“Why did you lift him into that carriage all by yourself?” asked one persistent visitor. “Should have thought you’d have run somewhere for help or somethin’.” Bob replied that he guessed he had not thought of it. The interviewers departed not entirely satisfied. “He ain’t told the whole story. Holdin’ somethin’ back, that young feller is,” was the consensus of opinion.
One of the callers at that studio the second day after the accident was Foster Townsend himself. Bob was not surprised to see him there. He knew that Seymour Covell’s host would not be satisfied with hearsay particulars, but would, sooner or later, seek first-hand information and that he—Bob—must be ready to supply it.
He had had time to consider his problem and to reach certain definite conclusions. When, on that fateful night, or morning, he had dragged Seymour Covell from beneath the horses’ hoofs, his first impulse was to run to the nearest house for help. But the nearest house, the only house in that immediate vicinity, was that belonging to Henry Campton. Covell had, but a little while before, come from that house. A dim light was burning even yet in one of its upper windows. If Covell were taken there, if people learned that it was opposite that house the span had been left standing—well, the whole story, or a story, exaggerated and maliciously twisted, would spread from one end of the town to the other. Bob knew Carrie Campton slightly, knew her to be something of a rattle-head and very much of a flirt, but to risk subjecting her name and reputation to the innuendoes and wicked sneers of the gossip of Harniss seemed to him too mean to consider, if there was another alternative.
And even then, as he stood there, with Covell lying senseless and bleeding at his feet, there was forced upon him the realization that far more than this must be considered. There were other names—his own, of course, but he was in it and must go through with it somehow. He was bound to be talked about. But Esther Townsend must not be. No one knew of the accident yet—no one save himself—and Covell, if the latter should ever know anything again in this world. No one else knew where it happened, nor of the quarrel leading up to it. They must not know. He was quite aware of the local sensation which his frequent calls at the Townsend house had caused. And since those calls ceased and Esther was seen so much in Seymour Covell’s company, sly hints had been dropped in his presence to the effect that the visitor from Chicago had “cut him out.” If he should tell the whole truth, of the meeting with his reputed rival and their quarrel—why— No, the truth must not be told, nor must any one discover it. So he had dismissed all idea of seeking help, had lifted the unconscious man to the carriage seat and driven carefully and quietly away. It was not until he turned the corner and was safe upon the main road that he began to hope the secret—the dangerous portion of it—might remain undiscovered.
The story he intended telling Foster Townsend was to be a combination of truth and what he considered justifiable falsehood. The truth dealt with his decision to go to the studio, his stay there and his leaving just before two. And this he did tell without hesitation.
“But what in the world brought you down to this forsaken roost in the middle of the night?” asked the captain.
“Oh, I don’t know. I had a few things to see to here. And—well, I didn’t feel like going home, right away. It does sound ridiculous, I admit, but it is true.”
Foster Townsend rubbed his beard. He had learned of Griffin’s presence at the hall and he could imagine what the young man’s feelings must have been during the performance. He had long since made up his mind that Bob and Esther had quarreled that evening after he and Seymour Covell left them together in the library and, because it had broken off the highly undesirable friendship between the two, he was glad. It was sure to happen some time. His niece was a Townsend, and therefore possessed of the Townsend quota of common sense, and he had never really believed she could feel any sincere affection for a “Cook.” The break was inevitable and it had providentially come in time to cancel the necessity for the “plain talk” he had intended having with her had the intimacy continued. And, because Griffin was no longer a pestiferous nuisance to be reckoned with, so far as Esther and his plans for her were concerned, he was inclined to be tolerant with the young fellow—yes, even a little sorry for him.
“Um-hum,” he said, reflectively. “I see. You came down here to be alone and—well, sort of think things out. Is that it?”
Bob glanced at him in surprise. “Why—yes,” he admitted. “That was just it.”