“I know the place Mr. Evans bought,” said Ezra when he’d finished. “Used to belong to old Job Turner who died last year. They say there’s secret rooms, underground passages and all manner of queer things about that house. I expect it’s all lies—but no telling. Mr. Evans can’t be up against that Hiemskirk gang. The government cleaned them up good and plenty.”
“Well, he’s up against somebody equally unpleasant. I’ve had a taste of them already. Are you really game for the job?”
“I sure am. What do you want me to do first?”
“Take this.”
Ezra took the money, albeit reluctantly. “What’s all this for?” he asked, counting the bills.
“Oil, gas, your time on the bus and two weeks’ salary.”
“Don’t you think it’s dangerous, carrying a roll that would choke a horse?”
“I’m not in the habit of it,” laughed Bill. “It was a birthday present from my father. Don’t worry, Mr. Evans will reimburse me.”
“But maybe,” suggested Ezra doubtfully, “he may not be strong on the deal.”
“He asked for my help,” returned Bill, “and this is part of it. You’ve got a car of some sort about the place, I suppose?”