When the clash of arrival had died,
Orde went on:
"I got into your department a little, too."
"How's that?" asked Newmark, spearing a baked potato. "Heinzman
said he'd buy some of our stock. He seems to think we have a pretty
good show."
Newmark paused, his potato half-way to his plate.
"Kind of him," said he after a moment. "Did he sign a contract?"
"It wasn't made out," Orde reminded him. "I've the memoranda here.
We'll make it out to-night. I am to bring it in Monday."
"I see we're hung up here over Sunday," observed Newmark. "No
Sunday trains to Redding."
Orde became grave.
"I know it. I tried to hurry matters to catch the six o'clock, but
couldn't make it." His round, jolly face fell sombre, as though a
light within had been extinguished. After a moment the light
returned. "Can't be helped," said he philosophically.
They ate hungrily, then drifted out into the office again, where
Orde lit a cigar.
"Now, let's see your memoranda," said Newmark.
He frowned over the three simple items for some time.
"It's got me," he confessed at last.
"What?" inquired Orde.
"What Heinzman is up to."
"What do you mean?" asked Orde, turning in his chair with an air of
slow surprise.
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