“Better drop in on him.”
“He might try to give me another yellow-back,” smiled the ex-agent.
“Don’t take Uncle Van for a fool. Once is plenty for him to be hit on the nose.”
“Has he still got a green whisker?”
“Go and see. He’s asked about you two or three times in the last coupla months.”
“But I’ve no errand with him.”
“How can you tell? He might start something for you. It isn’t often that he keeps a man in mind like he has you. Anyway, he’s a wise old bird and may hand you a pointer or two about what’s what in New York. Shall I phone him you’re in town?”
“Yes. I’ll get in to see him some time to-morrow.”
Having made an appointment, in the vital matter of shirts and shoes, for the morning, they parted. Banneker set to his browsing in the library until hunger drove him forth. After dinner he returned to his room, cumbered with the accumulation of evening papers, for study.
Beyond the thin partition he could hear Miss Westlake moving about and humming happily to herself. The sound struck dismay to his soul. The prospect of work from him was doubtless the insecure foundation of that cheerfulness. “Soon” he had said; the implication was that the matter was pressing. Probably she was counting on it for the morrow. Well, he must furnish something, anything, to feed the maw of her hungry typewriter; to fulfill that wistful hope which had sprung in her eyes when he spoke to her.