He was in bed, reading newspapers, as usual. An empty coffee-cup and a plate were on the littered table.
“Sit down, sit down, Paret,” he said. “What do you hear from the Senator?”
I sat down, and gave him the news of Mr. Watling. He seemed, as usual, distrait, betraying no curiosity as to the object of my call, his lean, brown fingers playing with the newspapers on his lap. Suddenly, he flashed out at me one of those remarks which produced the uncanny conviction that, so far as affairs in the city were concerned, he was omniscient.
“I hear somebody has been getting options on that tract of land beyond the Heights, on the river.”
He had “focussed.”
“How did you hear that?” I asked.
He smiled.
“It's Grierson, ain't it?”
“Yes, it's Grierson,” I said.
“How are you going to get your folks out there?” he demanded.