"I knew he wasn't on the level and didn't mean any good by her."
"Course, it's none of my business, Milt, but I never like to see a square girl get taken in. Miss Foraker don't like me, thinks I don't like her, but maybe she'll wake up and find out who her friends are—some day."
He sighed in satisfaction and half closed his eyes and scarcely heard Goddard's heavy threats, made against Taylor.
All last night Harris had lain awake, trying to determine just what had struck his plan yesterday to knock it into a cocked hat. Humphrey Bryant had been the agency, yes, but there was something else, he felt, something beneath the surface.
His day had been replete with serious conversations. First had been one with Rowe in which names and figures and details were discussed. Then he had summoned the boy Lucius and talked gravely to him—so gravely and earnestly that the lad's eyes bulged and when he left Jim's room he walked with the bearing of one who is excited by great responsibility. And then he talked with Henry Wales, his good nature giving way to hardness; Sim Burns came to see him and they were locked up for an hour.
These conferences were followed by a gossipy journey up and down the street ending in the poolroom where the proprietor laughed with him over Black Joe's Bunion story; but in the midst of the laugh Harris sobered and smoked a moment and asked questions—about Black Joe's coming, about young Taylor; and when he learned that they had asked about his cigars and his habits the other man said:
