“She doesn’t agree to the deal?” Simmons queried sharply.
“Whatever I say is good enough for Lettice,” Gordon replied.
An expression of relief settled over the other. “The papers will be ready this week,” he said. “I have taken all that, and some expense, off you. You will make a nice thing out of it.”
“I will,” Gordon assented heartily. “And that reminds me—I saw an old acquaintance of Pompey Hollidew’s in Greenstream to-day. I don’t know his name; I drove him up in the stage, and Pompey greeted him like a long-lost dollar.”
A veiled, alert curiosity was plain on Simmons’s smooth, pinkish countenance.
“I wonder if you know him too?—a man with a beard, a great hand for maps and cigars.”
“Well?” Valentine Simmons temporized.
“Could he have anything to do with those timber options of the old man’s, with your offer for them?”
“Well?” Simmons repeated. His face was now absolutely blank; he sat turned from his ledgers, facing Gordon, without a tremor.
“It’s no use, Simmons,” Gordon Makimmon admitted; “I was out by the old mill this morning. I saw you both, heard something that was said. That railroad will do a lot for values around here, but mostly for timber.”