Both of these men left the train at Bingham, but they did not follow the owner of the steel works, who crossed the tracks and proceeded pensively toward the offices.
Mr. Jordan nodded as usual when his employer entered, and then calmly resumed his work. Mr. Williams entered his private office and looked through the mail before going home to dinner.
Annabel thought that her father kissed her more tenderly than usual that evening; but she did not refer to their secret, nor did he mention it in any way.
Mr. Jordan partook of his usual frugal meal at the hotel, and then started for his walk. The commercial traveller was smoking a big cigar upon the porch as the secretary passed out, but Mr. Jordan did not notice him. He walked down the road as far as the Carden house, turned up the lane, and with measured steps and upright form pursued his way to the grove and through it. At one point he stopped and listened. Everything was still among the trees, except that a thrush sent a last wailing note after the dying sun. Mr. Jordan seemed satisfied. He left the path and walked calmly to an oak tree, where he passed his hand rapidly over the surface of the bark.
It was all done in an instant, and as he afterward proceeded on his way he had no idea that a plainly dressed stranger had been standing behind a clump of bushes watching his every movement.
The next day Mr. Williams was at the office as usual, but when Mr. Jordan sent a clerk to ask for a conference about some of the business details his superior answered that he was too busily engaged to see his secretary.
Mr. Jordan seemed surprised and uneasy, but he said nothing.
In the afternoon a telegram was laid upon Mr. Williams’s desk. He opened it indifferently, but a moment later sprang to his feet with a cry of delight.
It read: “Arrived in New York today. Night train to Bingham. Be with you tomorrow. Mrs. Williams, who, with my son, accompanies me, quite well. JOHN CARDEN.”
“Excellent!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together in an ecstacy of joy. “The hand of fate is surely in this. Or,” and here he bowed his head reverently, “perhaps my little girl is right, and it is the hand of God!”