Harry Cole smoothed his moustache and lighted a cigarette.
“Train just got in,” said the proprietor, apropos of nothing whatever.
“I heard it whistle,” nodded Harry. He flung a match in the cuspidor, brushed off his fancy vest and walked to the doorway, where he stopped.
A man was coming up that side of the street, carrying a small valise, and Cole recognised him as John T. Grant, president of the Lobo Wells Bank, who lived in Randall, about fifty miles south-east of Lobo Wells. Grant was nearing sixty years of age, a kindly appearing man, with snow-white hair and a slight limp.
For years he had been in active charge of the Lobo Wells Bank, but for over six months he had transferred most of the work to Charley Prentice, while he conducted the business of the Randall Bank, owned by the same group of stockholders.
“Good-morning, Mr. Grant,” said Cole pleasantly.
“Oh, good-morning, Mr. Cole.”
The banker switched the valise to his left hand, while he shook hands with the big gambler.
“Yo’re quite a stranger around here,” laughed Cole.
“Yes, indeed.”