“Is anything the matter with you, Mr. Gibbon? Are you as well as usual?” asked Mr. Jennings one morning. The little man was always considerate, and he had noticed the flurried and nervous manner of his bookkeeper.
“No, sir; what makes you ask?” said Gibbon, apologetically.
“Perhaps you need a vacation,” suggested Mr. Jennings.
“Oh, no, I think not. Besides, I couldn’t be spared.”
“I would keep the books myself for a week to favor you.”
“You are very kind, but I won’t trouble you just yet. A little later on, if I feel more uncomfortable, I will avail myself of your kindness.”
“Do so. I know that bookkeeping is a strain upon the mind, more so than physical labor.”
There were special reasons why Mr. Gibbon did not dare to accept the vacation tendered him by his employer. He knew that Phil Stark would be furious, for it would interfere with his designs. He could not afford to offend this man, who held in his possession a secret affecting his reputation and good name.
The presence of a stranger in a small town always attracts public attention, and many were curious about the rakish-looking man who had now for some time occupied a room at the hotel.
Among others, Carl had several times seen him walking with Leonard Craig