“There will be a Free Press in Gibeon,” she answered, “long after the bankruptcy courts have settled the affairs of Abner Fownes.”
As she spoke she knew she had been again the victim of impulse; she had betrayed knowledge which she should not have betrayed. Fownes was expressionless, but his eyes glowed like sun upon sullied ice.
“I have no more to say to you,” he said, and there was a finality in his words which conveyed more than the sense of the words themselves. It was as if he had spoken a death sentence.
He turned to the door and walked away from her with that pompous waddle which was not so absurd when one realized how invaluable it was to the man and how painstakingly he must have cultivated it.... A servant peered into the alcove and entered with a yellow envelope in his hand.
“Mr. Fownes?” he said.
“Yes.”
“A telegram, sir. The Governor said he saw you come in here, sir.”
“Thank you,” Fownes said and tore open the envelope. He read the message slowly, then stood staring at it thoughtfully while Carmel held her breath. She sensed a menace in the telegram, something which threatened her and her enterprises.
He turned and peered at her, and there was something saturnine in his eyes, almost mocking.
“I imagine this concerns you,” he said. “It is from Deputy Jenney. It may interest you.” He read, “‘Whitefield out for sheriff. Miss Lee left town in his automobile.’” He shrugged his shoulders. “I wondered how you got here,” he said after a moment. Then, “How did you get in here?”