one. There was no middle ground. He would not spoil this very languid interest by inquiring.
So it was with rather a pleasurable quickening that at last he perceived the door standing open.
He entered the tiny office. A tall, spare nervous individual sat at the desk. He was a young man, but his face was strongly carved. His very blond hair stuck straight up in an old fashioned brush pompadour. His eybrows and eyelashes were likewise very blond, and the skin on his face and hands a clear transparent light brown that must have been equally fair before it had been much exposed to the sun. He wore what might be described as a "smart business suit"—a sort of bob-tailed cut-away, the edges of which were bound with black braid. His manners were alert as he swung to face Boyd.
"You are Mr. Spinner?" asked the latter.
"The same," jerked back the young man. "What can I do for you?"
The air was electric, charged with energy. Spinner apparently had not a moment to waste. Nevertheless Boyd seated himself comfortably in the kitchen chair.
"Have a cigar?" he proffered, "you are very little in your office, Mr. Spinner. I suppose I have been by here a dozen times and this is the first I have found you in."
"My business is largely outside," snapped back Spinner with an air that seemed to add, "and you're keeping me from going back to it."
"My name is Boyd—Patrick Boyd," he introduced himself. "I'm staying at the Fremont. It is in my mind to stay out here for a little while, and if so I do not want to stay on at a hotel."
At Boyd's name the eyes of the young man flickered for an instant; but his manner did not change.
"Buy or rent?" he demanded.
"That depends on what I can get."
"How big? How many in family?"
"Myself and my son—grown," answered Boyd, amused.
"Would you build?"
"I might."
