Wilson lit his cigar.
“You have completed that latest––production on which you were engaged, I suppose?”
The writer scratched a match.
“This afternoon.”
“And sent it on?”
A nod. “Yes, on to the furnace room.”
A smile which approached a grin formed over Bob’s big face.
“You have hope of its acceptance, I trust?” 66
Calmar Bye blew a cloud of smoke far toward the ceiling, and the smile, a shade grim, was reflected.
“More than hope,” laconically. “I have certainty at last.”