He
had continued to meet Forrester there after his father had died; and
then Forrester had been offered and had accepted the cashiership of a
small local bank out near Bayside on Long Island. He had run into
Forrester there again once or twice on motor trips--and once, held up by
an accident to his car, he had dined with Forrester, and had spent an
hour or two in the other's rooms. That was about all.
Jimmie Dale's frown grew deeper. He liked Forrester The man was a
bachelor and of about his, Jimmie Dale's, own age, and had always
appeared to be a decent, clean-lived fellow, a man who worked hard, and
was apparently pushing his way, if not meteorically, at least steadily
up to the top, a man who was respected and well-thought of by
everybody--and yet just what did it mean? The more he thought of it, the
uglier it seemed to become.
He stepped suddenly toward the telephone--and as abruptly turned away
again. He remembered that Forrester did not have a telephone in his
rooms, for, on the night of the break-down, he, Jimmie Dale, had wanted
to telephone, and had been obliged to go outside to do so. Forrester,
obviously then, had done likewise to-night.
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