The locomotive bell clanged remotely. It was very still, and Mr. Webster G. Burgess, president of the White River National Bank, stood there under a canal bridge with the arms of a sobbing girl round his neck! Under all the circumstances it was wholly indefensible, and the absurdity of it was not lost upon him. Drake had bolted, and all this scramble with the ex-convict and his sweetheart had come to naught.
“He’ll get away; he was desperate and he didn’t trust me. He didn’t even wait for the money Gordon sent me!”
“Oh!”—she faltered, and her breath was warm on his cheek—“that wasn’t Drake!”
“It wasn’t Robert Drake?” Burgess blurted. “Not Drake?”
“No; it was Bob, my stepbrother. He got into trouble in Kentucky and came here to hide, and I was trying to help him; and I’ll miss Robert—and you’ve spoiled your clothes—and they shot at you!”
“It was poor shooting,” said Burgess critically as the red feather brushed his nose; “but we’ve got to clear out of this or we’ll be in the patrol wagon in a minute!”
It was his turn now to take the initiative. His first serious duty was to become a decent, law-abiding citizen again, and he meant to effect the transformation as quickly as possible. He began discreetly by unclasping the girl’s arms.
“Stop crying, Nellie—you did the best you could for Bob; and now we’ll get out of this and tackle Drake’s case. When that wagon that’s coming has crossed this bridge we’ll stroll over to Senate Avenue, where my car’s waiting, and beat it.”
IV
The policemen had been pried out of the ice and the search continued, though the spirit seemed to have gone out of it. The scouting party had scattered among the grim factories along the railway tracks. Bob had presumably been borne out of the zone of danger and there was nothing more to be done for him.