“You’re Shea, eh? Come on into the office, will you? Excuse me, professor.”
Shea followed his enemy host into the house, and into a small room which served Mackintavers as office and study. Sandy dropped into a chair, motioned Shea to another, and set out a box of cigars.
This greeting left Thady Shea entirely at sea. Mackintavers did not seem to be infuriated; he seemed to understand perfectly all about the check. He seemed alert, precise, cold-blooded, as though this were some ordinary business deal.
“So you’re Shea!” he repeated. “Aiblins, now—ye look it. Friend o’ Mrs. Crump, eh?”
“I am.” Thady Shea began to feel sorry that he had come inside.
“How come you’re turning back that money? The old lady feelin’ her conscience?”
“I told you, sir, that there had been an error. When the mistake was brought to my attention, I posted straightway hither, seeking you; the money was not mine to store away; reparation was incumbent on me.”
“What the hell!” muttered Sandy, with a touch of wonder.
Mackintavers knew men. He could read men at a glance, but Thady Shea was slightly beyond his visual acuity. None the less, he came fairly close to the mark in that he adjudged Shea to be of a simple and wonderful honesty, a man of fundamental virtue. Sandy took for granted that Thady Shea was mentally unbalanced; a theory which would explain this amazing refund, and also the wild stories which were current about the man.
“I hear you own that claim Mrs. Crump is workin’, Shea.”