He was a short, powerfully made man, roughly dressed, with a low brow and quick, furtive eyes that had a look of suspicion in them.
He had naturally found his way to the tavern bar and proved himself a liberal patron of the establishment. Therefore the landlord—though he did not fancy the looks of his new guest—treated him with politeness.
Somehow the conversation on that particular evening drifted to the probable wealth of city people who made their homes at Cook’s Harbor during the summer. It was afterward remembered that the roughly dressed stranger had introduced the subject in a casual way.
“It’s my opinion,” said Ben Barton, “that Mr. Irving is our richest man.”
“What makes you think so, Ben?” asked the landlord.
“The way he lives partly. He’s got everything that money can buy. Besides, I heard his boy say that his father’s watch cost him five hundred dollars. Now, it stands to reason that a man don’t wear a watch like that unless he’s got the money to back it.”
“There’s something in that,” the landlord admitted.
The stranger seemed interested.
“Does this Irving stay down here himself?” he asked.
“No, he only comes down Saturday to stay over Sunday.”