Mr. Moran nodded curtly.
“Zaanan’s to his office. He wants to see you over there.”
Mr. Moran nodded again and walked briskly down the street to the building before which stood the ancient horse and vehicle. He had wasted no time obeying the summons, and Jim wondered somewhat, for Michael Moran did not appear to him a man who was accustomed to run about at the beck and call of old men in dilapidated buggies. He seemed rather a person used to issuing orders and to exacting prompt obedience.
He was curious, too, about the old man himself, who, without uttering a word that could be construed by a court of law as expressing his wishes in the matter, had, nevertheless, directed Dolf Springer to waylay Mr. Moran and give him a message. The old man’s method was a splendid example of caution. It delighted Jim and aroused his curiosity as to the name and place in the world of the old fellow.
He made inquiries of a fellow-lounger on the piazza:
“Who is the old gentleman who drives a horse named Tiffany—”
“Who? Hain’t been in Diversity township much, have you? Guess not. That there’s Zaanan Frame, justice of the peace. Been it nigh to thirty year, and like to be it thirty year more.”
This was meager enough information, but Jim’s informant seemed to think it ample, for he relapsed into somnolent silence.
Jim was just rising with the intention of taking a walk—that seeming to be the sole entertainment offered by Diversity—when another buggy, dust-covered, drawn by a team, stopped before the hotel, and a small, wiry, exceedingly well-tailored old gentleman, with white whiskers of the bank-president type, alighted. He got down jauntily, springily, pertly, and trotted up the steps.
“Mr. Ashe—Mr. James Ashe, Junior. Can anybody direct me to him?”