“Where’s the proof of it? I don’t know you,” said Bartlett guardedly.
“That’s so,” said Ralph, “and I am glad to find you so particular. My name is Fairbanks, and I come from the brother of Mr. Glidden, at Stanley Junction. I have a good deal to tell you, and wish you would come out and talk with me or let me in to talk to you.”
“You say the lawyer knows you?” inquired Bartlett warily.
“No, he doesn’t, but his wife does.”
“We’ll see about that--wait a minute.”
Ralph was made aware of the fact that the factory connected with the town by telephone, as the foreman of the plant proceeded to an instrument and took down the receiver. He could not hear the conversation that ensued, but very shortly Bartlett came to the door and invited him in.
“You’re all right, and you’re bringing some mighty good news, I hear,” he said heartily. “Sit down. I fancy that blatherskite, Dorsett, won’t sail so high tomorrow.”
“I fancy not, if things are done straight,” said Ralph, “but I just learned something that worries me a good deal.”
“What is that?”
Ralph told his story in detail. He recited what his tramp acquaintance had imparted to him. The sturdy foreman knit his brows, but he did not scare a bit. He walked slowly over to a closet, took out a new Winchester rifle, laid it across the top of the desk, and said quietly: