“I’d destroy that if I were you,” suggested Jimmie Dale quietly. “I don’t imagine that Thorold or old Jake will ever bother you again, but there are lots of ‘Thorolds’ in New York.” He motioned toward the pendant. “That is yours, too, colonel.”
The old gentleman was fingering the letter over and over, as though to assure himself that it was actually in his possession; and into his blue eyes, as they travelled back and forth from the pendant to Jimmie Dale, there crept a half wondering, half wistful light.
“I do not know why you have done this for me, or who you are, sir,” he said brokenly. “But at least I understand that in some strange way you have stepped in between me and—and those men. You—you know the story, then?”
“Only partially,” said Jimmie Dale with a smile, as he shook his head. “But you need not—”
“I would wish to thank you, sir.” The old Southerner was stately now in his emotion. “I can never do so adequately. You are at least entitled to my confidence.” His face grew a little whiter; he drew himself up as though to meet a blow. “My boy, my son, sir, stole a large sum of money from the bank where he was employed in New Orleans. He was not suspected; and indeed, as far as the bank is concerned, the matter remains a mystery to this day. Shortly afterwards the Spanish war broke out. My son was an officer in a local regiment. He obtained an appointment for the front.” The old gentleman paused; then he stood erect, head back, at salute, like the gallant old soldier that he was. “My son, sir, was a thief; but he redeemed himself, and he redeemed his name—he fell at the head of his company, leading his men.”
Jimmie Dale’s eyes had grown suddenly moist.
“I understand,” he said simply.
“He wrote this letter to me, making a full confession of his guilt; and gave it to me, telling me not to open it unless he should not come back.” The colonel’s voice broke; then, with an effort, steadied again. “It would have killed his mother, sir. It strained our resources most severely to pay back the money to the bank, and I lied to her, sir—I told her that our investments were proving unfortunate. Two years ago I completed the final payment without the bank ever having found out where the money came from; and then we moved up here to New York. You see, sir, it was a little difficult to maintain our former position in Louisiana, and amongst strangers less would be expected of us. And then, sir, shortly after that, I do not know how, this letter was stolen, and for two years Thorold has held it over my head, threatening to make it public if I refused his demands; I gave him all the money I could get. I have thought sometimes, sir, that I should put a revolver in my pocket and come down here and shoot him like a dog—but then, sir, the story, I was afraid, would come out. Yesterday he made a final demand for five thousand dollars. I did not have the money. He suggested Mrs. Milford’s pendant there. He promised to return the letter, and any sum above the five thousand that he could get for the diamonds. I knew he was lying about the money; but I believed he would return the letter, knowing that I now had nothing left. That is why I am here to-night.”
Again the old gentleman paused. It was very still in the room. Jimmie Dale had taken the thin metal case from his leather girdle and was fingering it abstractedly. And then the colonel spoke again:
“And so,” he said slowly, “I stole the pendant this afternoon, and pretended to-night that it was done at dinner-time, and—and pretended, too, to make the discovery of the theft myself. You see, sir, it was not only the old name that would be smirched—there was the boy to think of, and he had redeemed himself. And Mrs. Milford would have wanted me to do that, to take a thousand of her jewels, if she had had them, if she had known—but, you see, sir, she could not know without it breaking her heart—I think the dearest thing in life to her is the boy’s memory.”