Mrs. Porter hurriedly gathered together her sewing materials, stuffed them into her silk workbag, and rose.
Whitcomb, much relieved by Linda's words, also stood up.
"Don't disturb yourselves," said Mrs. Porter; "I am going home to pack. I shall go at once to Chicago."
"Do you mean to King?" asked Whitcomb.
"Of course." Mrs. Porter also seized the young man's hand, and her moist eyes poured out their gratitude. "I can't tell you, Mr. Whitcomb, how I thank you, for befriending him: it's impossible."
Fred smiled broadly. "Oh, say," he returned, "you don't need to pack. King is here."
"What!"
"Sure thing. I wouldn't have come without him. Not on your life. He didn't care much about it, but then he didn't care much about anything, and Mrs. Lindsay had said it was doing Madge a world of good—and Linda was here,"—the speaker turned and looked down at Linda, leaning back against the rock with a face as stony as its gray wall,—"so I bundled the poor chap on the train, and here we are."
"At that awful Benslow place?" gasped Mrs. Porter.
"It isn't so worse," said Fred. "I'm a dandy camper and I'll take care of King myself. The doctors told me just what to stuff him with, and, believe me, I'm going to stuff him. He doesn't slide off this planet till he gets some of the justice that's coming to him. Not if I know it. I haven't talked to him yet about my discovery of the letters, but I told Henry Radcliffe all about it the night before we left and he can do as he pleases about telling Harriet."