He was amused by her readiness to defend Wayne, who was just then chaffing Wingfield about something for Mrs. Craighill’s edification, wholly unconscious that he was being discussed.
“They always do,” said Walsh.
He turned round in his chair so that he looked directly into the girl’s face. There was no insolence in his gaze; it was merely his direct, blunt way of looking at anything he wanted to see. His eyes were not satisfied with surface observations; they bored in like gimlets. Jean met his scrutiny for a moment and turned away; but Walsh’s eyes dwelt still on her head, then he glanced toward Wayne, then back to Jean again. He seemed satisfied with this inspection and asked her how she was getting on with her studies. When she had answered, his “Um” was so colourless that she smiled; his mind had been on something else all the while.
“Your grandfather had never talked to Wayne about the Sand Creek affair, I suppose?”
“Yes,” she replied with reluctance; but on second thought she answered him fully. In spite of Walsh’s gruffness and his grim countenance, people trusted him. His sources of information were many because he never betrayed a confidence. His mind was a card catalogue. If an obscure corner grocer at Johnstown mortgaged his home to buy an automobile, Walsh knew it first. The office systems that Roger Craighill delighted in installing had always annoyed Walsh. Now that he was managing his own business his office was conducted with the severest simplicity. He checked his own trial balances; he would, without warning, throw up a window and demand of a startled drayman the destination of a certain crate or cask, to which he pointed with a sturdy, accusing forefinger.
It was not for Jean Morley to withhold information from Tom Walsh; it seemed the most natural thing in the world to be imparting it.
“These people have no idea that I am related to Grandfather Gregory. Mr. Wayne Craighill has no idea of it; Mrs. Blair doesn’t know it—she knows me only officially, you might say; she’s on a committee of the Institute that looks out for young women students who have no homes here. It’s strange that I should have fallen in their way; and now I’m here in Colonel Craighill’s house! It wouldn’t do for grandfather to know that—it would make him angry. But grandfather talked to Mr. Wayne about the Sand Creek Company matter just a few days ago. Colonel Craighill wouldn’t see grandfather; he sent word to him that he could do nothing and that he’d better see a lawyer. Mr. Wayne met grandfather leaving the building and took him back to his own office. He was very friendly and offered to help arrange a settlement; but grandfather refused. He’s very indignant at Colonel Craighill and says he’s going to make him settle. It’s because he’s known him a long time—many, many years, I suppose—that he’s so bitter. He says it isn’t the money now—it’s the injustice of it.”
The girl had spoken eagerly and she paused now and turned to see if the others were observing them. She concluded in a lower tone:
“I don’t know about it; it may not be a just claim. I sometimes think grandfather isn’t sane on the subject; he acts queerly and keeps coming to town to see Colonel Craighill. I went with him to see you in the hope that you might tell him to quit bothering about it. He didn’t understand that, having been with Colonel Craighill so long, you wouldn’t want to discuss his affairs, now that you have left him. And you couldn’t do anything about the claim—of course.”
“Um! I couldn’t do anything for your grandfather; that would be bad faith to the Colonel; but—Um!—I might do it for you. That would be different!”