“And he wasn't married, or—” Beveridge paused.
“Not Henry. No, he was a woman-hater, pretty nearly.”
“Was he pessimistic—kind of down on things? Did he have any particular object in living—anything to work for specially?”
“He was pessimistic, all right. Didn't believe in much of anything. I—I know what you're thinking, Mr. Beveridge, but I—I can't hardly think it's possible. I don't know, though, I guess his schooner was about the only thing he cared for, except maybe Dick here.”
“Oh, fond of his cousin, was he?”
“Yes, I think you could say he was that.”
“Had you dropped him any hint of what I told you?”
“Well, now you speak of it, I don't know but what maybe I did let him see that I was a little worried about Dick.”
Beveridge nodded. “I can't wait any longer. Come, Bert. You, I suppose,” turning to Dick and Pink, “will come along without any trouble?”
“Certainly,” said Dick.