For some seconds Thayor drummed with his fingers on the arm of his chair; then he said in a strangely serious tone—as if to himself:
"Dinsmore had to kill him, perhaps. That's the only way out sometimes, and that's what would happen every time if I had my way."
Holcomb made no reply. No good could come to the hide-out by stirring up his case. All his friends said he was dead; that is, to strangers—some of whom might be sheriffs.
The talk now entered another channel—one more to Holcomb's liking. "By the way, before I forget it"—here Thayor drew from his pocket a package of letters—"how about this Mr. Steinberg, the dealer who sold us the horses?" he inquired.
"Who, Bergstein?"
"Yes, this Mr. Bergstein, as you call him. I gather from your last letter—I thought I had it with me," he said, searching hurriedly among the packet of correspondence, "but I have evidently left it—I gather," he resumed, "from your last letter that he did not make a very favourable impression. I can't understand it," he went on seriously, "for he was recommended by one of the vice-presidents of one of our Canadian companies, a man whom I have had dealings with by letter for years. I should hesitate to believe he would recommend anyone to us whom he did not thoroughly know about—who, shall we say, was sharp in his dealings."
Holcomb for a moment did not reply. Then suddenly he looked straight into the eyes of his employer.
"I know a man may sometimes be wrong in sizing up another," he began, "but Bergstein seems to me to have considerable of the peddler in him."
"And yet you say, Billy, the horses he sent were sound, and the price fair."
"The price he asked was not," replied Holcomb. "I gave him what I knew they were worth—he wasn't long in taking it. That's where the peddler part of it struck me."