He lit a cigarette, and for several minutes contemplated wreaths of smoke, without moving. Suddenly he leaned forward, took a fresh dip of ink, and scribbled:
"DEAR BERT:—You are a fool to stay away,—unless, perhaps, you no longer care for the girl."
Without adding his signature to this offhand communication, he enclosed it in an envelope, and addressed the same to Hemming, care of his New York publishers.
CHAPTER VII.
HEMMING RECEIVES HIS SAILING ORDERS FROM A
MASTER NOT TO BE DENIED
Stanley was taken to a private lunatic asylum, and, for all we know to the contrary, his seafaring friend went along with him. Hemming and Tarmont looked through his papers, and found that his father was living (and living well, too) in Toronto, Canada. He was a judge of the Supreme Court, no less. They wrote to this personage, stating the crazy man's case, and in reply received a letter containing a request to enter the patient at a private asylum, and a substantial check. The judge wrote that he had not seen or heard from his son for seven years, and, though he had always been willing to supply him with money, had been unable to discover his address. He arrived in New York soon after his letter,—a big, kindly man with white hair and red cheeks, and a month later took his son home with him. That was the last Hemming saw or heard of Stanley,—of the man to whom he owed more than he had knowledge of.
O'Rourke's affairs went along merrily. He wrote and sold stories and poems. His name began to appear each month on the cover of a certain widely read magazine. Everything was in line for an early wedding and a career of happiness "for ever after."
One morning, while O'Rourke was hard at work, Hemming, who had gone out immediately after breakfast, returned to their sitting-room and laid a red leather case on his friend's manuscript. O'Rourke completed a flowing sentence, and then straightened up and opened the case. A very fine brier-root pipe was disclosed to his view.
"Where did you steal this?" he inquired.