CHAPTER XII
The next day I returned to the warehouse, and with great formality drew samples from both ends of the barrel into small manila envelopes and, as anticipated, this resulted in quite a talk with the owner of the place, whom I interrogated closely, for I wanted to learn just what kind of a business he was doing, although it seemed legitimate enough. The Department said it was worth seven dollars to get that information, and I intended to return Hiram's money.
The presumption was that some frugal machinist had saved his bench filings until he had a barrel full and sold it as junk. But how did it get there without an address marking?
The big interrogation point was up on everything at that time, owing to the acute stage of the war. Steel filings were not soluble and would not blacken my finger. The stuff looked more like rifle powder. I finally decided to mail a sample to a chemist in New York for analysis.
The whirligig of events took me out of New Orleans the next day to various Gulf ports and along the coast as far north as New York. In his first communication Hiram said he was doing fine, and the remainder of a six-page letter was a laudation of the charms of Anna Bell Morgan. There in New Orleans she was realizing her lifelong ambition, and taking a course, but he did not say what kind. Soon after I heard from him again and he hinted at trouble, but finished with a lengthy encomium of the Quarrytown young woman.
The third letter was unmistakably a storm signal, a cry for relief he was sure I could give were I there; not a wail, but a courageous man's request for suitable weapons with which to battle. "When did I expect to get back?" Directly or indirectly he asked this question several times in his communication, but did not mention Anna Bell Morgan, and by which token I concluded his trouble lay in that quarter. When we did meet again there was no mistaking his concern about his troubles, and his esteem of my ability to aid him.
Three months had worked a most remarkable change. There was no doubt that his buoyant optimism and sense of humor had received a shock. About his up-curving, laughing, clean-chiseled mouth had crept a curious drooping tendency. Fear, corroding, soul-destroying fear, had found a footing there. His eyes had retreated under a shelf and his black brows moved down, while his remarkably straight nose appeared more prominent; his upstanding, wavy raven hair evidenced neglect, and instead of a resounding whack on my back came the firm, sure, hearty grip of a man.
He would not let me look over my hat full of mail, much of which bore many redirections and additional post-office stamps. I had retained my room adjoining his while away, and it was there we were now seated.