“No. I’m sending a message for somebody else, the new man that came in yesterday. I s’pose everybody in town knows—”
“Say, wot was it about? Bill was kinda suspicious las’ night.”
“Bill’s always suspicious,” laughed Tom. “Read it yourself.” Tom pulled the mussed paper from his pocket. “The man’s on some paper. Abner said that he wouldn’t let anybody carry his typewriter but himself yesterday.”
“That so?” The man scanned the paper. “Lemme show this to Bill?”
“I don’t know whether I ought to give it to you or not. There’s nothing private in it, I suppose, but he paid me to bring it and I was to ask whether there was any message for him. Suppose he asks me about this?”
“Was they any message fer him?”
“No.”
“Well, I don’t want it anyhow. I kin remember if Bill asts me.”
But Bill was not quite satisfied with the report of his henchman. He decided to see himself what the “young chap was up to,” as he had done in the case of the Secrests. Evan Tudor was quite pleased with himself that he was running his typewriter at top speed, under the trees in his chosen retreat, when a rough man appeared before him with a “Hello.”
“Good morning sir.” Evan looked up from his improvised seat on a boulder. “Too fine a morning to waste this way, isn’t it?’”