THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
old records. I know a little about law. I was in this office for about eight years. Whatever Bordman sold is beyond legal reach. You cannot come against the buyers. You can only follow him and make him disgorge. He was a queer little old man, with a raggedy gray mustache, partly bald, and magnifying lenses in his spectacles. But he always impressed me as being the honestest thing imaginable. He used to worry over postage stamps that didn't belong to him."
"Stock markets?"
"Impossible."
"Well, there's my house. But go on; give me a good picture of him."
Miss Corrigan stared out of the window again, her eyes half-closed the better to recall her impressions.
"He was frugal. I don't believe he'd been to a place of amusement in years. He had only one fad as I remember. He was always receiving folders and cabin plans from steamship companies. He was always peering over that globe there. In imagination he traveled everywhere. You will find all the queer places—the places he thought you'd go to—marked in red ink. When he
46
