“No. It got too slow for me there. I found something bigger to do.”
Mame Pennold, who had been hovering in the background, came forward now and faced him across the table, her shrewd eyes fastened upon him.
“Must have easy hours, when you can get off in the morning like this?” she observed. “Didn’t forget your old friends, did you?”
“No, of course not. I hadn’t anything more important to do this morning, so I thought I’d drop in and see you both.”
His hand traveled to his breast pocket, and at the gesture, Mame’s gaunt body stiffened suddenly.
“Didn’t come to inquire about our health, did you?” she shot at him, acrimoniously.
“I came to see you about another matter––”
“Not on the trail of old Jimmy Brunell still, on that business of the bonds found at the bank?” Walter’s voice was suddenly shrill with simulated mirth. “Nothin’ in that for you, Al; not a nickel, if that’s what you’re here for.”
“I’m not on Brunell’s trail. I’ve found him,” Morrow returned quietly; and in the tense pause which ensued he added dryly: “You led me to him.”
“So that’s what it was, a plant!” Walter started from his chair, but Mame laid a trembling, sinewy hand upon his shoulder and forced him back.