'Hm!'
'He lives with you, don't he—back of the Parmenter place?'
'Yes.' Humphrey's answer was short. At the moment he was not inclined to make Tim's task easy.
The constable went out. Humphrey watched him from the window. He passed Donovan's on the other side of the street and kept on toward the lake.
Humphrey returned to the wall file, and, standing there, read Sinbad the Treasurer through.
There was an extraordinarily fresh, naive power in the story. Simpson Street was mentioned by name. There was but the one town treasurer, whether you called him 'Sinbad' or Waterhouse.
'He certainly did cut loose,' mused Humphrey. 'Charlie's got a case. Got his nerve, too.'
Then he dropped into his chair and sat, for a long time, very quiet, tapping out little tunes on his hollowed cheek with a pencil.
2
Henry turned away from Donovan's soda fountain, wiping froth from his moustache, and sauntered to the nearer of the two doors. His brows were knit in a slight frown that suggested anxiety. There was earnestness, intensity, in the usually pleasant gray-blue eyes as he peered now up the street, now down.