“Quite, quite!” remarked Bat, understandingly. “Advertising’s a fine thing, but not in all lines of endeavour.”
The other raked over the papers impatiently.
“Here,” said he, “we have an old will, a contract for hauling stone, a marriage certificate, a receipt from the Mexican government for the loan of ten millions of dollars, an estimate for steel rails, and a laundry bill.”
“That’s rather mixing them,” said Bat, framed in cigarette smoke. “But keep at it; better luck next time.”
Returning the papers to the drawer, the drawn man next opened a heavy chest. He threw an armful of documents upon the table, and plunged into them with covetous hands.
“I would say that’s a promising lot, from its general appearance,” commented Scanlon. “Of course,” casually, “I haven’t the least idea what you’re looking for, but here there seems to be a holding to one thing, a kind of a tight, official, important look, as it were.”
The covetous hands became eager; Bat noticed this; he threw down his cigarette; his muscles tightened; the automatic thrilled in his grip.
“So you are short of ideas about what we want,” spoke the other, still searching. “Has it never occurred to you to ask?”
“Once or twice,” replied Scanlon. “But I never got down to it. For instance, I met a friend of yours downstairs a while ago”—here the drawn man coughed, his eyes lifting for an instant—“and I thought of putting the question to him.”
“Why didn’t you?” asked the drawn man, deep in the papers again.