"There really doesn't seem any other way," said Harvey D. at the table, putting a disordered pile of magazines into neat alignment.
"What about pedigree?" demanded Sharon. "Any one traced him back?"
"I believe his father is here," said Harvey D.
"I know him," said Sharon. "A mad, swearing, confident fellow, reckless, vagrant-like. A printer by trade. Looks healthy enough. Don't seem blemished. But what about his father?"
"Is the boy's mother known?" asked Harvey D.
"Easy to find out," said Gideon. "Ask Sarah Marwick," and he went to the wall and pushed a button. "Sarah knows the history of every one, scandalous and otherwise."
Sarah Marwick came presently to the door, an austere spinster in black gown and white apron. Her nose, though not Whipple in any degree, was still eminent in a way of its own, and her lips shut beneath it in a straight line. She waited.
"Sarah," said Gideon, "do you know a person named Cowan? David Cowan, I believe it is."
Sarah's mien of professional reserve melted.
"Do I know Dave Cowan?" she challenged. "Do I know him? I'd know his hide in a tanyard."