The boy tried to close his eyes to the pictures his sorely puzzled brain conjectured, but in spite of every resolve an inner voice kept on dinning in his ears: “Jackson Kent killed this man! Hired it done! Paid for it!”
But why? Molly’s mother? What other reason could a rich man have for ordering a crime of this sort?
It was not to be supposed that Johnny’s excitement would escape Molly’s eyes. In comparison she was less nervous than he.
“Are you reading something between the lines?” she demanded. “Your face is white.”
“Miss Molly, how long have you been waiting?”
“On and off since eleven. But tell me, shouldn’t I have come? Don’t be mysterious that way, Johnny. You actually frighten me.”
“No harm in coming,” he told her. He was only marking time. Johnny knew that he would have to tell some part of what had happened to the man who had written her this letter. “Can you make a guess as to who wrote that note?” he went on, still playing against the minutes.
“Why, no. I haven’t the slightest memory of my mother. And I do believe the man was what he claimed to be.”
“He was,” Johnny answered succinctly. “What you intendin’ doin’ now?”
“I thought I’d wait here the rest of the afternoon.”