Jarvis nodded slowly. “You’ve buried me and my little theory six feet deep, with a stone atop, and—and I’m honestly sorry. I couldn’t believe you’d do a thing like that in cold blood, George.”
“Do you call it cold blood? There were three of us in that eight-by-ten shambles that night, and somebody had to die.”
The turnkey was unlocking the door, and Jarvis rose.
“I guess there isn’t anything more to say,” he said. “Can I do anything for you?”
“Yes; you may take a line to Forsyth for me, if you will.” And then to the jailer: “One minute, Carson, until I write a note.”
The note was written, and Jarvis took his leave, wringing Brant’s hand at parting quite as heartily as he would if the card house of guesses had not been wrecked.
“You’ve simply made another friend, old man,” he whispered. “It was mostly curiosity with me before, but now I’ll stand by you while the lamp holds out to burn.”
Brant returned the hand grip, but his smile had in it more than gratitude. “I’ll let you know when you can do anything,” he promised; and then the iron door came between.
The reporter found his chief waiting impatiently for his return, and Forsyth was soon acquainted not only with Jarvis’s guesses, but with the main points in the late interview.
“That’s all,” said Jarvis in conclusion, “except that he gave me this note for you.”