"Ever been about much down there?" he asked suddenly. Bulger crossed the room and looked down over his shoulder.
"Where?" he asked, "The Street or—"
"Trinity Churchyard."
"Once I sang my little love lays there in the noon hour," answered Bulger. "I was a gallant clerk and hers the fairest fingers that ever caressed a typewriter—" The intent attitude of Norcross, the fact that he neither turned nor smiled, checked Bulger. With the instinct of the courtier, he perceived that the wind lay in another tack. He racked the unused half of his mind for appropriate sentiments.
"Bully old graveyard," he brought out; "lot's of good people buried there."
"Know any of the graves?"
"Only Alexander Hamilton's. Everyone knows that."
"That one—see—that marble shaft—not one of the old ones."
"If you're curious to know," answered Bulger easily, "I'll find out on my way down to-morrow. I suppose if you were to go and look, and the reporters were to see you meditating among the tombs, we'd have a scare head to-morrow and a drop of ten points in the market." Bulger's shift to a slight levity was premeditated; he was taking guard against overplaying his part.
"No, never mind," said Norcross, "it just recalls something." He paused the fraction of a second, and his eye grew dull. "Wonder if they're—anywhere—those people down under the tombstones?"