The eleven o’clock train was an hour late that day and Foster Townsend’s temper was not improved by the delay. He had had a wearisome, trying session since leaving home the previous afternoon, the culmination of a week of trial and worry. Millard Clark’s “important business” had come as a new and most disturbing shock to his mind. The greater part of the mystery concerning the accident to Seymour Covell was a mystery no longer, but there were some points still unexplained. He knew now how Covell had been hurt and where, but he did not know—nor could Clark tell him—why his guest had driven the Townsend span to that spot at that hour. That troubled him. Any reason which his imagination could furnish was not reassuring. Then, too, his meeting with Covell, Senior, in Boston was not altogether a pleasant memory. The Chicago man had not breathed a word of reproach or blame, but Townsend felt himself to blame nevertheless. The young fellow had been put in his charge; he had, in a way, assumed responsibility for his safety and his actions. The accident was bad enough, but if behind it was something disreputable—why, that was worse.
And, beside this was the question of the obligation owing Bob Griffin. The hints and rumors concerning Bob’s part in the happenings of that night were whispered everywhere. He, himself, had heard no direct accusations, but they were certain to be made. He could prevent them by telling the truth, and compelling Millard to tell it, but that would not stifle curiosity, merely headed in other directions. The two young men were fighting—but why? And, more than all, why was Covell there? Scandal, scandal, and more scandal! And his niece’s name sure to be coupled with it.
How much should he tell Esther? Or should he tell anything—yet? These were his chief perplexities at the moment. He had believed, his own desire prompting the belief, that Esther had broken with Griffin for good and all and that if she had ever cared for him she did so no longer. But, as she had heard the rumors—he knew, from her own lips, that she had—if he should tell her as much of the truth as he now knew, Elisha Cook’s grandson would immediately become, in her eyes, a martyr. Perhaps a dangerously fascinating martyr, unjustly accused and sacrificing himself to shield some one else. And, convinced of that, she might— Oh, who could tell what a romantic girl of her age might do!
He reached a determination and the Harniss station at the same time. He would tell her nothing for a while. Griffin was leaving for Europe almost immediately. After he had gone—was out of the way and beyond recall—then he could tell, and he would.
Varunas and the span were waiting at the platform and Varunas had a telegram in his hand. It, the telegram, was not a sedative for Foster Townsend’s nerves or temper. It was from his lawyers requesting his presence at a very important meeting in their Ostable office that afternoon. He must attend; his presence was necessary.
He jammed the telegram into his pocket and swore aloud. Varunas heard him and turned on the driver’s seat.
“Eh?” he queried. “Did you speak, Cap’n Foster?”
“No.”
“Didn’t ye? Funny! I thought I heard you say my name.”
“Humph! You flatter yourself.... You’ve got to drive me to Ostable to-day, it seems. Be ready to start right after dinner. Esther’s at home, I suppose; eh?”