The Big Mogul

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln

It was not, of course. At first he started toward the stable where he had left the Cook horse and buggy. Half-way there he changed his mind and, leaving the main road, turned down the lower road until he came to the beach. He was in no hurry to get back to Denboro. His grandfather was sure to be awake and expecting him and ready for questions and conversation. He would have to tell where he had been and, if he mentioned the “Pinafore” performance, that would have to be described in detail. He simply could not talk about it now, that evening, and he would not. The memory of the final tableau, with Esther and Covell in close embrace, was—was— If he could only forget it! If he could forget her!

He tramped the beach for miles in the starlight. At last, suddenly awakening to a realization of the distance he had traveled, he turned and walked back again. He endeavored to dismiss the evening’s torture from his mind and to center his thinking upon himself and what his own course should be. The sensible thing was to go abroad at once. He would go. Then, having clenched his teeth upon this determination, he immediately unclenched them.... To go and leave her with her scheming uncle had been bad enough, but to leave her with this other fellow, who was, of course, just one more pawn in the Townsend game, that was the point where his resolution stuck and refused to pass.

He came opposite his beach studio and, acting upon a sudden impulse, unlocked the door and entered. He lighted the bracket lamp and sat down in a chair to continue his thinking, and, if possible, reach some decision. It was as hard to reach there as it had been during his walk. Covell—Covell—Covell! For that fellow to marry Esther Townsend! Yet, on the other hand, why not? Handsome, accomplished, fascinating—the son of a millionaire! And backed by the influence of the big mogul of Ostable County! What chance had Elisha Cook’s grandson against that combination? If Esther had ever really loved him—Bob Griffin—then— But she did not. She had thrown him off like an old glove. Then, in heaven’s name, why was he such a fool as to waste another thought on her?

He rose from the chair determined to sail for Europe by the next steamer. He blew out the lamp, locked the door, and started, walking more briskly now, in the general direction of the livery stable. Still thinking and debating, in spite of his brave determination, he had reached a point just beyond the Campton cottage on the lower road when he heard a sound which caused him to awaken from his nightmare. A thick dump of silver-leaf saplings bordered the road at his left and in their black shadow he saw a bulk of shadow still blacker, a shadow which moved. He walked across to investigate.

As he came near the shadow assumed outline. A two-seated carriage and a pair of horses. He recognized the outfit at once. The horses were the Townsend span and the carriage the Townsend “two-seater.” He could scarcely believe it. What on earth were they doing there, on the lower road, at this time of night—or morning?

The idea that the span might have run away, or wandered off by themselves, was dispelled when, upon examination, he found them attached by a leather hitching strap to the stockiest of the silver-leaf saplings. This, of course, but made the puzzle still harder to answer. Who had brought them there? Varunas alone; or Varunas acting as driver for Foster Townsend? But, if Townsend had come to one of the few houses on that part of the road, where was Varunas, who would, naturally, remain with the horses? And if Varunas had come alone—why? And there was no dwelling within fifty yards of that spot.

Bob turned and looked up the road. The nearest house was that occupied by Henry Campton, father of Carrie Campton whom Bob knew slightly and had seen that evening in the “Pinafore” chorus at the town hall. The Campton cottage was on the other side of the way, but its windows were dark. He turned to look in the opposite direction and as he did so, he heard, from somewhere behind him, a door close softly. Turning once more, he saw a figure walking rapidly toward the spot where the span was tethered.

Bob started to walk away and then hesitated. He was curious, naturally. If the person approaching was Captain Foster Townsend he had no wish to meet him; but if, as was more probable, the person was Varunas Gifford then he was tempted to wait and ask what he was doing there at two o’clock in the morning. So he remained in the shadow by the carriage. It was not until the newcomer was within a few feet of him that the recognition came. The man who had come out of the Campton house was neither Townsend nor Gifford, but Seymour Covell.

Covell did not recognize Bob. It was not until the latter moved that he grasped the fact that there was any one there. Then he started, stopped and leaned forward to look.

“Who is that?” he demanded, sharply. Bob stepped out from the shadow.