“A capable lawyer never indulges in theories. He sticks to facts. What now?”
A servant entered and delivered a note to the old gentleman, who took it, protesting against further disturbance of his rest time. Then, as he recognized the handwriting on the envelope, his expression altered to one as excited as that of his son.
“Of all things! A note from the very man we were discussing and at the very moment! Hear this:
“‘My Dear Sir:
‘Having for some months been absent from my home, in hospital in this city and extremely ill, I knew nothing of what has transpired at Refugio until to-night. I refer you to the evening papers to explain why I start for Albuquerque, immediately, without delaying to call upon you at your office. I will communicate with you from that town.
‘Yours truly, Adrian Manuel.’”
“Well, father, I think that’s decent of the gentleman, and satisfactory. He always has been punctilious and correct in his few dealings with us. I’ll write that Miguel. Theirs is an out of the way place, but a letter will reach there—give it time. Hold on! I’ve an idea. Business isn’t pressing at this season of the year, and I’ll run out to Albuquerque myself. I’d give a big sum to see those children safe again and make them understand I’m not the terrible ogre who so nearly scared them to death. Was that another knock? Yes. Come in.”
It was his own messenger, returned, bringing him a reply, short and sharp, like its writer:
“Yours received. I’m taking matters into my own hands. I leave for Albuquerque on the seven o’clock, limited.
Mary Sinclair.”