“You have been in New York recently?”
“Yes; I was there quite a while.”
“And you used to see Edward?”
“’Most every day, ma’am.”
“How was he employed?”
This was not a question to which Mr. Floyd had prepared an answer. He looked to Mr. Trimble as if for a suggestion, and the latter nodded impatiently, and shaped his mouth to mean “anything.”
“He was tendin’ a pool room, ma’am,” said Floyd, with what he thought a lucky inspiration. “He was tendin’ a pool room on Sixth Avenue.”
“He must indeed have changed to accept such employment. I hope he didn’t drink?”
“Not often, ma’am; just a glass of sarsaparilla or lemon soda. Them are my favorites.”
Abner Trimble turned aside to conceal a smile. He remembered Mr. Floyd’s objecting to the innocent beverages mentioned, and his decided preference for whisky.