“Suicide!”
It was the clerk who repeated the word, but he had not time to say more when Claymore rushed breathlessly up.
He had caught the last of Folsom’s remark.
“What’s that you say of suicide?” he demanded, excitedly.
Folsom looked at him, blankly.
“I said,” he answered, slowly, “that my old friend had committed suicide, and I fear it was some hasty, angry words of mine that drove him to it.”
Claymore looked sharply at the speaker.
He remembered him.
That conversation on the street was not easy to forget, though Claymore had taken no part in it.
Evidently, Folsom did not remember that he had ever seen Claymore before.