"Cash or checks?" I puts in.
"If the bank takes the checks, why should I worry?" asks Anton.
"Oh, the first one might be all right," says I, "and the second; but—well, you know your own business, I expect."
Anton gazes at me stupid for a minute, then turns to his desk and fishes out a bunch of returned checks. He goes through 'em rapid until he has run across the one he's lookin' for.
"Maybe I do," says he, wavin' it under my nose triumphant.
Which gives me the glimpse I'd been jockeyin' for. The name of that bank was enough. From then on I was mighty interested in this Mortimer J. Stukey; and while I didn't exactly use the pressure pump on Anton, I may have asked a few leadin' questions. Who was Stukey, where did he come from, and what was his idea—hirin' halls and so on? While Anton could recognize a dollar a long way off, he wasn't such a keen observer of folks.
"I don't worry whether he's a Wilson man or not," says Anton, "or which movie star he likes best after Mary Pickford. If I did I should ask Anna."
"Eh?" says I, sort of eager.
"He tells her a lot he don't tell me," says Anton.
"That's reasonable, too," says I. "Ask Anna. Say, that ain't a bad hunch. Much obliged."