He wrung my hand warmly and we parted.
That sad face haunted me. My wife of course saw that something was troubling my dreams and waking hours, and gave me no rest until I had confided the whole melancholy story to her. With that wifely anxiety respecting the family income and expenses characteristic of the worthy ones of her sex, she exclaimed at once: “You are quite sure that this sympathy didn’t reach your pocket-book?”
“No,” I said, “I am not out of pocket one cent, but if I had been rich, I am pretty certain I should have invested in that face, even though there are thin places in the story.”
Strange as it may seem, my word-photograph of that manly woodman’s countenance did not move her sympathies a whit. A half-dozen times a day she would inquire, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye: “Any news yet from Kansas City?” I tried to show her that, on account of that subtle influence which will always reveal its presence in the face, it is impossible for a rogue to bear such a face as Davis owned. The very spiritual laws of the universe were involved in the denial of such a monstrous supposition. Her only reply was in the expression of a hope that my pocket-book should not get entangled in any of these psychological theories.
Four days passed, and still no news of the weary-hearted Davis. On the fifth day I came into the house bearing a letter in my hand, and said: “My love, I think I’ve got news of that gold brick.”
My friend the assayer had written to this effect:
“My Dear Doctor:—I wish you would call at the office some time to-morrow, if you are down town. I have an interesting specimen to show you.”
I went. On a shelf in the inner vault of the assay office laid that gold brick. There was no mistaking that treasure. It lay like Cæsar in the Capitol, its dozen wounds looking dumbly up and pleading to me for recognition. Thirty pounds of solid coin-fine gold, a fraction of the stately fortune of that mysterious half-breed who
Came like truth and disappeared like dreams.