Gordon climbed into his saddle at last, and smiled round at her.
"I'm learning more than I ever guessed I'd learn when I left New York. I've learned a heap of things, and you've taught me most of them. Sometime I'll have to tell you all you've taught me, and then—and then, why, I guess maybe you'll wonder." He laughed as they moved off. But somehow Hazel kept her eyes averted.
"Now for the enchanted tunnel again," he cried, in a less serious mood. "More enchantment, more delight! And then—then to the serious criminal work we have on hand. Criminal. It sounds splendid. It sounds exciting. We're conspirators of the deepest dye."
CHAPTER XVII
THE CODE BOOK
It seemed as though Peter McSwain never did anything without perspiring. He perspired now with the simple effort of thought. But it was a considerable effort and a considerable thought. He crowded more of the latter into five minutes, he assured himself, than a bankrupt Wall Street man could have done on the eve of settling day. The object of his thought was the telegraph operator and the subject of it the interesting thesis of bribery. Then, too, there were the side issues, which included David Slosson, a telegraph message, and two men waiting at the other end of things for the result of his share in the proceedings.
He made no attempt at pleasant conversation with the row of guests lounging with feet skywards on the shady veranda. For the time at least the affairs of his hotel were quite secondary. It seemed to him just now that these men were the misfortunes of a commercial interest. They were the things that kept him living concealed beneath an exterior of polite attention which he detested. He had never had a chance of being his real self until this moment. There was work of a delicate nature to be performed, work which was to prove his ability in those finer channels where individuality would count and genuine cleverness must be displayed. A lot was depending upon his capacity.
This feeling inspired him, and the dew on his forehead became a moist and shallow lake that was already overflowing its banks. At the end of five minutes, after having seen David Slosson leave the telegraph office and move off down the Main Street, this lake became a streaming torrent as he left the veranda and passed round to the back of the hotel.
This retrograde movement was a part of his deeply laid plans. He had no object in visiting either his barn or his kitchens. The Chinese cook possessed no interest for him at the moment, and as for the hens and the team of horses, and his lame choreman who tended them, they had never been farther from his thoughts.