"Is she coming later?"
"No, she's sick in bed."
There was a slight pause and then he said:
"Well, I got to see her. I've notes here that are overdue and the endorsee's dead."
"Endorsee?" came Iola's little pipe, full of troubled surprise, "who's he?"
"Hollings Harland who killed himself last night. What's her address?"
I could hear Iola giving it and the man muttering it over. Then there was a gruff "Good morning" and the door snapped shut.
Iola came back, her eyes big, her expression wondering.
"What do you suppose that means?" she said.
I didn't know exactly myself but—notes, endorsee dead!—it had a bad sound. As Iola reached down her lunch box and tied it up, talking uneasily about the man and what he'd wanted, I remembered the gossip in New Jersey when Miss Whitehall started her land scheme. There'd been rumors then that maybe she was backed, and if Hollings Harland had been behind it—My goodness! you couldn't tell what might happen. But I wasn't going to say anything discouraging to Iola, so to change the subject I moved to the door of the private office and looked in.