"What woodpile?" she asked.
"I'll tell you more about it to-night," he said bluntly. "I'm going to
pry something loose this afternoon or know the reason why."
"Is something the matter about the mine?" she persisted.
"No," he answered grimly. "There's nothing the matter with the mine.
It's the mining company."
And that was all he vouchsafed. He finished his luncheon and left the
house. He was scarcely out of sight when Jimmie Brooks' runabout drew
up at the curb. A half minute later he was ushered into the
living-room.
"Bill in?" was his first query.
"No, he left just a few minutes ago," Hazel told him.
Mr. Brooks, a short, heavy-set, neatly dressed gentleman, whose rather
weak blue eyes loomed preternaturally large and protuberant behind
pince-nez that straddled an insignificant snub nose, took off his
glasses and twiddled them in his white, well-kept fingers.
"Ah, too bad!" he murmured. "Thought I'd catch him.
"By the way," he continued, after a pause, "you--ah--well, frankly, I
have reason to believe that you have a good deal of influence with your
husband in business matters, Mrs. Wagstaff. Kitty says so, and she
don't make mistakes very often in sizing up a situation.
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