“But—but it’s not that.” She seemed undecided. There was a strange hoarseness in her voice as she turned her face to his.
“Johnny, you know my father.”
“Yes,” he replied simply, “I know.”
He spoke the truth, as you will know if you have read that other book, The Arrow of Fire. Johnny did know Newton Mills. He knew that he had been one of the finest detectives the city of New York had ever known. He knew, too, that after many years of service he had fallen as a last sacrifice to the battle against crime. Johnny had done much to reclaim him.
“You know,” Joyce went on, “that he can never again fill a post on a city detective force. His nerves are too far gone for that. We are poor. The depression reached us. We were in despair. Then this opportunity came. He may never have told you, but he was in the Yukon gold rush. He found no gold, but instead, a lifetime hobby—the study of minerals. These studies have fitted him for the work he is now doing. This opening came. He took it. I came to be with him.”
She said “with him” softly, did this slim, dark-haired girl. She loved her father.
“And now,” her tone changed, “now it’s all over.” There was no bitterness in her voice, only weariness, the long, long weariness of one who has battled long for a great and noble cause, only to feel that defeat lies directly ahead.
“I can’t see it that way.” Johnny spoke calmly. “The work can go on. If something really comes of it, your father will receive his full share.”
“But who would want a share of anything obtained by dishonest means?” The girl’s cheek flushed.
“Well,” Johnny replied quietly, “in the first place, I doubt if all three of the young men working with your father know of the theft.”