“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, we hadn’t had lunch yet—he dropped the message from his plane in the morning—not during the late afternoon!”
Bill yawned unblushingly and got to his feet.
“Cuts no ice,” he asserted. “That wasn’t a regular hop.”
“What then?” This from Mr. Dixon.
“A grandstand play, pure and simple. Those lads haven’t the brains I gave them credit for, if they really think they can steer us off with tripe like that!”
Mr. Bolton ground the butt of his cigar on an ashtray, and rose.
“Perhaps that wasn’t the idea,” he suggested.
Three heads were turned sharply toward him.
“What do you mean, Bolton?” asked Mr. Dixon.