“I believe there was a young lady with him,” Clifford replied discreetly—wondering a little what young Morton’s business, if any, could be with the pair that had left.
Morton hesitated; then again was effervescent. “Was to have met him here—but there’s no tellin’ where he is. Come on—let’s have a drink.”
“But you are on the wagon.”
“I am. But I want to give you the grand sight of watchin’ me fall off.”
“You sit tight right where you are,” advised Clifford.
“Now, come on, don’t block traffic with a funeral,” pleaded the young fellow, slipping an arm through Clifford’s. “Just one drink!” Clifford shock his head; and Morton tried to draw him into the restaurant. “Just one little drink, Clifford,—one little drink after a Sahara of milk!”
“Mr. Morton!” a deep, brusque voice called from behind them.
They turned. A man, square of shoulders and deep of chest and with square, forceful face, was advancing toward them.
“Hello, Clifford,” he said.
“Hello, Bradley,” Clifford returned, trying to speak calmly—and for the briefest space these old enemies, who had so often been at grips, stared at each other, with hard, masked gazes.