“Don't know—don't know. Seen some dead-sure things go wrong in my time.”
“What's going to defeat him?” I asked pleasantly.
“I don't say anything,” Mr. Jason replied. “But I've known funny things to happen—never does to be dead sure.”
“Oh, well, we're as sure as it's humanly possible to be,” I declared. The eyes continued to fascinate me, they had a peculiar, disquieting effect. Now they died down, and it was as if the man's very presence had gone out, as though I had been left alone; and I found it exceedingly difficult, under the circumstances, to continue to address him. Suddenly he flared up again.
“Watling send you over here?” he demanded.
“No. As a matter of fact, he's out of town. Some of Mr. Watling's friends, Mr. Grunewald and Mr. Dickinson, Mr. Gorse and others, suggested that I see you, Mr. Jason.”
There came a grunt from the bed.
“Mr. Watling has always valued your friendship and support,” I said.
“What makes him think he ain't going to get it?”
“He hasn't a doubt of it,” I went on diplomatically. “But we felt—and I felt personally, that we ought to be in touch with you, to work along with you, to keep informed how things are going in the city.”