Another long pause.
“I think,” stated Mr. Squinch, as deliberately and as carefully as if he were announcing a supreme court decision—“I think that we may promise an answer by to-morrow.”
They were all silent, very silent, as Mr. Wallingford walked out, but the moment they heard his own door close behind him conjecture began.
“I wonder how much money he’s got,” speculated fish-white Doc Turner, rubbing his claw-like hands softly together.
“He’s stopping at the Telford Hotel and occupies two of the best rooms in the house,” said blocky Mr. Fester, he of the bone-hard countenance and the straight gash where his lips ought to be.
“He handed me a hundred-dollar bill to take the change out of for the first month’s rent in advance,” supplemented Doc Turner, who was manager of the Turner block.
“He wears very large diamonds, I notice,” observed Squinch. “I imagine, gentlemen, that he might be willing to pay quite two thousand dollars.”
“He’s young,” assented Mr. Turner, warming his hands over the thought.
“And reckless,” added Mr. Fester, with a wooden appreciation that was his nearest approach to a smile.