"Ah, yeth," responded Mr. Saladine, gloomily. "Mr. Winterthlip." He regarded the young man with interest.
"Any luck, sir?" inquired John Quincy sympathetically.
"Oh—you heard about my accthident?"
"I did, sir, and I'm sorry."
"I am, too," said Mr. Saladine feelingly. "Not a thrath of them tho far. And I muth go home in a few dath."
"I believe Miss Egan said you lived in Des Moines?"
"Yeth. Deth—Deth—I can't thay it."
"In business there?" inquired John Quincy nonchalantly.
"Yeth. Wholethale grothery buthineth," answered Mr. Saladine, slowly but not very successfully.
John Quincy turned away to hide a smile. "Shall we go along?" he said to the girl. "Good luck to you, sir." He dove off, and as they swam toward the shore, he reflected that they were on a false trail there—a trail as spurious as the teeth. That little business man was too conventional a figure to have any connection with the murder of Dan Winterslip. He kept these thoughts to himself, however.