“Not much,” he said. “You can have the century, but I don’t want your paper.” And he found the money in the little safe behind the desk. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Yes; I want to use one of the private rooms for a few minutes.”
Elitch held up a finger for the head waiter, a stalwart young fellow who looked as if he might be a college athlete working his way through a lean vacation.
“Parker, show these gentlemen to No. 4, and light the gas for them. No orders.”
The athletic one led the way to a small private dining room partitioned off in the rear of the public tables. It was a mere box, lighted by a chandelier pendent from the ceiling, and furnished only with table and chairs. When they were alone, Harding dropped into one of the chairs and Brant drew up another on the opposite side of the table.
“Now, then, talk quick and tell the truth—if you can. What did you say to the boy?”
The soul of the real James Harding peered out through his half-closed eyes for a fleeting instant, but the veil was drawn again before one might note the levin-flash of triumph.
“I did what you wanted me to: told him I’d got to go and look after my mine.”
“What excuse did you make for taking him home?”
“Told him he shouldn’t ought to be out so late. He’ll do anything for me, that young fellow will.”