“If he was not too far away, or around the corner, or anything like that? I understand.”
Martha was a bit disturbed. “You mustn't put words in my mouth, Mr. Cabot,” she said. “I didn't say Raish Pulcifer was dishonest.”
“No, that is true. And I beg your pardon for asking embarrassing questions. I have seen some of the fellow's letters and usually a letter is a fairly good indication of character—or lack of it. I have had my surmises concerning the ubiquitous Horatio for some time.”
Martha seemed to be thinking.
“I understood you to say he was your agent for somethin' down here, Mr. Cabot,” she said. “Sellin' somethin', was he? That kind of an agent?”
“No. As a matter of fact, he was supposed to be buying something, but he hasn't made much progress. He started out well, but of late he seems to have found trouble. I am rather surprised because we—that is, Williams—pay him a liberal commission. I judge he doesn't hate a dollar and that kind of man usually goes after it hammer and tongs. You see—But there, I presume I should not go into particulars, not yet.”
“No, no, Mr. Cabot. Of course not, of course not.”
“No.” Cabot had been turning over the leaves of the memorandum book while speaking. “And yet,” he went on, “there are one or two names here concerning which you might be able to help us. Pulcifer writes that two of the largest stockholders.... Humph!... Eh? Why, by Jove, this is remarkable! You are Miss Martha Phipps, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
“Was your father, by any chance, James H. Phipps?”