The merchant hesitated. Evidently he was afraid to oppose the other too strongly.
"Well, I don't want to let you go without anything," he began. "I'll let you have twenty-five dollars&—"
John Stumpy jumped up in a passion. "That settles it. I'm done with you. To-night I'll send a letter to Chris Holtzmann, 897 Sherman Street, Chicago, and tell him a few things he wants to know, and&—"
"You dare!" almost shrieked Mr. Woodward. "Write a single word to him and I'll—I'll&—"
"So! ho! You're afraid of him, are you?"
"No, I'm not, but what's the use of letting him know anything?"
"Humph! Do you suppose I'd tell him without pay? Not much! I can easily get him to fork over fifty or a hundred dollars. And he'll make you pay it back, ten times over."
Mr. Aaron Woodward sank back in a chair without a word. Evidently he was completely baffled, and knew not which way to turn.
As for myself, I was very much in the dark as to what all this was about. I was certain the past events spoken of pertained to my father's affairs, but failed to "make connections."
One thing, however, I did do, and that was to make a note of Mr. Chris Holtzmann's address. He was the man Stumpy had written to just previous to the robbery, and he was perhaps one of the persons concerned in my father's downfall.