“I’m not answering questions this evening, and I’m not giving addresses, though there are no witnesses to take them down. If he’s hidden away, he’s where he won’t be disturbed,” was T. Tembarom’s rejoinder. “You may lay your bottom dollar on that.”
Palliser walked toward the door without speaking. He had almost reached it when he whirled about involuntarily, arrested by a shout of laughter.
“Say,” announced Tembarom, “you mayn’t know it, but this lay-out would make a first-rate turn in a vaudeville. You think I’m lying, I look like I’m lying, I guess every word I say sounds like I’m lying. To a fellow like you, I guess it couldn’t help sound that way. And I’m not lying. That’s where the joke comes in. I’m not lying. I’ve not told you all I know because it’s none of your business and wouldn’t help; but what I have told you is the stone-cold truth.”
He was keeping it up to the very end with a desperate determination not to let go his hold of his pose until he had made his private shrewd deal, whatsoever it was. At least, so it struck Palliser, who merely said:
“I’m leaving the house by the first train to-morrow morning.” He fixed a cold gray eye on the fool’s grin.
“Six forty-five,” said T. Tembarom. “I’ll order the carriage. I might go up myself.”
The door closed.
TEMBAROM was looking cheerful enough when he went into his bedroom. He had become used to its size and had learned to feel that it was a good sort of place. It had the hall bedroom at Mrs. Bowse’s boarding-house “beaten to a frazzle.” There was about everything in it that any man could hatch up an idea he’d like to have. He had slept luxuriously on the splendid carved bed through long nights, he had lain awake and thought out things on it, he had lain and watched the fire-light flickering on the ceiling, as he thought about Ann and made plans, and “fixed up” the Harlem flat which could be run on fifteen per. He had picked out the pieces of furniture from the Sunday “Earth” advertisement sheet, and had set them in their places. He always saw the six-dollar mahogany-stained table set for supper, with Ann at one end and himself at the other. He had grown actually fond of the old room because of the silence and comfort of it, which tended to give reality to his dreams. Pearson, who had ceased to look anxious, and who had acquired fresh accomplishments in the form of an entirely new set of duties, was waiting, and handed him a telegram.
“This just arrived, sir,” he explained. “James brought it here because he thought you had come up, and I didn’t send it down because I heard you on the stairs.”
“That’s right. Thank you, Pearson,” his master said.