For awhile neither of us spoke. Then he said, speculatively:
"Folks give all sorts of things to the church—dedicate them in gratitude for favors they fancy they've received, don't they? Lamps, and models of ships, and glass eyes and wax toes and leather hands, and crutches and braces, and that sort of plunder? Well, I'm moved to make a free-will offering myself. I'm going to give the church my kit, and you can take it from me the old Lady will never get her clamps on another set like that until Gabriel blows his trumpet in the morning. Parson, I want you to put those tools back where you had them, for I shall never touch them again. I couldn't. They—well, they're sort of holy from now on. They're my IOU. Will you do it for me?"
"Yes!" said I.
"I might have known you would!" said he, smiling. "Just one more favor, parson—may I put her letters in her hands, myself?"
"My son, my son, who but you should do that?" I pushed the package across the table.
"Great Scott, parson, here it is striking five o'clock, and you've been up all night!" he exclaimed, anxiously. "Here—no more gassing. You come lie down on my bed and snooze a bit. I'll call you in plenty of time for mass."
I was far too spent and tired to move across the garden to the Parish House. I suffered myself to be put to bed like a child, and had my reward by falling almost immediately into a dreamless sleep, nor did I stir until he called me, a couple of hours later. He himself had not slept, but had employed the time in going through the letters open on his table. He pointed to them now, with a grim smile.
"Parson!" said he, and his eyes glittered. "Do you know what we've stumbled upon? Dynamite! Man, anybody holding that bunch of mail could blow this state wide open! So much for a hunch, you see!"
"You mean—"
"I mean I've got the cream off Inglesby's most private deals, that's what I mean! I mean I could send him and plenty of his pals to the pen. Everybody's been saying for years that there hasn't been a rotten deal pulled off that he didn't boss and get away with it. But nobody could prove it. He's had the men higher-up eating out of his hand—sort of you pat my head and I'll pat yours arrangement—and here's the proof, in black and white. Don't you understand? Here's the proof: these get him with the goods!