“Oh, Zee,” he said when she turned to him, “what was it you asked me to-day about Mrs. Merriam’s loan? I have been so occupied that I don’t quite remember what we decided to do about it.”
There was a senile quaver in his voice; but she knew that he did not speak the truth.
“You said you would withdraw the notes from the bank, and you let me go to explain about it. I brought the papers home and put them away in my desk.”
“Yes, yes; I believe that was it. Yes; to be sure. So you have the notes. Well, you’d better hand them to me,—quite at your convenience.”
“Certainly, father.”
He was satisfied and turned again to his endless computations.
CHAPTER XIX
THE PATOKA FLATS
Jack Balcomb, walking through an alley that ran parallel with Jefferson Street, marked the unmistakable figure of Ezra Dameron ahead of him. This alley was called Ruby Street for no reason that any one knew. It was lined with the rear doors of Jefferson Street shops on one side and those of jobbing houses on the other, and, as it was narrow, its traffic was usually congested. A few saloons were squeezed into corners here and there and in one large room opening directly on the alley a dealer in margins maintained an office.
Balcomb paused a moment to watch Dameron, who dodged in and out among trucks, horses and hurrying pedestrians with quick, eager steps.
“I bet a dollar you’re going for a drink,” Balcomb remarked under his breath; but the old man passed a saloon and went on. He seemed to be in haste, and Balcomb stepped into the middle of the alley and watched him, until he reached the broker’s office, which he entered without looking around.