“Does he live alone? He must be an old man.”
“He’s all bent and shriveled up; he’s got a telegraph boy living with him, he told me. I hate telegraph boys—I met one the other night—an impudent young rascal! I’d like to meet him again. I’d wring the kid’s neck for him.”
“Where did you meet him, James?”
James Barclay eyed his wife suspiciously. He did not care to tell her under what circumstances he met Paul Parton.
“Never you mind, old woman!” he said. “It’s no concern of yours.”
“If you don’t want to tell me, I don’t care to know, James,” she answered, meekly.
“Well, I don’t want to tell you. But about the old man’s coming here, it’s a good idea of yours. I will send off the telegraph boy, for he might be dangerous. Ten to one he’s trying to get the old man to leave him his property. I wish I knew where he is.”
“Haven’t you got any clew?”
“No, he’s hid somewhere. He won’t come out of his hole for fear of meeting me.”
“If you could meet this telegraph boy, you might learn through him where your father is.”