“You don’t go, White, until you explain what you meant by—”
But Truedale mistook his man. Jim, having drawn his own conclusion, laughed and strode toward the door.
“I go when I’m damned pleased ter go!” he flung out derisively, “and I come the same way, young feller. There’s mail for yo’ in the sack and—a telegram.” White paused by the door a moment while Truedale picked the yellow envelope from the bag and tore it open.
“Your uncle died suddenly on the 16th. Come at once. Vitally important. McPHERSON.”
For a moment both men forgot the thing that had driven them wide apart.
“Bad news?” asked the sheriff.
Something was happening to Truedale—he felt as if the effect of some narcotic were losing its power; the fevered unreality was giving place to sensation but the brain was recording it dully.
“What date is this?” he asked, dazed.
“Twenty-fifth,” Jim replied as he moved out of the door.
“When can I get a train from the station?”