Why should he
make any explanation to his assistant? Was it not the fact that he had
trusted the young man too far already?
Queed brought his article and laid it on West's desk, his face very
thoughtful now. "If there is any information I can give you about the
subject, I'll wait."
West hardly repressed a smile. "Thank you, I think I understand the
situation pretty well."
Still Queed lingered and hesitated, most unlike himself. Presently he
strolled over to the window and looked down unseeingly into the lamp-lit
wetness of Centre Street. In fact, he was the poorest actor in the
world, and never pretended anything, actively or passively, without
being unhappy.
"It's raining like the mischief," he offered uncomfortably.
"Cats and dogs," said West, his fingers twiddling with Queed's copy.
"By the way," said Queed, turning with a poorly done air of casualness,
"what is commonly supposed to have become of Henry G. Surface? Do people
generally believe that he is dead?"
"Bless your heart, no!" said West, looking up in some surprise at the
question. "That kind never die.
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