“I did what I could. But it was a busy time. There were several meetings of the board. At the last two, he was present.”
“You mean?”
“He was chosen to fill the vacancy made by Maitland’s death.”
MacLean’s eyes wavered toward Hardin, whose nonchalance had not faltered. Had he not heard, or did he know, already?
“I’d like to have a meeting, a conference, to-morrow morning.” Rickard was speaking. “Mr. Hardin, will you set the hour at your convenience?”
Because it was so kindly done, Hardin showed his first resentment. “It will not be possible for me to be there. I’m going to Los Angeles in the morning.” He turned and left the office, Estrada following him.
“Oh, Mr. Hardin, you mustn’t take it that way,” he expostulated, concern in each sensitive feature.
“I’ll take orders from him, but he gave me none,” growled Hardin. “It’s not what you think. I’m not sore. But I don’t like him. He’s a fancy dude. He’s not the man for this job.”
“Then you knew him before?” It was a surprise to Estrada.
“At college. He was my—er, instructor. Marshall found him in the class room. A theory-slinger.”