“Yes. Mr. Damon came to me some time ago—the day he landed on the roof in his little plane—and wanted me to consider negotiations. But I sent word by him to these fellows, who were represented by Mr. Blythe, not to bother, for I wasn’t in the market.”
“I didn’t hear Mr. Blythe’s name mentioned,” said Mary, knitting her forehead into a series of wrinkles as she tried to recall all the details of the affair. “But there was some one whose name began with B—let me see—I wrote it down.”
She fumbled in her pocket and brought out a slip of paper on which she had written one word—Blodgett.
“That’s the man, Tom,” she said. “Mr. Blodgett. One of the three who were talking near our table remarked: ‘Never mind. I think Blodgett will fix it.’ Those were the words he used.”
“Hum,” mused Tom. “Blodgett—and he will fix it. Fix what, I wonder?”
“That I can’t say,” answered Mary, for Tom had spoken aloud. “Right after one of the men said that, all three went out. I didn’t know what to do. I kept wishing you had been there. But I made up my mind I’d tell you about it as soon as I could.”
“Yes, Mary. Thanks! I’m glad you did. It’s all a mystery to me.”
“What do you think it means?”
“That would be hard to say. I’ll have to admit I’m a bit worried about it, in view of several things that have happened at the shop lately.”
“Oh, Tom do you think there is any danger?”