He was standing at the window as the big Packard moved out onto the
drive. Nelda was at the wheel, and Gladys, beside her on the front seat,
raised a white-gloved hand in the thumbs-up salute. Rand gave it back,
and watched the car swing around the house. Then he mopped his face with
a wad of Kleenex and went over to the room-temperature thermostat,
turning it down to sixty.
Sitting down at the desk, he dialed Humphrey Goode's number on the
private outside line. A maid answered; a moment later he was talking to
the Fleming lawyer.
"Rand, here," he identified himself. "Mr. Goode, I've been thinking over
our conversation of last evening. There is a great deal to be said for
the position you're taking in the matter. As you reminded me, I'm a
small, if purely speculative, stockholder in Premix, myself, and even
if I weren't, I should hate to be responsible for undeserved losses by
innocent investors."
"Yes?" Goode's voice fairly shook. "Then you're going to drop the
investigation?"
"No, Mr. Goode; I can't do that. But I believe a formula could be evolved
which would keep the Premix Company and its affairs out of it. In fact, I
think that the whole question of the death of Lane Fleming might possibly
be kept in the background.
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