“I can ease your mind on that. I had a short talk with Porter Tuesday, and I think he's a little ashamed of himself. He told me that he was against that kidnapping scheme and that he has broken with McNally. Probably Miss Porter has had a talk with him by this time,—I don't see how they could help it,—and if she has, I guess some of her ideas have changed a little.”
Jim paused, but as Harvey stood facing the mantel without speaking he went on:—
“There's just one thing for you to do, West. You go down there and begin all over again. If she's got any pride, she won't write to you—Why, man, any girl would expect—You've got to! Understand? You've got to!”
As he spoke Jim rose and stood erect; then, as Harvey still was silent, he took to pacing the floor. Harvey was looking, not at the picture, but through it into a calm summer night on the river, when Katherine had given him that first glimpse of herself, the woman he loved and was always to love. He saw her beside him in the trap, watching with bright, eager eyes the striding bays, and later tugging at his watch-fob. He saw her in the gray twilight, bending down over him and saying in that low thrilling voice: “We don't know what may happen. We only know what is right for us now.” As he slowly turned around he felt a mist come over his eyes and he was not ashamed. Jim stopped and stood looking at him. Harvey asked simply,—
“Can you spare me over Sunday?”
“You'd better go to-morrow.”
“But the work?”
“I don't want to hear about that,”—Jim's voice was gruff,—“you take the morning train. Don't come back till you're ready.”
Their eyes met in embarrassed silence, then Harvey sat at the table and wrote a few words.
“Will you have your man send that tonight?” he asked, handing it to Jim. “It's a telegram.”