“Edgar Hereford Dayton, Agent.”
“Humph! That’s a good bit English, don’t you know,” he said to himself, while he scrutinized the name. “I guess ’e come from Staffordshire, all right. I’ll have a look at him.”
Trying the door, Chick found that it yielded, and he stepped into the small but well-equipped office. There was a wardrobe closet, a roll-top desk, and on a table lay a pile of illustrated business catalogues.
A man seated at the desk turned deliberately in his swivel chair and gazed at his visitor through a pair of gold-bowed glasses. He was a man of medium build, clad in a rather striking plaid suit.
He appeared to be about forty years old, a man with brown hair and a carefully trimmed beard, eyebrows that curved upward at the outer ends, a quite florid complexion, and eyes that had a keen and searching expression.
“Good morning,” said Chick, after closing the door. “You are Mr. Dayton?”
“Yaas, surely,” was the reply, with a rather affected drawl. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Carter,” said Chick. “I have been talking with Mr. Beckwith, the cashier over in Gordon’s office. He[Pg 17]——”
“Oh, yaas!” Dayton cut in, with more manifest interest. “He was telling me about a bad mess over there, deucedly bad, I judge. I say, you’re not an inspector, are you?”
Chick smiled and took the chair to which Dayton politely waved him.