Mother Borton ignored my entrance, and, perched on a high stool behind the bar and cash-drawer, reminded me of the vulture guarding its prey. But at last she fluttered over to my table and took a seat opposite.
“Your men are here,” she said shortly. And then, as I expressed my thanks, she warmed up and gave me a description by which I should know each and led me to the room where, as she said, they were “corralled.”
“By the way,” I said, halting outside the door, “they'll want some money, I suppose. Do you know how much?”
“They're paid,” she said, and pushed open the door before I could express surprise or ask further questions. I surmised that she had paid them herself to save me from annoyance or possible danger, and my gratitude to this strange creature rose still higher.
The four men within the room saluted me gravely and with Mother Borton's directions in mind I had no hesitation in calling each by his name. I was pleased to see that they were robust, vigorous fellows, and soon made my dispositions. Brown and Barkhouse were to attend me during daylight, and Fitzhugh and Porter were to guard together at night. And, so much settled, I hastened to the office.
No sign of Doddridge Knapp disturbed the morning, and at the noon hour I returned to the room in the house of mystery that was still my only fixed abode.
All was apparently as I had left it, except that a letter lay on the table.
“I must get a new lock,” was my comment, as I broke the seal. “This place is getting too public when every messenger has a key.” I was certain that I had locked the door when Corson and I had come out on the evening before.
The letter was from my unknown employer, and read:
“Richmond has paid the men. Be ready for a move at any moment. Leave your address if you sleep elsewhere.”