Walking lightly across the lobby, he stopped just behind Pillows, and then said, with startling sharpness, “Where’s Ovid Nixon?”

The agility with which Mr. Pillows leaped into the air and descended, facing Scattergood, did some little to raise him in the estimation of Coldriver’s first citizen.  Nor did he pause to study Scattergood.  One might have said that he lit in mid-career, at the top of his speed, and was out of the door before Scattergood could extend a pudgy hand to snatch at him.  Scattergood grinned.

“Figgered he’d be a mite skittish,” he said to the girl behind the cigar counter.

“I thought something sneaking was going on,” said the young woman, as if to herself.

Scattergood gave her his attention.  She had red hair, and his respect for red hair was a notable characteristic.  There was a freckle or two on her nose, her eyes were steady, and her mouth was firm—­but she was pretty.  Scattergood continued to regard her in silence, and she, not disconcerted, studied him.

“You and me is goin’ to eat dinner together this noon,” he said, presently.

“Business or pleasure?” Her rejoinder was tart.

“Why?”

“If it’s business, we eat.  If it’s pleasure, you’ve stopped at the wrong cigar counter.”

“I knowed I was goin’ to take to you,” said Scattergood.  “You got capable hair....  This here was to be business.”

“Twelve o’clock sharp, then,” she said.

He looked at the clock.  It lacked half an hour of noon.

“G’-by,” he said, and went to a distant corner, where he seated himself and stared out of the window, trying to imagine what he would do if he were Ovid Nixon, and what would make him appropriate three thousand dollars....  At twelve o’clock he lumbered over to the cigar case.  “C’m on,” he said.  “Hain’t got no time to waste.”

The girl put on her hat and they walked out together.

“What’s your name?” Scattergood asked.

“Pansy O’Toole....  You’re Scattergood Baines—­that’s why I’m here....  I don’t eat with every man that oozes out of the woods.”

Scattergood said nothing.  It was a fixed principle of his to let other folks do the talking if they would.  If not he talked himself—­deviously.  Seldom did he ask a direct question regarding any matter of importance, and so strong was habit that it was rare for him to put any query directly.  If he wanted to know what time it was he would lead up to the subject by mentioning sun dials, or calendars, or lunar eclipses, and so approach circuitously and by degrees, until his victim was led to exhibit his watch.  Pansy did not talk.

“See lots of folks, standin’ back of that counter like you do?” he began.

“Lots.”

“Um!...  From lots of towns?...  From Boston?”

“Yes.”

“From Tupper Falls?”

“Some.”

“From Coldriver?”

“If you want to know if I know Ovid Nixon, why don’t you ask right out?”