“Hello, Harvey,” he returned. “I never would have looked for you in this make-up. It’s a funny job for the ex-secretary of the Filmore Coal Company.”
“Forget it,” returned Harvey complacently. “There’s three squares a day in this and pickings. Where are you stopping?”
Wallingford told him, and then looked at him speculatively.
“Come up and see me when you go off watch,” he invited. “But don’t ask for me under the name of Wix. It’s Wallingford now, J. Rufus Wallingford.”
“No!” said Harvey. “What did you do at home?”
“Not a thing,” protested Wallingford. “I can go right back to Filmore and play hop-scotch around the county jail if I want to. I just didn’t like the name, that’s all. But I want to talk with you, Harvey. I think I can throw about a hundred or so in your way.”
“Not me,” returned Harvey with a grin. “That’s the price of a murder in this town.”
“Come up, and I’ll coax you,” laughed Wallingford.
He walked away quite thoughtfully. Harvey Willis, who had left Filmore on account of his fine sense of honor—he had embezzled to pay a poker debt—seemed suddenly to fit an empty and an aching void.