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 ringing at 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.