TIDINGS OF THE FUGITIVE.
IT was not until Bradley Wentworth was on board the train that was to
bear him to Chicago that he drew out the letters which he had secured
through the agency of Standish and examined them.
He almost leaped from his seat in anger and disappointment.
“They are fraudulent, and not worth the paper they are written on,”
he at once decided. “And I have actually given that scoundrel three
hundred and fifty dollars for them. Why didn’t I take the precaution to
examine them before handing over the money?”
He examined them again. They might be fraudulent, for the handwriting
was not his, but they were word for word similar to the genuine letters
which he had written many years since to Warren Lane. The question
arose, Who had copied them? Was it Standish? He dismissed this
supposition as very improbable, and adopted the theory that the genuine
letters were not in existence—that Warren Lane had given these to his
son as a record of what had passed between himself and Wentworth.
“In that case,” he reflected with satisfaction, “the boy has no
hold upon me. I have only to deny all knowledge of the letters and
stigmatize them as part of a conspiracy to extort money from me on
false charges. It is worth three hundred and fifty dollars to find this
out.”
So Wentworth’s anger was succeeded by a feeling of satisfaction.
“It is better to pay three hundred and fifty dollars than a thousand,”
he reflected, “and that was the sum I was ready to give Gerald. On the
whole my meeting with this fellow Standish was a fortunate one. I shall
destroy these letters, and with them will perish the only evidence of
my crime.”
When Mr. Wentworth reached home he found among his letters the
following written in a regular schoolboy hand:
“DEAR SIR:
“Your son Victor and I are in hard luck. We are staying at a poor
boarding-house in Kansas City, and have only enough money to pay this
week’s board. I have sent to my guardian for a remittance, and expect
it within a few days, but Victor’s money gave out some time since.
As I know you are a rich man I do not feel called upon to pay his
expenses. I shall have only enough left for myself.
“Will you telegraph money at once to Victor, No. 125 H. Street, and I
will advise him to take the money and go home.
“Yours respectfully,
“ARTHUR GRIGSON.”
Bradley Wentworth read this letter with a mixture of feelings. He had
been very anxious about his son, but he was not a soft-hearted man, and
now that he knew him to be alive his heart hardened.
“He hasn’t suffered enough,” he said to himself. “If I forgive him
too quickly he will do the same thing again. He has dared to disobey
me, and he must be made to understand that he has been guilty of a
serious offense. This fellow Grigson has the hardihood to suggest that
I telegraph money to Kansas City. If I should do so he would probably
claim a share of it, and instead of returning, the two would very
likely continue their journey.”
Under the influence of these feelings Mr. Wentworth wrote the following
letter:
“MR. ARTHUR GRIGSON:
“You have done me the honor to write me suggesting that I should
telegraph money to my son, who took the bold step of leaving
the school, where I had placed him, without my permission. Your
letter contains no expression of regret for this flagrant act of
disobedience, and I assume that neither you nor Victor feels any. No
doubt you find it inconvenient to be without money, and it naturally
occurs to you to apply to me. You may say to Victor that as he appears
to think himself independent of me, and has shown a disregard for my
wishes, I think it may be well for him to keep on a little longer. I
do not feel under any obligation to help him home from Kansas City,
since he went there without my permission. Whenever he returns home,
and shows proper regret for his disobedience I will consider what I
may be disposed to do for him.
“BRADLEY WENTWORTH.”
Hard as his nature was Bradley Wentworth did not send away this letter
without momentary compunction. So far as he was capable of affection
he was attached to his son. But he was a man who required implicit
obedience, and Victor’s flight had excited his sternest indignation. He
was a proud man, and was not willing to show signs of softening though
he really yearned to see his absent son.
He held the letter in his hands undecided whether to send it or not,
but pride finally gained the ascendency, and he dropped it into the box
in which he deposited his outgoing mail.
“He will see that I am not to be trifled with,” he soliloquized, as he
closed his lips firmly.
So the letter went on its cruel mission.