“Uncle!” he cried, as the elderly gentleman took his hand in a warm, strong grip. “Somehow, I had a feeling that you’d come—especially when I got no reply to my telegram. I’m very glad to see you.”
Richard Burwin was an unemotional man, as a rule. But there were tears behind his glasses as he said brokenly:
“Stan, my boy, I knew all about it. I know more than you do. That fellow Burnham was pretty slick, but not quite slick enough for the old man. I had his measure from the first. However, he’s dead, so——”
“Dead?”
“Yes. He was smashed all to pieces. Crushed almost to a jelly. Dreadful thing, of course. But he got it when he tried to crowd you off the track—or kill you. I don’t believe he cared what he did. His mechanician will get well they say.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Stanley earnestly.
“So am I,” came from Richard Burwin. “I am told he confessed, when they carried him off the track, and when he thought he was dying, that he had stolen a package of twenty thousand dollars from you when you were at the track before you started for New York in your car.”
“Stole it?” cried Stanley, dazed.
“Yes. He changed it on you. Common trick among crooks, you know. The old green-goods game! So you had only a bundle of worthless paper, with a real bank note on the outside, in your car pocket. That’s what went to the bottom of the lake. The money is safe, the fellow says. We’ll get it back when we’ve seen him at the hospital, and got his formal confession. Now, let’s get away from here. We’re going to take luncheon with Ranfelt—an old friend of mine—Prentiss, and Miss Ranfelt——”
“Why, Mr. Downs, won’t you let me congratulate you?” broke in the sweet voice of Helen Ranfelt. “I have been trying to do it all the time you have been talking to Mr. Burwin.” Then, in a lower tone, that only Stanley could hear: “You know how much this means to me. I am horrified at Mr. Burnham’s death. But—wouldn’t it have been dreadful if he had won the race?”