“I don’t know how you’ve got this idea. I’m not in the piano business. If you want to sell the Powers a piano, why go ahead. But this is a law office.”
“Oh, a law office!” said Lockwood, inwardly tickled at the word. “I thought you represented the Pascagoula Oil Company.”
Harding was visibly taken aback this time, and stared hard at his interlocutor.
“Never heard of it,” he returned.
“But,” Lockwood insisted, “this is the address given on their stationery and literature.”
“Hum!” said Harding reflectively. His manner softened a good deal. “Come to think of it, I do believe I’ve heard of ’em. I’ve only been in this office a couple of months. I guess they were the people here before me. But they’re gone. Yes, sir, they’ve moved. But I can find ’em for you. Ain’t they in the telephone book? Well, I can find out, anyhow.”
“I wish you would.”
“I certainly will,” said Harding, growing more genial. “Are you located in town? At the St. Andrew? Good! I’ll telephone you just as soon as I find the address.”
They parted with great mutual cordiality, and Lockwood chuckled when he was on the street again. He chuckled with success; he was almost certain now; but to make absolutely certain he called at the office of the Pascagoula Land and Development Company, whose name he had accidentally heard that day.
Their offices were decorated with semitropical fruits and vegetables of every description, and he learned from the manager that oil was almost the sole natural product which their territory could not furnish. No oil had ever been discovered in that county; no boring had ever been done; and he could not be in error, for he had spent his life there.