The sun had dropped behind the mountain, and Tregarvon was tramping soberly through the lengthening wood shadows toward Highmount, when the frock-coated figure of the professor of mathematics loomed suddenly in the path ahead. At Tregarvon’s call, Hartridge stopped and waited.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” said the schoolmaster, with his genial smile. “Are you walking my way?”
“Very pointedly,” said Tregarvon. “They told me at the college that you had gone to one of the McNabbs’, and I came out on the chance of meeting you.”
“That was neighborly, I’m sure,” returned the master of arts, catching the step. “Am I to infer that you are going to let me be of some service to you?”
Tregarvon’s laugh was a trifle strained. “It’s a little that way,” he confessed. “But first I wish to say that I believe we have been doing you an injustice—Carfax and I.”
“About the small cube of the metal known commercially as steel?” was the gentle inquiry.
“Precisely. I’m sorry we were not broad-minded enough to take your word in explanation.”
“Then you have discovered the real culprit?”
For answer Tregarvon briefed the story of Tryon’s findings.
“Ah!” said the listener; “then my own impression wasn’t at fault, after all. I saw the man under the drill derrick: I thought it was Sawyer, but I couldn’t be certain. I assume you don’t need to be told why he did it, or who bribed him to do it?”