BURTON'S TURN
The surgery, whatever claim it may originally have had to the title,
appeared now to be the doctor's den and smoking-room. Mrs. Bussey
indicated that he would find the doctor there, and Burton did not
attempt to conceal from himself the pleasure with which he discovered
that Leslie was with her father, and that she gave no sign of any
intention to beat an immediate retreat.
"How is my patient?" he asked, with an elaborate assumption of the
popular physician's "bedside manner."
"Mighty glad to see you," said Dr. Underwood, with a look that made
the words go home. "Leslie and I have been sitting here cultivating a
magnificent crop of the blues. There was trouble enough before, but
this affair--"
"Is the best possible thing that could have happened, because it will
bring matters to a crisis," answered Burton. "I told you that I am
firmly convinced that your son is innocent, and I hold to that belief
in spite of the unnatural conduct of his father in feeling
discouraged. I have been talking with Mr. Underwood in the jail."
"Did you get any satisfaction out of your conversation?" asked the
doctor dryly. "If you did, I'll engage you as my official
interpreter."
"Not very much concrete satisfaction, perhaps, but a good deal of
subjective reassurance. I am firmly convinced that he is the victim,
first, of his own pride and bitterness, and, second, of some
unscrupulous enemy, who is taking advantage of the state of the public
mind to throw unmerited discredit upon him."
"That's what Leslie says. But how are we going to make it clear to the
world at large? And things have now reached a point where the world at
large will have to be taken into the family confidence to a
disconcerting extent. Leslie, I wish you were married and overseas."
Leslie looked as though it might be a relief to her to allow her
spirits to droop, but at this challenge she lifted her head gallantly.
"Then you would put me to all the trouble and expense of a trip back
overseas to come to you," she said promptly. "Counsel to run away from
trouble doesn't come with a good grace from you, father. You have
never set me the example."
"You see what influence I have over my children," said the doctor,
appealing to Burton.
"I'm beginning to see. My sympathies go out to you. Let us talk of
some less distressing matter. For instance,--Miss Hadley." He glanced
from one to the other as he spoke the name, but in neither face could
he read the slightest consciousness. A curious impulse of masculine
loyalty to Henry made him hesitate to divulge the secret which Henry
had evidently guarded so carefully that it was unsuspected by his
family. "I have just been calling on Miss Hadley," he added, in lame
explanation. "I wanted to get some further particulars. But that
really should be the work of your son's lawyer, Doctor, and that's
what I specially wanted to consult with you about. I want your
permission to send for a real lawyer,--a big man who will bring the
very best skill and experience to the case. You won't object?"
The doctor hesitated a moment before he answered.
"Is a big man necessary if the case is to turn on facts? Frankly, I
can't afford a big lawyer, you know. I'd rather take a local man with
a sickly family, so that I could work it out in bills! I know it
sounds sordid, but that is the mercenary, habit of the world, and I
can't hope to change it out of hand. I should be perfectly willing to
ignore matters of that sort, but--the big lawyer wouldn't."
"I see," said Burton, recognizing that one of the impossibilities in
the case was any offer of financial assistance on his own part.
"Perhaps you are right. If we can simply establish the facts, we
shan't need any hired eloquence to present them. They will speak for
themselves. Well, we will establish the facts."
"But how? How?" demanded Leslie eagerly.
"I have one or two fragmentary theories in my mind. In the first
place--"
But he got no farther, for there was suddenly an alarming clash and
clatter in the back hall. Both Burton and Leslie sprang for the door
But the sight that met their eyes was not nearly so alarming as the
noise. It was merely Mrs. Bussey, gathering up the broken pieces of a
starch box which lay in curious proximity to a kitchen chair which
stood in curious proximity to the transom of the door to the surgery.
"I was jest a-trying to get down them cobwebs," she gasped, and
retreated hastily to the safe precincts of the kitchen with the
unreliable box.
Burton took up his theme as though he had not been interrupted,
deeming it wisest to take no further notice of this curious domestic
situation.
"Your son does not wish to take advantage of his unquestionable
privilege of bail," he said to the doctor. "He goes on the theory that
things will continue to happen and that he will therefore be cleared
by implication. I can't say I feel sure of it. This unknown enemy
seems to be quite astute enough to suspend operations while Mr.
Underwood is under lock and key, merely to avoid giving him the
vindication which he would like to secure in that way. But perhaps it
might be as well to let him carry out his plan for a time. It will
probably give you a temporary respite from further disturbances."
"Even that will be gratefully received," said the doctor wearily.
"It will at least give us time," said Burton.
And then, feeling that his friends needed to be taken away from the
thought of the burden which they were carrying, he turned the
conversation upon impersonal matters. He deliberately laid himself out
to be entertaining,--and the effort was more of a compliment than they
were apt to realize. When finally he said good night, he had to admit
that he had enjoyed the evening very much. Of course it wouldn't do to
ask Miss Underwood if she had had as good a time as he had,--but at
any rate she had not looked bored. But then, she could hardly have
told a man to his face that she found him dull!
His thoughts were running along after this idiotic fashion when he
became aware that a man was following him in the street. He noticed it
at first merely because the street was otherwise so entirely deserted,
and it did not occur to him that the man was actually dogging him
until he had turned a corner or two, and found that the man did the
same. Then he slackened his pace and the man fell back. By this time
he began to be curious. He took a couple of unnecessary turns, and
satisfied himself that the pursuit was no accident. Then he turned
sharply on his heel and made a jump toward his pursuer. But the man
dodged, jumped from the sidewalk, and ran off between two buildings.
The incident puzzled Burton, and made him somewhat uncomfortable. High
Ridge was a place of mysteries. Also, he reflected, it was a place of
very few policemen. Was his pursuer a common street bandit, with
designs on his purse, or was he connected with the Underwood mystery
and the warning that had been sent him at the hotel? The thought made
him square his jaw. Did they think to frighten him off? He would let
them see!
He had turned aside from his most direct route to the hotel in this
experiment, and he now found himself in a street with which he was not
familiar, though he knew the general location. He turned in the
direction where his hotel must be, and was glad to hear no longer the
sound of feet behind him. Suddenly from the shadow of a large business
block, a man sprang out from a driveway and jumped at him. The attack
was so sudden and so fierce and Burton was so unprepared that for a
moment he was borne backward and almost carried to the ground. How he
recovered himself he could not have told. The primitive instinct of
the fighting animal awoke within him, and perhaps some of the acquired
skill of his college days came back. He knew that he was fighting for
his life, for the hand that he had clutched held a knife, and there
was no mistaking the vicious energy that his assailant was exerting.
Burton answered with a strength that he had not known he possessed. He
felt the man's body yielding inch by inch under his clutch, and then
suddenly it slipped away from his hands, and the man darted off and
disappeared into the night, leaving Burton panting and dishevelled and
very much amazed. He had never before had occasion to defend his
life,--he had always taken for granted that civilization would take
that burden off the hands of any decent man. And yet here, in a quiet
little village, where he was practically unknown, he had been assailed
by some one who really wanted to kill him. He was quite sure that the
man's object had not been merely thievish. His attack was personally
vicious.
Suddenly he remembered how he had kept Selby cooling his heels in Miss
Hadley's back parlor while he amused himself with Miss Hadley, and the
satisfaction he had taken in the situation faded into a rather serious
inquiry. Selby was a man of violent temper who had no occasion to love
him. But did he have occasion to hate him to the death? If so, there
could be but one reason. He feared his investigations.