nothing makes people so confident and trustful as the sight of money?"
"I've got it," he said, complacently.
"Then you come to the hotel this evening.... Just do as I say. I'll manage it. In a couple of days—if you have the nerve and do exactly what I say—you can forget Ovid Nixon and take a long journey."