“Why, no one,” stammered the squire, taken aback by her directness, “but I of course inferred it, knowing that Tom had no money of his own.”
“Then you inferred a mistake,” said Mrs. Thatcher. “The place is not mortgaged.”
“You don’t say so!” said Simpson, more than ever bewildered.
“I do not propose to mortgage my place at present.”
“When you do,” said Simpson, recovering himself, “come to me. I will do as well by you as any one.”
It would indeed have suited him to obtain a lien upon Mrs. Thatcher’s humble homestead, that he might have her in his power.
She neither said yes nor no, but “I will bear in mind your offer, Mr. Simpson.”
He walked slowly away, puzzling over the problem of where Tom obtained his money. Was there some one behind who backed him? Was there some one who had sent him to California, and, if so, why? He must know whether Tom had gone there.
Now, the postmaster had obtained his office through Mr. Simpson’s influence, and was therefore likely to do him a favor.
“Mr. Jackson,” he said, when alone with that functionary, “does Mrs. Thatcher write to her son Tom?”