The head of the trading firm was a long, loose-jointed Yankee who had drifted West in his youth. Since then he had acquired gray hairs and large business interests. At Inspector MacLean's message he grinned.
"Thinks it's bad business, does he?"
"Told me to tell you so," Tom answered.
"Didn't say why, I guess."
"No."
The old New Englander fished from a hip pocket a plug of tobacco, cut off a liberal chew, and stowed this in his cheek. Then, lounging back in the chair, he cocked a shrewd eye at his nephew.
"Wonder what he meant."
Tom volunteered no opinion. He recognized his uncle's canny habit of fishing in other people's minds for confirmation of what was in his own.
"Got any idee what he was drivin' at?" the old pioneer went on.
"Sorta."