Another suspicion, allied to this one, came and darkened the frown in his eyes. Was it possible that Winifred Waverly had written it, acting at Pollard's command? that she was but doing the sort of thing he should look to one of Pollard's blood to do?
Comstock, saying nothing further, now seemed entirely engrossed in his cigar. Thornton, the note in his fingers, hesitated. A third time he read the pencilled words. Then he folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.
"If a man wants to know anything real bad," he said at last, "it's up to him to go and find out, huh, Billy Comstock?"
Comstock, turning his cigar thoughtfully, answered:
"That's right, Buck."
Thornton glanced at his little alarm clock. It was not yet half past eight.
"I've got to be in the Corners by twelve o'clock," he said as he went back to his chair. "I'll ride Comet, though, and can make it handily in two hours. Now, what's the line of talk?"
Comstock's look trailed back to his cigar.
"I'm after a man," he volunteered.
"That's a safe bet. What man?"