A FORTNIGHT later Wayne cut the twine that held the key of his desk to Walsh’s lamp. The publicity attending his search for Joe at Denbeigh had driven him away, and he had gone quietly back to Pittsburg and taken his place in the glass pilot-house with Walsh. The newspapers had not neglected him; he had spent a small fortune at the Florence colliery in securing the body of a young miner who had been his friend, and the event was not without its spectacular value. When Wayne left Denbeigh a great crowd gathered at the station and cheered him, and there was no suppressing this; and the shame of it was that he could not explain to a public anxious to praise him the truth about Joe’s death—that it was only through loyalty to himself that Joe had gone back to Denbeigh and donned again the miner’s cap—that Joe had sunk his own aims to serve and guard and protect him.
Wayne had taken a room at the Allequippa Club and lodged next to Walsh. He had visited his father both at his office and at home, and he knew from Walsh that the outlook for the Craighill interests was brightening daily.
A few days after his return Wayne dined at the Club with Walsh and Wingfield. Wingfield was almost insufferably arrogant now that Wayne had become a hero, and he took occasion to snub persons who had never seen anything in Wayne but the dissolute son of a distinguished father, and who now declared that Wayne was a good fellow, but that he had been his own worst enemy—and so on. It pleased Wingfield to have men ask him for the facts touching Wayne’s recent exile, and on all inquiries he turned his eye-glasses coldly. People who had been prone to kick Wayne need not trouble themselves to praise him now—this was all they got out of Dick Wingfield as he sipped koumiss in his particular corner of the Allequippa smoking room, and studied the men of Pittsburg with a mild and philosophic eye.
As they drank their coffee to-night a telegram was handed Walsh. He read it slowly.
“Um! I got to go up to your father’s,” he said, and left them a few minutes later.
“That man’s my despair!” sighed Wingfield after Walsh’s stout figure had vanished through the door. “I’d give a good deal to be able to carry off the mysterious as Tom does. With most of us life is just one long explanation; Tom never explains anything—he just says ‘Um!’ and lets us guess.”
Wayne smiled. He was again clean-shaven, as we knew him first, and he was lean and rugged.
“I don’t think Tom can teach you anything, Dick, but what a dear old brick he is! His ways at the office would tickle you; he thinks the hands are all in mortal terror of him, but they’re not—they love him most when he roars the loudest.”
Walsh took a trolley to the East End, and was soon asking for Mrs. Craighill. She sent word that she would be down in a moment, but a quarter of an hour passed before she appeared. Walsh sat grimly waiting; once or twice he drew the telegram from his pocket and scanned it impassively. He was so lost in thought that he did not hear her light step, and he stumbled awkwardly to his feet as she stood before him. She had been weeping, and the smile she gave him was not without its tears. He did not know that for an hour she had hoped he would come, or that his presence gave her a sense of mingled trust and fear. Ever since the day of the sleigh-ride thoughts of him had tantalized her; his kindness to her husband, of which she had been aware, had puzzled her—he had visited the house often for conferences with his former chief.
“I didn’t come to see the Colonel this time; I want to see you alone, Mrs. Craighill.”