It was Maxwell who had come forward when the crash arrived. Lockwood’s whole assets were tied up in a block of speculative building; a business depression had killed the market, and he could neither finish the half-built houses nor sell them as they stood. He was obliged to accept Maxwell’s ridiculous valuation; and Maxwell had finished the houses, held them for a few months, and then apparently turned them over to McGibbon, who had sold them at an immense advantage. The method of the freeze-out was plain enough now. But Lockwood had known the latter part only by report, for the prison doors had closed behind him. McGibbon had been also indicted as an accessory, on the same charges of fraud and misappropriation of funds; but he had no difficulty in clearing himself; and with apparent reluctance he had given damning evidence against his partner.
Now Lockwood believed that he had caught the bloodsucker in the act of attaching himself to another prey. It was poetic justice, it was no less than providential that he should have arrived at that moment at Rainbow Landing.
Noon approached, and still Power’s car did not return. Lockwood grew restless and uneasy. He got up and walked back down the amber and yellow road. He might go to the turpentine camp; at any rate, he was anxious to have another look at the house where McGibbon had managed to establish himself.
He passed the great grove of walnut and oak and reached the entrance. The white colonial house wore by no means its moonlight air of mystery and grace. In the blazing sun it showed sadly old and weatherworn; its white paint was scaling off, a sickly and dirty gray; the fence was broken down in many places; the rickety gate hung by one hinge. Rubbish of deadwood, a tin can or two and rags of burlap littered the white sand of the driveway. None of the family was in sight; but at the front door a negro was holding two saddled horses, and Lockwood walked quickly on.
He had not gone fifty yards when he heard the trample of the horses’ hoofs behind him, and stepped aside. He had a glimpse of the shining coats of the animals, and the glitter of new leather, but his attention was all for the riders.
A girl was riding past him, sitting astride, in a gray skirt and a white waist. He knew instantly that it must be Louise Power; he had only a flash of brown hair under the black hat, of dark eyes, of a sweet and slightly opened mouth, but it roused a dim stirring of recollection in him.
She was gone before he could analyze it, and McGibbon rode close after her. Lockwood had raised his hat, and McGibbon acknowledged the salutation curtly, with a casual glance at the pedestrian. The horses went ahead at a canter, and were presently small in the distance between the pines.
It was McGibbon, beyond any doubt. Lockwood recognized him even more certainly than the night before. He looked after the riders with dark satisfaction. He knew where to have McGibbon now; he could take his time and choose his hour. But his mind involuntarily and uneasily turned to search the problem of where he had already seen the girl’s face.
CHAPTER IV
A MISFIRE
He could not place the recollection; it was lost somewhere in the shadowy past. But the sight of his enemy in the clear light of day had stirred up all the bitterest depths of his memory and his hate. McGibbon—or Hanna, as he must now call him—seemed to have changed little; he looked as handsome, as suave, as dignified as ever, and Lockwood imagined what an imposing presence he must appear to this pretty girl of the backwoods.