“Arrived at Boston Parker House this morning. Start home this afternoon. Send message. Dying to see you.
“Dick Swinton.”
“What does the fool want to come home for?” growled the colonel. “Hasn’t he any consideration for his mother and father and sister? Everybody thinks he’s dead—why doesn’t he remain dead? He sha’n’t upset my girl. I’ll see to that. I’ll—I’ll meet him myself.”
“A good idea,” observed Ormsby, who had grown thoughtful. “For my part, my duty is plain. A warrant is out for his arrest. I shall give information 208 to the police that he is in the country again.”
“No, Ormsby—no!” pleaded the colonel. “You’ll utterly upset yourself with Dora. You won’t stand a ghost of a chance.
“A hero with handcuffs doesn’t cut an agreeable figure, or stand much of a chance. Dora has glorified him, you must remember. There will be a reaction of feeling. She’ll alter her opinion, when she knows he’s a criminal, flying from justice. They gave him his life, I suppose, because he hadn’t the courage to die, and keep his country’s secrets. The traitor!”
They resolved to say nothing of the arrival of the telegram. The colonel gave out that business affairs necessitated a journey to Boston, and Dora was to be told that he would be back in the evening.
Ormsby drove the colonel to the station in his motor. Afterward, he called at police-headquarters, and then at the bank. There, he wrote a letter to Herresford, reopening the matter of the seven thousand dollars, which had lain dormant all this time, true to the promise made to Dora. He had let the quarrel stand in abeyance in case of accidents. This was characteristic of the cautious Ormsbys, and quite in keeping with the remorseless character of the man who never forgave, and never desisted in any pursuit where personal gain was the paramount consideration. 209
Colonel Dundas had been genuinely fond of Dick Swinton—up to a point. The kind of regard he had for him was that which is accorded to many self-indulgent, reckless young men who are their own greatest enemies. He was always pleased to see him; but he would never have experienced pleasure in contemplating him as a possible son-in-law. His supposititiously heroic death had surrounded him with a halo of romance dear to the colonel’s heart; but his sudden reappearance in the land of the living, with a warrant out for his arrest, and Dora’s happiness in the balance, excited a growing anger.
All the way to Boston, the colonel fumed and swore. He muttered to himself and thumped the arms of his chair, rehearsing the things he meant to say when the rascal confronted him. How dare Dick send telegrams to his innocent child without her father’s knowledge, in order that he might work upon her feelings! Perhaps, he thought of persuading her to elope with him—elope with a criminal! By the time he reached Boston, the colonel had built up a hundred imaginary wrongs that it was his duty to set right by plain speaking.