The picture was finished and, more than that, in every way it lived up to Ruth’s own high standards. And—the heart of it was gone!
Tom felt that Bloomberg might have another reason for the theft of Ruth’s films, besides the obvious one of attempting to ruin her picture.
“He may think it’s a good chance to make some easy money,” he said. “Bloomberg may simply have hidden the films and then, when he gets ready, will demand money for the return of them.”
One day when Tom and Chess were off on their indefatigable search and Ruth had started off alone to walk and indulge her gloomy thoughts, she saw a rider dashing toward her through a cloud of dust.
The man drew rein close to her and held out a torn and dirty scrap of paper.
“I found this wrapped around a stone and thrown into the middle of the road,” he told her, panting. “I guess, ma’am, it’s meant for you.”
Ruth opened the crumpled scrap of paper addressed to her with trembling fingers.
On it were scrawled a few words in writing she recognized as Tom’s.
“Prisoners in a cabin at lower end of Bear Creek. Help us!”
The signature, scarcely legible, was, “Tom.”