"My dear sir," Lewis expostulated. Even his protest was half-hearted,
lacked honest indignation.
Hollister rose.
"I'm going to keep these," he said irritably. "You don't seem to take
much interest in the fact that you have laid yourself open to a charge
of fraud, and that I am going to do something about it if you don't."
"Oh, go ahead," Lewis broke out pettishly. "I don't care what you do."
Hollister stared at him in amazement. The man's eyes met his for a
moment, then shifted to the opposite wall, became fixed there. He sat
half turned in his chair. He seemed to grow intent on something, to
become wrapped in some fog of cogitation, through which Hollister and
his affairs appeared only as inconsequential phantoms.
In the doorway Hollister looked back over his shoulder. The man sat
mute, immobile, staring fixedly at the wall.
Down the street Hollister turned once more to look up at the
gilt-lettered windows. Something had happened to Mr. Lewis. Something
had jolted the specialist in British Columbia timber and paralyzed his
business nerve centers.
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