They did not find Jack Harpe at the hotel, nor was he at the Happy
Heart. But in the saloon Luke Tweezy was drinking by himself at one
end of the bar. Perhaps the money-lender would know the whereabouts of
Jack Harpe.
"'Lo, Luke," was Racey's greeting. "Seen Jack Harpe around anywheres?"
Luke Tweezy's thin and sandy eyebrows lifted up in what would pass with almost any one for surprise. "Who?"
"Jack Harpe."
"Dunno him." Indifferently—too indifferently.
"You dunno him—long, slim feller, black hair and eyes, and a hawky kind of nose? Jack Harpe. Shore you know him. Why, I seen—" Racey broke off abruptly.
"Yeah," prompted Luke Tweezy after an interval. "You seen—what?"
"I don't see why you dunno him," parried Racey (it was a weak parry, but the best he could encompass at the moment). "I thought you knowed him. Somebody told me you did. My mistake. No harm done. Have a drink, Luke."
"Who told you I knowed this here now Jack Harpe?" probed Luke Tweezy, when he had smacked his lips over a second drink.
"I don't remember now," evaded Racey Dawson. "What does it matter?"