“Your loving Erminie.”
Billy stared at the sheet a long time, turning it over and over, and scrutinizing the envelope as if he might make it tell him something more. What could it all mean? Who had sent her that letter? Planned her movements so carefully and forged his name? And the money? He didn’t see yet how she could have got it out of the drawer at school even if she did have a key.
Twenty-four! An old fellow that Will was. He wasn’t really her cousin either. Billy set his teeth and wished he were free to set out on a search for her. The letter was postmarked Portland, Oregon. The other had been the same. But of course the place where she was must be the country, and some distance too, or she would not call the people hayseeds.
Suddenly the task of finding a girl somewhere in the State of Oregon with nothing but that postmark to guide him revealed to him its hopelessness; and too restless to sleep he went out and walked,—faster and faster, without realizing it, going south.
With every step the puzzle grew worse. Only one grain of comfort showed: Erminie’s letter would prove him no thief. Why, yes! that really fastened the proof on him, and worse, showed that he was taking care of her. That was no way out of the tangle.
Who could be using his name for this business? Of course, no one but the Kid, and he was too cunning to be caught. And where was that key? Would some of the boys get it, and never know where it came from? And the desk drawer—whose would it be when September found that silent old pile ringing again with a thousand student voices?
At length he found himself in the southernmost park of the city, not so very far from Tum-wah. Exhausted, he threw himself on one of the benches, drawing well within the shadows that he might, unmolested, go over again all the matters that troubled him.
While he mused, he became gradually conscious of voices approaching, and he was sensible of some ominous import in them. He knew they were Italians. Instantly he dropped to the grass and crept behind the bench, intending to go on as soon as they passed.
They were quarrelling, but speaking in guarded tones, vehemently. Billy heard broken bits, “More, more,” and “Thousand dollars,” in English; and in Italian, names of places he knew were in Italy. But nothing excited him till he heard, “the boss,” and “in the lake!”
The Black Hand! That had put its mark on Mr. Smith! Well, even the Black Hand might find its mate in a white one!