The old man’s smile failed him this time. He choked over his words as he fought to repress his excitement. “Traynor! Traynor!” he cried at last. “What’s all this talk of him?”
Molly was sobbing.
“Father, father,” she murmured, “I’m so afraid, so frightened. This picture, this letter, death, murder—what does it mean, what does it mean?”
The letter crinkled in Kent’s bony hands as he tried to hold it steady enough to read it. He seemed to sicken as he read; lines came into his face; he breathed with difficulty; with shaking hands he clutched at his collar to loosen it.
As the button snapped under the strain and his hand came away he flashed a glance at the boy. Quick, ferretlike, it was.
Johnny’s face was wooden. Even his eyes were emotionless. For the moment Molly was unconscious of his presence. Dumbly she stared at the older man. She saw him sink into a chair, gasping for breath; but she did not run to his side to comfort him. Something unexplainable made her draw back. And she knew that she did, and the knowledge crucified her. A blush of shame mounted to her cheeks—that she could watch the misery of her own and be untouched by it. And she felt herself urged on. This was not yet the end.
“Father,” she heard herself saying, “do you understand that reference to my not going near the shipping pens? The Diamond-Bar shipped from here on the sixth last year and the year before. Mr. Traynor thought you would be there. Please don’t lie to me, father. You can’t deny that you knew this man.”
Seconds slipped by, with Kent’s spasmodic breathing the only sound to break the stillness.
At last the old man spoke.
“No, Molly,” he said with an effort. “I can’t deny it any longer. I knew Traynor. You’ve never heard his name on my lips before. Your mother knew him, too. God forbid that you should. Trouble always followed him. He was such another as this man here. He made my life a hell. I didn’t want anythin’ but to keep out of his way. I never expected to see him again. A skunk is always a skunk. I’m glad he’s dead!”