“Yes, sir. That’s my name,” replied the cigar smoker, in distinctly Northern accents. And at that moment Lockwood’s memory found its mark.
He had a painful vision of his own real-estate office long ago, of McGibbon, of Maxwell sullenly stating the forced terms that meant ruin. Yes, it was Maxwell, it was Hanna’s old confederate, here in Mobile, here in the rooms of the “Pascagoula Oil Company;” and a great flood of illumination swept over Lockwood’s whole mind. It was through Mobile that the orders for the Powers’ reckless purchases had gone. Ten to one it was through this office, leaving a fifty-per-cent commission.
“I am,” Lockwood stated, “a piano salesman.”
“Well?” returned Harding, who was plainly far from recognizing his visitor.
“I’ve just come down from Rainbow Landing. I guess you know the Powers there?”
“I’ve heard of them.”
“They’re thinking of buying a piano. I called to see you. I believe the order will go through you, won’t it?”
“Who told you that?” Harding queried roughly.
“I guessed at it. There are all sorts of discounts and commissions, you know.”
The man picked up his cigar again, looked at it, hesitating visibly; then spoke: