"Never saw or heard anything more of Jeffard, did you?" he said, pitching the conversational quoit toward a known peg of common interest, and taking it for granted that Lansdale, like Connie, had not read the proletary's name into the newspaper misspellings.
"Not a thing. And I have often wondered what happened."
"Then Connie hasn't told you?"
"Miss Elliott? No; I didn't know she knew him."
"She met him a time or two; which is another way of saying that she knows him better than we do. She's a whole assay outfit when it comes to sizing people up."
"What was her opinion of Jeffard?" Lansdale was curious to know if it confirmed his own.
"Oh, she thinks he is a grand rascal, of course,—as everybody does."
"Naturally," said Lansdale, having in mind the proletary's later reincarnations as vagrant and starveling. "You didn't see much of him after he got fairly into the toboggan and on the steeper grades, did you?"
"Here in Denver?—no. But what I did see was enough to show that he was pretty badly tiger-bitten. You told me afterward that he took the post-graduate course in his particular specialty."