He told her of the telegram signed “Jerry,” and of Shanklin’s reply.
“So I concluded,” he said, “that if the land described by their numbers was valuable to them it would be valuable to me. That my guess was good, I had 202 proof when I filed. The chap who was piloting Peterson up to the window, and who I suspect was the ‘Jerry’ of the message, wanted to know where I got the figures. He wasn’t a bit nice about it, either.”
A swift pallor overspread Agnes Horton’s face; a look of fright stood in her eyes.
“Was he a tall man, dark, with heavy eyebrows?” she inquired, waiting his answer with parted lips.
“That fits him,” said he. “Do you know him?”
“It’s Jerry Boyle, the Governor’s son. He is Walker’s friend; Walker brought him to camp the day after you disappeared. He had an invitation for Mrs. Reed and her party from his mother–you know they had been expecting it. And he said–he said––”
“He said––”
“That is, he told Walker that he saw you–drunk at two o’clock that morning.”
“Hum-m,” rumbled the doctor, running his hands through his hair. “Hum-m! I thought I knew that voice!”
He got to his feet in his agitation. Agnes rose quickly, placing her hand on his arm.