But Carmel—responsibility sat upon her heavily in that moment. She had ordered or goaded a human being into risking his person, perhaps his life. That phase of it had not presented itself to her. She was sending a man into danger, and the responsibility of her doing so arose stark before her.
“I—I have no right,” she said, hesitatingly. “I was wrong. I cannot allow you to put yourself in danger.”
“Unfortunately,” said Evan Pell, “you have no vote in the matter. I have made the decision.... Of course, you may dispense with my services, but that will not affect my conduct. I shall find out what became of Sheriff Churchill and put myself in a position to lay before the proper authorities substantiated facts covering all phases of his disappearance.”
“But——”
He raised his hand, palm toward her. “My decision is final,” he said, with asperity.
CHAPTER VIII
GIBEON was so accustomed to Abner Fownes that it took him for granted, as if he were a spell of weather, or the Opera House which had been erected in 1881, or the river which flowed through the town, tumultuously in spring and parsimoniously in the heat of summer when its moisture was most sorely needed. On the whole, Abner bore more resemblance to the river than to either weather or Opera House. He was tumultuous when he could do most damage, and ran in a sort of trickle when such genius as he had might be of greater service. On the whole, the village was glad it possessed Abner. He was its show piece, and they compared him with the show citizens of adjacent centers of population.
Your remote villages are conscious of their outstanding personalities, and, however much they may dislike them personally and quarrel with them in the family, they flaunt them in the faces of outsiders and boast of their eccentricities and take pride in their mannerisms. So Gibeon fancied it knew Abner Fownes from the meticulous crust in which his tailor incased him inward to his exact geometrical center; it was positive it comprehended his every thought and perceived the motive for his every action. For the most part its attitude was tolerant. Gibeon fancied it allowed Abner to function, and that it could put a stop to his functioning whenever it desired. The power of his money was appraised and appreciated; but it was more than a little inclined to laugh at his bumptious pretense of arbitrary power. George Bogardus, furniture dealer and undertaker, embalmed the public estimate in words and phrases.
“Abner,” said Bogardus, “figgers himself out to be a hell of a feller, and it does him a sight of good and keeps his appetite hearty—and, so fur’s I kin see, ’tain’t no detriment to nobody else.”
Gibeon had its moments of irritation when Abner seemed to take too much for granted or when he drove with too tight a check rein, but these were ephemeral. On the whole, the town’s attitude was to let Abner do it, and then to call him a fool for his pains.