The stranger smiled. "I'm a store clerk by profession. Out of a job at present. Name's T. Graham Watkins. Now you know me."
He turned to Miss Oliver with a bow, but she made no comment, and he glanced toward the boys.
"We've got to have a talk," he added, addressing Mr. Oliver. "I'm not sure you'd want these young men or your sister to hear."
"You can tell it here," said Mr. Oliver dryly. "I can make a guess at your business, and if I'm right I've no objections to the others staying where they are."
"Then it's just this. The folks I represent aren't pleased with you. They've a notion that you've been bucking against them for the last few months and trying to find out things they'd rather keep dark."
"I presume you're referring to the dope runners. Why didn't they come themselves?"
"That's easily answered," said Mr. Watkins. "I understand you haven't seen one of them yet, and they don't want to give you an opportunity of doing so."
Harry grinned at Frank across the table unnoticed by the speaker.
"In my case it doesn't matter," the latter added. "I've merely called to give you a message."
"Aren't you rather hanging fire with it?" Mr. Oliver asked.