“What did Pawlinson tell you he was after my scalp for? Did he let you that far into his confidence?”
Now, it’s no easy matter to tell a man of Stroth’s type that he’s a thief, and in spite of me I couldn’t word Pawlinson’s revelations into much softer phrase.
He noted my hesitation, but didn’t spare me a whit.
“Come, Grey, out with it exactly! I want it all—and unvarnished!”
“Well,” said I, bracing my voice with a swallow, “those affairs at certain country places along Long Island Sound have long been puzzling us, and——”
I might have spared myself my hesitation, for he didn’t so much as turn a hair.
“Oh, so that was all, eh? Then he said nothing about——” He checked the sentence to another question: “What do you know about Pawlinson, anyway?”
“Precious little,” I answered him, and I let my manner tell as much as it could of my contempt for the fellow. “In fact, I never heard of him till he came into prominence about three years ago at Washington. And that’s about all any one in the service knows. He’s understood to be something of a mystery.”
Stroth grunted.
“I don’t doubt it—I don’t doubt it,” said he, as to himself.