The old man’s face, bent to his work, was gray and haggard. He looked up, meeting the boy’s eye.
“It ’s a terrible thing!” he said as if answering the look. “I can’t get it out of my mind.” His hand shook a little reaching for the paper. “I’d give the year’s profits—” he said slowly.
“Have to,” said the boy quietly.
The shrewd business look flashed back to the man’s face. “You can’t tell,” he said brusquely. “We shall settle ’em out of court—all we can.”
“Won’t it cost more?”
“A little, maybe. Some we ’ll pay a little more, perhaps, than the court would allow. But it ’s cheaper—in the end. The public won’t get scared. It’s bad having things gone over and raked up for folks to read. Let ’em sleep. We ’re ready and willing to pay costs—Keep the thing quiet. It’s only the fakes that bother—” He gave a little sigh.
The boy was staring at the letter in his hand. He put it down and crossed to Simeon’s desk, taking oat the handful of notes he had made the night of the wreck. He ran them through his fingers and replaced them, smiling a little. “What’s tha?” asked Simeon.
“I wanted to see if I made a note. I don’t think I did, but I can remember.” He went over and picked up the letter again. “It ’s this man Spaulding.”
A light shot to Simeon’s face.
“I think I saw him there.”