The fact that the man was a
scoundrel might, in some circumstances, have afforded Armitage comfort,
but here again Armitage's mood grew dark. Jules Chauvenet was undoubtedly
a rascal of a shrewd and dangerous type; but who, pray, was John
Armitage?
The bell in his entry rang, and he flashed on the lights and opened the
door.
"Well, I like this! Setting yourself up here in gloomy splendor and never
saying a word. You never deserved to have any friends, John Armitage!"
"Jim Sanderson, come in!" Armitage grasped the hands of a red-bearded
giant of forty, the possessor of alert brown eyes and a big voice.
"It's my rural habit of reading the register every night in search of
constituents that brings me here. They said they guessed you were in, so
I just came up to see whether you were opening a poker game or had come
to sneak a claim past the watch-dog of the treasury."
The caller threw himself into a chair and rolled a fat, unlighted cigar
about in his mouth. "You're a peach, all right, and as offensively hale
and handsome as ever. When are you going to the ranch?"
"Well, not just immediately; I want to sample the flesh-pots for a day or
two.
Pages:
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114