Hawthorne, a speculator who was afraid to declare the wealth that he had made through doubtful dealings; Mayo, a magnate who was proud of his possessions.
"Swell," said Mayo pleasantly. "You're a cagey chap, Hawthorne, and I like you in spite of it. Maybe it pays you to be mysterious. Say — by the way — you might like to see this. It ought to fit in your line. A packet of letters that I've been receiving. They're rather mysterious, too." He went across the room and fished in a pigeonhole of a writing desk. He brought our a key and unlocked a drawer. He started to lift a small white parcel that was girded with a rubber band.
Stuart saw him hesitate; then make a hasty examination of the package.
"This isn't it," declared Mayo. "I guess I left the letters back in New York." MAYO
replaced the packet and put the key in the pigeonhole. Stuart threw a sidelong glance toward Hawthorne. He saw a keen look upon the man's face.
Stuart knew what the promoter was thinking. For some reason, Mayo had decided not to show the letters of which he had spoken. His excuse that he had picked the wrong package was a lame one.
"I'll bring them up when I come from New York," declared Mayo pleasantly. "I'm going down to town tomorrow afternoon. Then back the next day."
"Quick work," observed Stuart. "I thought it was a sleeper jump from here to New York."
"No, just a plane hop for Mayo," laughed Hawthorne.
"Yes," said Mayo, "I use my private plane. Landing field right out in back of the house.