“She ain’t marryin’ him. She’s done it.”
“Where is he?”
“He jest stepped out. Gone to the mill to fix up sunthin’ before leavin’.”
The taller man said to his companion: “Run down to the mill, will you?” And, as the other turned and walked rapidly away in the rain:
“I’ve got a warrant for Eddie Graydon when he comes back. That’s one of his names. Eddie Carter is the right one. Sorry for you, Mr. Odell; sorrier for your daughter.”
Odell stared at him, the purple veins beginning to swell on his temples.
“D-dang it!” he stammered,—“what’s all this dinged junk about? Who be you?”
And, when the tall, quiet man had terribly convinced him, Odell staggered, slightly, and wiped the sweat from his temples.
“That lad has a record,” said the detective, in his low, agreeable voice. “He’s a fine artist and a crackerjack chemist. Maybe he don’t know anything about the new tens and twenties. Maybe. Nor anything about the location of the plates.... My God, Mr. Odell, we’ve got to get those plates. Only Brockway could have equalled that engraving. Yes, sir—only the old man.”
Odell scarcely heard him for the thunderous confusion in his brain.