"I held his notes," the deacon explained, as though really anxious to offer an excuse. "I can prove it."
"Prove it to Burnham's ghost. He may go back."
"B—back where?"
"To his grave. He sleeps uneasy to-night."
"Be you crazy?"
"Look behind you—quick!"
The receiver dropped. Donaldson could hear it swinging against the wall. Without giving the deacon an opportunity to express his wrath and fears, Donaldson hung up his own receiver and cheerfully paid the cost of his twenty-minute talk.
In spite of the fact that on Thursday night he had slept only three hours, that on Friday night he had not even lain down, his mind was still alert. He did not have the slightest sense of weariness. It was rest enough for him to know that the girl was asleep, relaxation enough to recall the maiden joy that had freshened the eyes of Mrs. Wentworth.
It was too late to get a money-order, but he secured a check from the hotel manager for the amount, and finding in the Berringdon paper the name of a local lawyer whom he remembered as a boy, he mailed it to him with a letter of explanation. The deed was to be made out to Mrs. Alice E. Wentworth, and was to be held until she called for it. In case of any difficulty—for it occurred to him that the deacon might at the last moment sacrifice a good trade out of spite—the lawyer was to telegraph him at once at the Waldorf.
Then he looked up the time the Berringdon train left and wrote a note giving Mrs. Wentworth final detailed instructions.