Newmark paused, his potato half-way to his plate.
“Kind of him,” said he after a moment. “Did he sign a contract?”
“It wasn't made out,” Orde reminded him. “I've the memoranda here. We'll make it out to-night. I am to bring it in Monday.”
“I see we're hung up here over Sunday,” observed Newmark. “No Sunday trains to Redding.”
Orde became grave.
“I know it. I tried to hurry matters to catch the six o'clock, but couldn't make it.” His round, jolly face fell sombre, as though a light within had been extinguished. After a moment the light returned. “Can't be helped,” said he philosophically.
They ate hungrily, then drifted out into the office again, where Orde lit a cigar.
“Now, let's see your memoranda,” said Newmark.
He frowned over the three simple items for some time.
“It's got me,” he confessed at last.