Part 13 (1/2)

When David said nothing, but sat holding tight to the arms of his old chair, Gregory reached for his hat and got up.

”The thing for him to do,” he said, ”is to leave town for a while. This Ba.s.sett is a hound-hog on a scent. They all are. He is Ba.s.sett of the Times-Republican. And he took Jud--he took your nephew's automobile license number.”

Still David sat silent, and Gregory moved to the door.

”Get him away, to-night if you can.”

”Thank you,” David said. His voice was thick. ”I appreciate your coming.”

He got up dizzily, as Gregory said, ”Good-evening” and went out. The room seemed very dark and unsteady, and not familiar. So this was what had happened, after all the safe years! A man could work and build and pray, but if his house was built on the sand--

As the outer door closed David fell to the floor with a crash.

XI

Ba.s.sett lounged outside the neat privet hedge which it was Harrison Miller's custom to clip with his own bachelor hands, and waited. And as he waited he tried to imagine what was going on inside, behind the neatly curtained windows of the old brick house.

He was tempted to ring the bell again, pretend to have forgotten something, and perhaps happen in on what might be drama of a rather high order; what, supposing the man was Clark after all, was fairly sure to be drama. He discarded the idea, however, and began again his interested survey of the premises. Whoever conceived this sort of haven for Clark, if it were Clark, had shown considerable shrewdness. The town fairly smelt of respectability; the tree-shaded streets, the children in socks and small crisp-laundered garments, the houses set back, each in its square of shaved lawn, all peaceful, middle cla.s.s and unexciting. The last town in the world for Judson Clark, the last profession, the last house, this shabby old brick before him.

He smiled rather grimly as he reflected that if Gregory had been right in his identification, he was, beyond those windows at that moment, very possibly warning Clark against himself. Gregory would know his type, that he never let go. He drew himself up a little.

The house door opened, and Gregory came out, turning toward the station.

Ba.s.sett caught up with him and put a hand on his arm.

”Well?” he said cheerfully. ”It was, wasn't it?”

Gregory stopped dead and stared at him. Then:

”Old dog Tray!” he said sneeringly. ”If your brain was as good as your nose, Ba.s.sett, you'd be a whale of a newspaper man.”

”Don't bother about my brain. It's working fine to-day, anyhow. Well, what had he to say for himself?”

Gregory's mind was busy, and he had had a moment to pull himself together.

”We both get off together,” he said, more amiably. ”That fellow isn't Jud Clark and never was. He's a doctor, and the nephew of the old doctor there. They're in practice together.”

”Did you see them both?”

”Yes.”

Ba.s.sett eyed him. Either Gregory was a good actor, or the whole trail ended there after all. He himself had felt, after his interview, with d.i.c.k, that the scent was false. And there was this to be said: Gregory had been in the house scarcely ten minutes. Long enough to acknowledge a mistake, but hardly long enough for any dramatic identification. He was keenly disappointed, but he had had long experience of disappointment, and after a moment he only said:

”Well, that's that. He certainly looked like Clark to me.”

”I'll say he did.”

”Rather surprised him, didn't you?”

”Oh, he was all right,” Gregory said. ”I didn't tell him anything, of course.”