“I’ll bet a bushel of Mexican dollars it has something to do with Lafitte,” hazarded the cowboy. “Of course, I’ll go. Mr. Random,” and he turned to the broker, “I’m sorry you couldn’t meet up with my pard, but I’ll bring him around to your office Wednesday.”
“Just a minute, Mr. McGlory,” and the broker took the cowboy’s hand and drew him to one side. “I don’t like the looks of this thing,” he went on, in a low tone.
“How’s that?” asked McGlory, surprised.
“I don’t know, but I’ve got a presentiment that something’s wrong.”
“There’s something unexpected happened to Pard Matt,” said McGlory, “or he wouldn’t have piked off like this. But his orders are clear enough. I’m to follow him, so it’s me for the country.”
“Perhaps,” and Random wrinkled his brows, “this has something to do with the ‘Pauper’s Dream.’”
McGlory laughed incredulously.
“I can’t see how,” he answered.
“Neither can I, but it’s possible, all the same. We’re to get a good fat commission for placing that property, and I don’t intend to let the commission slip through my fingers.”
“It’s a cinch, Mr. Random, that you’re barking up the wrong tree. This business of Matt’s has more to do with flying machines than with mines, and I’ll bet my moccasins on it.”