"Hello, Frank," said the slate-writer. "Can I see you for a few minutes?"
"Come in." Granthope drew up a chair, but stood himself with his hands in his pockets while his visitor made himself comfortable.
Vixley's shrewd eyes roved about the room and rested upon the broken cast. "Hello," he said, "cat got into the statuary?"
"Accident," said the palmist.
"Plenty more where they come from, I s'pose. Say, Frank, let's see the Payson girl's hand, will you?"
"I haven't it."
"You mean a cast, of course, eh? I expect you've pretty near got the original, ain't you?"
"Not yet." Granthope frowned.
"But soon—"
Granthope shrugged his shoulders.