to sell what I want to buy? I want to buy! Are you a dummy, Rowe, or just a dead one?"
"Money doesn't seem to be much of an object—"
"No object! My God, Rowe, now I know you're a dead one! You're no good; come on home. I'll go up and close the thing myself—no, stay there! I'll be up tomorrow—tomorrow—hear that?"
Phil Rowe emerged from the telephone booth in the Commercial House with the pallor of his face accentuated. To buy this pine had been to him the entry into his own, but Luke Taylor would not give him time. To have the old man close the deal himself would rob Rowe of his coveted glory. And so much depended on that! The drawing of the new will—his future—Marcia Murray—
He stood on the hotel steps. Helen's car was across the way and while he eyed it surlily the girl herself crossed the street. She moved slowly and her face beneath the hat of brown straw was dark and troubled. She disappeared through the door of the bank. Rowe remained there some time. For the days he had put in at Pancake, for his scheming, his duplicity, he had nothing* to show but the troubled look on that girl's face. He was in doubt, with desperation mounting quickly. Oh, for another fortnight, a week—a few days! But he could delay no longer. He started along the wooden sidewalk.
Jim Harris sat beside Wilcox the cashier and as Helen entered they stopped their talk and looked at the girl and then at one another. The sheriff was writing a check. Sim Burns lounged in a chair. Wes Hubbard scanned a calendar in obvious effort to appear unconscious of Helen's presence, and a farmer from down river watched her curiously.
