Document 6. Despatch.
New York, July 5.
To Robert Rand, Salem.
Will be at Valley Station to-morrow. Meet me or not.
T. Rand.
The deacon was a tall meagre man with a goatee that seemed to accentuate him, to hint by its mere straightness at sharp decision, an unwavering line of rectitude.
He drove westward in his buckboard that hot summer afternoon, the 6th of July. The yellow road was empty before him all the length of the lake, except for the butterflies bobbing around in the sunshine. His lips looked even more secretive than usual: a discouraging man to see, if one were to come to him in a companionable mood desiring comments.
Opposite the spring he drew up, hearing the sound of a hand-organ under the trees. The tall man with a clipped mustache sat up deliberately and looked at him. The leathery ape ceased his funereal capers and also looked at him; then retreated behind the spring. Pietro gazed back and forth between the deacon and the ape, dismissed his professional smile, and followed the ape. The tall man pulled his legs under him and got up.
“I reckon it's Bob,” he said. “It's free quarters, Bob. Entrez. Come in. Have a drink.”
The deacon's embarrassment, if he had any, only showed itself in an extra stiffening of the back.