“I’m not going to make out your bill,” he said. “That’s your business. Give me a proper list of the disputed expenses and we’ll see what can be done.”
He was a poor diplomatist and erred in showing too keen a desire to secure a specimen of the other’s handwriting, which is a delicate thing to press an unskilful forger for. Wandle was on his guard, though he carefully hid all sign of uneasiness.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll send you a list over in a day or two; after all, if I think them over, I may be able to knock something off one or two of the items. But now you’re here, I want to say that you were pretty mean about that cultivator. They’re not sold at the price you allowed me.”
This was intended to lead Prescott away from the main point and it succeeded, because, being at a loss for an excuse for demanding the list immediately, he was willing to speak of something else while he thought of one.
“You’re wrong,” he said curtly. “You can get them at any big dealer’s. I looked in at a western store where they stock those machines, yesterday, and the fellow gave me his schedule.”
He had taken off his mittens, but his hands were stiff with cold, and when he felt in his pocket he dropped several of the papers he brought out. The back of a catalogue fell uppermost, and it bore the words, “Hasty’s high-grade implements, Navarino.” Near this lay an envelope printed with the name of a Navarino hotel.
There was nothing to show that Wandle had noticed them—he stood some distance off on the opposite side of the table—but Prescott was too eager in gathering them up. Opening the catalogue, he read out a description of the cultivator and the price.
“Taking the cash discount, it comes to a dollar less than what I was ready to pay you,” he said. “Now make out the list and we’ll try to get the thing fixed up before I go.”
Wandle sat down for a few moments, for he had received a shock. His suspicions had already been aroused, and Prescott’s motive in going to Navarino was obvious; besides, he thought he had read Laxton’s name on the envelope. He could expect no mercy—Prescott’s face was ominously grim—and there was no doubt that, having seen Laxton, he knew who had hidden the brown clothes. The game was up, but, shaken by fear and rage as he was, he rose calmly from his seat.
“Well, since you insist on it, I guess I’ll have to write the thing; but I can’t leave my team standing in the frost. Sit down and take a smoke while I put them in.”