She's a--Oh, we was talking of Brad, wasn't we? Well, let me
see. Oh, yes, he was 'ere yesterday. And now you're 'ere to-day. It's
marvelous 'ow things do go. Brad asked arfter you."
"I suppose so," said David impatiently. "But, tell me, Joey, what is
his game? What is he in New York for?"
The old clown did not answer at once. He pursed his lips and stared in
a troubled sort of way at the leg of David's chair. Then he began to
fill his pipe. His hand trembled noticeably.
Saving the snowy whiteness of his hair, Grinaldi did not appear to be
an hour older than in the days of Van Slye's. His merry, wrinkled face
was as ruddy, as keen, as healthy as it ever had been. No one would
have called him sixty-five, and yet he was beyond that in years.
"He's 'ere for no good purpose, I'm afraid," said he, at last. "In a
way, I'm kind o' sorry for Brad, David. He'd 'a' been a different sort
o' man if it 'adn't been for Bob Grand. If ever a chap 'ad an evil
genius, Brad 'ad one in that man. I suppose Dick told you Brad's been
up for two or three year, doing time. Not but wot he deserved it, the
way he treated Mary, but it don't seem just right that Bob Grand
should be the one to send 'im up.
Pages:
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400