HELEN WEIR IS FOUND.
The old man’s first words came in the form of a question. “Where are
the rest of ’em?”
Renfro did not attempt to answer. To force an issue the old fellow was
tempted to use gruffness but a look deep into Renfro’s steely blue eyes
told him that would be a waste of time. The boy couldn’t be frightened
into telling anything. Better treat him as he would a man.
“You scraped them off the window pane?”
This time Renfro answered, “Yes.”
“I knew some one had when I read the newspaper about the knife
scratches,” the old fellow was talking like a human being, and not in
the gruff disagreeable tone he had used up to this time. To be exact
he seemed to be getting some pleasure out of talking to some one who
had recently come from town and who knew the town’s version of the
kidnaping affair.
“And I knew it was you,” the talker was measuring wits with Renfro, “as
soon as I saw you staring at me, out at that hot dog shop.”
His voice was triumphant. He rose from his half sitting, half kneeling
posture and came over to Renfro. Turning him over roughly he went into
his pockets, pulled out all of the contents, and carried them to the
lantern. He was so busy examining them, that he could not see the look
of elation on Renfro’s face, followed by one of apprehension toward his
cap which was on the floor not far from his pallet.
With a surge of joy Renfro realized that it was muddy and dilapidated
and torn. In that condition it would not receive any attention. No, the
hiding place of the missing eyebrows was safe.
The fact that his search was unsuccessful made the old man quite angry.
He threw the things he had taken out of Renfro’s pockets to the floor,
and came back to the boy. “You didn’t destroy them.” There was no
question but just a simple statement.
Renfro was silent. “Well you’ll tell me where they are and I’m goin’ to
git them tomorrow.”
Again silence. For some reason or other the old man did not seem to
care to argue. He merely stared at Renfro, curiosity keen in his deep
eyes. And was it imagination or did Renfro actually see a gleam of
admiration in them as he stood and stared?
The door opened and the old woman’s voice, now weary and fretful, put
forth a question, “Does he want anything to eat, Bart?”
Renfro answered for himself--a courteous “No, ma’am--I thank you.”
The same voice with its touch of queerness mumbled something about it
bein’ late, and she was sleepy, and for Bart to come out and leave the
boy alone. Then Bart threw another cover on Renfro, took the coal oil
stove in one hand, the lantern in the other and followed her through
the door.
And Renfro was left in black darkness. The cover on him warmed him and
he began to feel drowsy. He was too tired to wonder what the folks were
doing at home now that it was time for him to be missed, or to regret
the fact that he had not taken time to tell Mary of the find he had
made in Captain Pete’s cabin the night before.
He didn’t wonder whether or not they would start a search for him.
He was thinking of his route. Who would Morrison send out tomorrow to
carry it for him? And would he find his list of new customers? And
would they remember to take the three charity turkeys to the parsonage
and--
There was a sharp bark in the next room. Renfro’s heart surged with
joy. He was not alone in the cave. He had a friend as a fellow
prisoner. That bark came from Lang Tammy. And after it a girlish voice
said sharply, “Can’t you see Tammy’s half starved to death? He wants
milk--don’t you, Tammy?”
And Renfro twisted until the throngs cut down into his flesh. That
voice belonged to no one else but Helen Wier. She was in the cave
too--just on the other side of the partition from Renfro.
At exactly the same time Judge Wier and Henry Horn were in council with
the detectives at the police station. After Renfro had gone an hour
from the Horn home a search had been instituted for him. Inquiry at the
Globe office had failed to give them any evidence except the number of
the house from which the complaint had been sent.
A hurried trip out there and Mr. Horn and Morrison, who had come to
his aid in looking for Renfro, discovered that the complaint call had
been cleverly faked. Their suspicions were fully established. But still
they did not give up hope. They called up all the homes of Renfro’s
friends, they had both the house and office of the Globe ready to send
out relief calls if Renfro should happen to appear.
But hours passed, and there came to the two men no news. And then they
had gone to the police station. Judge Wier was summoned and the two
fathers went into close conference.
They, with the detectives, decided that for the sake of their search,
after both Helen and Renfro, that it was best not to let the town
know of Renfro’s disappearance until evening--not even Mrs. Horn. The
detectives wanted a chance to start a well organized search.
Early attempts to hunt Helen had been hindered by the crowd of people
who had collected as soon as the news of her kidnaping had spread.
Scores of foot tracks around the fateful house, all made by the curious
persons, had made it impossible for footprints to furnish a clue.
Cleverly Mr. Horn concocted a story for his wife about Renfro’s going
home with Morrison to do some extra work, early in the morning. When he
told her about it she was very much out of humor and condemned paper
routes in biting language.
“If she only knew the truth,” Mr. Horn thought to himself and trembled.
Some time the next day she would know the truth.
Mary Dugan, dead tired, heard the story and believed it without a
qualm. She was sorry Renfro had to do the extra work. That meant just
one more day for her to feed the turkeys, which he had said belonged to
the church.
Morrison in turn had gone out to the Bruce home, and Bruce, after
hearing the story, had gone straight to the city editor. Together they
mapped out the course they would follow. Their noon edition would
contain a story of the kidnaping--that would be their scoop, and early
in the afternoon they would send more detectives to help the local ones
in the search.
Then Bruce and Morrison departed to their individual homes and went to
bed.
But neither Henry Horn nor Mary Dugan slept much that night. The
detectives had assured Mr. Horn that they would soon find Renfro, that
his kidnaping had given them definite proof that Helen Wier had been
taken by local criminals. They would start an investigation from a new
angle.
In the morning, of course, he would not go to work, just seemingly do
that, so as not to disturb his wife. He would show those kidnapers that
he was not a slow man to deal with like Judge Wier had been. He would
prove to them they couldn’t--
And directly above them Mary Dugan had hunted her Bible, read her
Golden Text for next Sunday and was fumbling with the family pictures.
And then she remembered the missing eyebrows. She opened the book at
page 222, the one next to which she had put them.
And then she fell back with a low cry. The packages were gone. There
was not even one white hair left.