He sat down, heavily, staring at space under knitted brows. Minute after minute passed. The distant laughter and clamour of guests came fitfully from the great kitchen beyond. It rained and rained on the veranda roof.
After a quarter of an hour the detective came in from the porch.
“You got a telephone, Mr. Odell?”
The farmer nodded.
“I want to call up my mate at the mill——” looking around the sitting room and finally locating the instrument. “What’s the mill number?”
“Seven.”
He gave the crank a turn; the metal bell jingled.
After a few moments he got his mate. He talked rapidly in a low, clear voice. Odell heard without listening or understanding. The detective hung up.
“Say,” he said, “that fellow’s gone. He won’t come back here. He’s gone!”
“What say?” mumbled Odell, wiping away the sweat.