want it to be so—but it’s a kind thing to do for a burnt out old man, and I’d like you to know that I appreciate it, my boy.”
“Nonsense!” declared Val sternly. “One must put out one’s money at interest—it must be earning something for you, eh? And why not here? So we’ll call it settled, then. You attend to the financial details of it and let me know how much money will be needed.”
Peters nodded and his thin, withered little body shook visibly. After many years he was to be independent at last—he was to be the owner of his own bookshop. It was something to have lived for. And this shop—he sobered in an instant, suddenly, as the thought of poor old Mat Masterson came back to him—he had almost forgotten. He was rejoicing over his own good fortune while his late employer and friend lay cold in the back room—unknowing in the midst of his own store, the work of his hands and his brains. He⸺”
The voice of Val recalled Peters to himself. Val was leaning close to him—the others were in the rear room, Val spoke quietly, softly, into his ear.
“About that—er—lady that was here last night—ah—you understand, don’t you, that—er⸺”
“Yes, perfectly, Mr. Morley,” answered the old man. “To tell the truth I scarcely noticed the young female person—er—not enough, to be sure, to give a coherent description of her. Impossible to do so, I might say.”
“Of course. Thank you, Peters—as the proprietor of a bookshop, you are a model of discretion.” Val clapped him on the shoulder and arose as the coroner and his party came out of the rear room.
