"Why, y-y-y-yes," stammered Chance, rather taken aback. But then, with a return to his former bravado: "What business have you eavesdropping, anyhow? What business is it of yours, eh?"
The other paid no attention to this outburst.
"You don't like Ned Strong or Herc Taylor?" he said in the same even tone.
"Like them," repeated Chance indignantly, "I should say not, I hate—but what do you want to know for?"
"Because I don't like them either," was the reply. "If you'll meet me at eight o'clock to-night at the old barn, the other side of the stone bridge on the Medford Road, I'll have a proposition of interest to make to you."
"What do you think I am—crazy, as you are?" burst out Chance. "Meet you to talk moonshine? What could you do?"
"Put you in the way of making a lot of money," was the rejoinder.
"Money!" Chance laughed scornfully. "Why, you're nothing but a hobo yourself. If you know where there's so much money, why don't you—— Great Scott!"
Herr Muller had quietly thrust his hand into an inside pocket and withdrawn an immense roll of bills. Chance could see that they were all of big denominations. But he only got a brief look at the roll, for it was almost instantaneously replaced.
"Well," said Herr Muller, with a quiet smile tinged with some contempt, "what do you think of my credentials?"