"Jaccard telephoned to-day," Luke said. "He wanted to know when you'd see him, father. He heard you were in town."
Jaccard was the lawyer who most frequently had appeared for Lucas, Senior, upon the not infrequent occasions when he had required a competent representative in court. A younger atttorney customarily advised Luke, the son, upon confidential, legal questions.
"How'd Jaccard hear?" Lucas asked.
His son neglected to inform him. "Myra stopped in at Scott Street again this afternoon," Luke said. "Ethel was out."
"She seems to be always out," Lucas complained. "What doing?"
"I don't know," Luke admitted.
"Well, why don't you?"
"Of course, father," Luke defended himself, "I could find out—"
"Then why haven't you?"
"Not what she did to-day but what she'll do to-morrow. The objection is that would involve taking some one else in."
"I don't see that! I don't see that!"
"Kincheloe," Luke said, his bland lips wincing a little; "he called me this afternoon."
Lucas started in spite of himself and then continued the jerk of his arm into a motion to reach into his vest pocket for a cigar which he chewed without lighting.
"What did he want?"
"Me to send some money to his brokers—"
"His brokers!" Lucas grunted in contempt.
"He seems to have acquired some with rather unusual ability to guess the market wrong—even for
