CHAPTER XXXVTHE PHOTOGRAPH
Benton King sat in his office at the mill, opening the morning mail, which had just been brought him by a boy. His face wore a heavy frown, and he ripped open the envelopes viciously with the steel paper cutter.
The sounds of the mill—the creaking of the windlass drawing the big sticks up the run, the scream of the saws tearing through logs, the pistol-claps of fresh-cut boards tossed flatly upon other boards by the laborers—annoyed him, and he rose and kicked shut the connecting door, which had been left slightly ajar.
Resuming his seat at the desk, his eye fell on a square, flat package at the bottom of the letters remaining unopened, and he caught it up eagerly.
“Ha!” he breathed, after looking at the address. “Fletcher’s handwriting! He got it! This is what I sent for.”
Even as he was tearing off the wrapper, however, hesitation and fear came upon him. What if it should not be what he wanted? What if thephotograph he knew the wrapping contained were not that of the man he had accused? The possibility gave him a gripping throb that was keen as the thrust of steel.
“It must be,” he muttered huskily. “I can’t be wrong. He has put up a big bluff, but he’s the man.”
His hands were not wholly steady as he finished removing the wrapper of brown manila. The picture was faced with cardboard, and this he flung aside, revealing the printed likeness that had been caught by the camera. Snatching it up, he turned eagerly to permit the light to fall full upon it. His face flamed with triumph; his mouth opened, but no sound issued forth; his clenched fist rose and fell on the desk as if the blow settled the doom of a mortal foe. After a time he laughed; it was not a pleasant laugh.
Presently, when he had gazed until satisfied that even the most obtuse or most obstinate could not behold it and express a doubt as to the almost perfect likeness of the picture to the man who called himself Tom Locke, a likeness far stronger than a mere verisimilitude, he turned again swiftly to the letters that had not yet been opened. Running them over, he selected one on which the writing corresponded to that upon the wrapper thathad been removed from the photograph. No time was wasted in opening it.
New York, June 28, 19—.Dear Bent: Found an opportunity yesterday to run out to Princeton and get the photograph of Paul Hazelton, which you desire so urgently, and I am sending it under separate cover, letter rates, so it will travel along without delay. Why didn’t you tell me more fully what you want of the thing? Night letters by wire are cheap, and even a brief explanation would not have left me puzzling my brains in weather that will hatch eggs without the assistance of either setting hen or incubator. You’re lucky to be up there in the open pastures on the border of the big woods, where you can breathe without fancying you are stoking an Atlantic liner.Crisply,Fletch.
New York, June 28, 19—.
Dear Bent: Found an opportunity yesterday to run out to Princeton and get the photograph of Paul Hazelton, which you desire so urgently, and I am sending it under separate cover, letter rates, so it will travel along without delay. Why didn’t you tell me more fully what you want of the thing? Night letters by wire are cheap, and even a brief explanation would not have left me puzzling my brains in weather that will hatch eggs without the assistance of either setting hen or incubator. You’re lucky to be up there in the open pastures on the border of the big woods, where you can breathe without fancying you are stoking an Atlantic liner.
Crisply,
Fletch.
“Good old Fletch!” chuckled Bent. “I’ll write him about it later. He has done me a great service, and Janet, also. This settles the matter beyond any question or dispute.”
He looked at his watch; it was nine-thirty. Late enough for him to see Janet, he decided, and, thrusting the letter and the photograph into his pocket, he rose from the desk, leaving the remainder of the mail unopened.
The screams of the mill saws followed him into the streets of the town, and at times it seemed as if their cries of conquering triumph took on something resembling entreaty or warning, but his hurrying feet did not falter, and soon he was ringingat the parsonage door. The white-capped maid answered and said she would find out if Miss Harting could see him. He entered and waited.
He did not have to wait long before Janet appeared, his heartstrings giving a tug as he beheld her in a simple morning gown. In her blue eyes there was a look of wonder, not wholly free from apprehension.
“I—I could hardly believe you were here—so early,” she said, scanning his face as if seeking to find there some explanation of this unusual call. “Has—has anything happened?”
“I beg your pardon for coming at this hour,” he returned, “but I simply couldn’t wait. I hope you understand me and believe me, Janet, when I say that I am your sincere friend, something I hope to prove to your entire satisfaction. Taking the privilege of a friend whose motives cannot be questioned, I must tell you how much I regret having seen you yesterday with the man who calls himself Locke.”
Her face did not harden, for there was nothing of hardness in her nature, but it changed, warning him that he was treading on most dangerous ground. She lifted her hand quickly, retreating a step.
“If that is what brings you here, I am sorry youcame. I met Mr. Locke quite by accident while out walking with the children. Jimmy Bryant cut his foot frightfully on a broken bottle, and Mr. Locke bound it up and brought him in to the doctor. I hardly know why I should make this explanation.”
“You could not be seen with the man without arousing more or less comment, and you should know what the gossips of this town will say.”
“Mr. Locke has satisfied me that he is a thorough gentleman, and unwarranted gossip of narrow-minded persons who are eager for something to talk about cannot frighten me.” The color was in her cheeks now.
“A gentleman!” cried Bent, losing his head for a moment. “That two-faced sneak a gentleman! That man who has boasted already that, as you happen to be the prettiest girl in town, he proposes to amuse himself with you! He thinks himself a crusher, the sort that girls get stuck on. He has the post-card photograph of one now, who signs herself ‘Tid,’ doubtless a silly creature he has flattered and fooled with his lying tongue. And now he proposes to get you on the string and—”
“Stop, Benton King!” Her cheeks had lost the flush, and there was something in her voicehe had never heard before. “Whatever your motive, you are making a blunder. How do you know these things you are saying?”