“Of course not. I saw at once that the only safe thing to do was to find the man, somehow, and arrange matters with him, if he was willing to make a deal.”
“And the result of your efforts was those three foolish persons who wandered into the net like so many stupid flies.”
Kenyon heard a fist strike a table impatiently; then Forrester cried:
“I’ll never forgive myself for that blunder! It was caused by over-anxiety. I desired to gain time.”
“But to write four letters; to direct them to different places! Was that not taking a desperate chance?”
“Something had to be done. I could think of nothing better. Old Stephen did not know where Kenyon was at that time, but he was trying to trace him. I found, in his desk, a list of four places where the person sought had been, and then conceived the plan of writing a letter to each of these places, in the hope that one or the other of them would reach him in some way. I named the house in Selden’s Square as the place—Farbush taking it blindly at my request—and the night upon which old Stephen died as the time of meeting.
“All this was meant to save time. The idea was sound, and the whole trouble resulted from the old man’s not knowing Kenyon’s first name. So I was forced to address the letters simply to Mr. Kenyon. And the cursed post-office delivered three of them to strangers.”
“Griscom! Griscom! It was not all ill-luck. You were foolish, indiscreet.”
“But I fancied the man who wrote me from Butte was the right person.”
“Were you sure? Was there anything to warrant your doing what you did. You at once told him everything. He might have ruined all.”