“This is Daly of whom I spoke to you the other day. I thought better to introduce you to him thus than to come with him myself. You had better tell him everything concerning the case, just as you told me. I think you may trust him.
“W. W. Gaines.”
Tom looked at Daly as he folded Will’s note. I cannot say that he took very much fancy to the man. He was short, rather fat and bow-legged. He had a large, heavy face, with a bluish growth of beard about the lips and chin and cheeks. His head sat close upon his shoulders, and was covered with a mat of close-cropped hair. He had a sly hang-dog look, and anything but a pleasant expression. So Tom, sitting on the edge of the table where he had been reading Will’s note, looked at Daly, and Daly stood returning the look out of the corners of his eyes.
“So you’re John Daly, are you?” said Tom, at last.
“Yes.”
“Mr. Gaines says, in this note, that I may tell you everything.”
“Well, I think you’d better.”
“Sit down.”
“Thank’ee; got a spitpatoon here?”
“There’s one.”