He turned away. He and Reggie had not shaken hands. In spite of the service Joe had rendered he could not help feeling that young Varley harbored some resentment against him.
“And if it’s her jewelry that is missing, with his watch, and he tells her that he suspects me—I wonder how she’ll feel afterward?” mused Joe. “I wonder?”
Mabel held out her uninjured hand, and Joe took it eagerly. The warm, soft pressure lingered for some little time afterward in his hardened palm—a palm roughened by baseball play.
“Good-bye,” she said, softly. “I can’t thank you enough—now. You must come and get the rest—later.”
“I will,” he said, eagerly.
“Here is my card—it has our address,” spoke Reggie holding out a small, white square. “I trust you will come—soon.”
“I shall try,” said Joe, with a peculiar look at his accuser. “And I’ll drop you a card about the horse.”
Reggie helped his sister into the auto, and they drove off, Mabel waving a good-bye to Joe. The latter stood for a minute in the field, looking at the disappearing auto. Then he murmured, probably to the horse, for there was no other sign of life in sight:
“Well, you’ve gone and done it, Matson! You’ve gone and done it!”