“You just tell him I was across the bay in Mill Valley last night, and that I want to put him wise to something.”
“What name?” was the query.
“Never mind the name. He don't know me.”
When Dave was shown into the private office, he was still in the belligerent frame of mind, but when he saw a large fair man whirl in a revolving chair from dictating to a stenographer to face him, Dave's demeanor abruptly changed. He did not know why it changed, and he was secretly angry with himself.
“You are Mr. Ward?” Dave asked with a fatuousness that still further irritated him. He had never intended it at all.
“Yes,” came the answer.
“And who are you?”
“Harry Bancroft,” Dave lied. “You don't know me, and my name don't matter.”
“You sent in word that you were in Mill Valley last night?”
“You live there, don't you?” Dave countered, looking suspiciously at the stenographer.