The steady gaze shifted to his companion, held there compellingly. "In other words, is a tragedy any less a tragedy, any more public property, because the actors are dead? Answer me honest, Grannis."
Impassively as before the overseer shook his head. "No, I think not," he said. "Let the dead past bury its dead."
A moment longer the other remained motionless, then, before his companion realized what he was doing, Ben had opened the door of the sheet-iron heater and tossed the paper in his fingers fair among the glowing coals.
"Thank you, Grannis," he said, "I agree with you." He stood a second looking into the suddenly kindled blaze. "As you say, to the living, life. Let the dead past bury its dead."
The flame died down until upon the coals lay a thin, curling film of carbon. Grannis shifted in his seat.
"Nevertheless," he commented indifferently, "you've done a foolish act." A pause; then he went on deliberately as before. "You've destroyed the only evidence that proves you Rankin's son."
Involuntarily Blair stiffened, seeming about to speak. But he did not. Instead, he closed the stove and resumed his former seat.
"By the way," he digressed, "I just received a letter from Scotty Baker. I wrote him some time ago about—Mr. Rankin. He answered from England."
Grannis made no comment, and, the conversation being obviously at an end, after a bit he rose, and with a taciturn "Good-night," left the room.