“Then we will show this letter.”
Mr. Spaythe reflected a moment.
“You are right,” he decided. “It will be best that the money is restored by me, acting on behalf of Judge Ferguson’s estate, rather than by some one else. The only thing I fear is that they will claim I induced Toby to give it up.”
“Won’t they accept your word—and mine—and the letter, sir?”
“Perhaps. We will risk it. Will you come with me now? It’s growing late.”
Phoebe rose with alacrity. Mr. Spaythe took his hat from a hook, locked the door leading into the bank and, when they were outside, locked the street door also.
“Since the disappearance of that box I am growing cautious,” he said.
The old Clerk shanty stood quite beyond the village at a bend in the river, but even at that the distance was not so great that a fifteen minute walk would not cover it. Mr. Spaythe and Phoebe walked briskly along, both silent and preoccupied, and presently had left the village and turned into a narrow but well trodden path that led across the waste lands or “downs,” as they were called, to the shanty.
But before they reached it a group of men came rushing out of Toby’s house, gesticulating and talking together in an excited manner. Among them were Lawyer Kellogg and Sam Parsons, the constable.
Mr. Spaythe stopped short, an angry frown upon his face. Phoebe halted beside him, feeling so disappointed she was near to crying. They waited for the others to approach.