“Do you really mean that?” he queried at last, significantly.
“I’ve warned Maurice,”––sententiously. “I can do no more.”
“And he?” quickly.
“Thanked me.”
“That was all?”
“That was all.”
The two friends looked at each other, steadily; yet, though they said no more, each 226 knew the thought of the other, each knew that in future no move of Asa Arnold’s would pass unnoticed, unchallenged.
Again, weeks, a month, passed without incident. It was well along in the fall and of an early evening that a vague rumor of the unusual passed swiftly, by word of mouth, throughout the tiny town. Only a rumor it was, but sufficient to set every man within hearing in motion.
On this night Hans Becher had eaten his supper and returned to the hotel office, as was his wont, for an evening smoke, when, without apparent reason, Bud Evans and Jim Donovan, the blacksmith, came quietly in and sat down.
“Evening,” they nodded, and looked about them.