A silence followed. Henry stood, flushed, breathing hard through set teeth, staring out at the horizon.
'I'm going to tell you something, Calverly. And it's because I feel that you and I are going to be friends. I've known about you, of course. I know you can write. You'd do a lot to make a paper readable. Which is what a paper has got to be. But now I can see that we're going to be friends. You've confided in me. I'm going to confide in you.' He paused, blew out a long, meditative arrow of smoke, then added, 'I know a little about that story you wrote.'
'You do!' McGibbon slowly nodded. 'But how?'
'You must remember, Calverly, that I'm not like these small-town folks around here. I've worked at this game in New York, and I know a thing or two.'
'I've been in New York,' said Henry.
'Great town! But I don't spend my time here in daydreams. I have my lines out all over town. There's mighty little going on that I don't know.'
'You seem to know a lot about Charlie Waterhouse.'
McGibbon smiled like a sphinx, then said:—
'I've nearly got him. Not quite, but nearly.'
'But I don't see how you could know about——'