THE PHOTOGRAPH
Benton King sat in his office at the mill, opening the morning mail,
which had just been brought him by a boy. His face wore a heavy frown,
and he ripped open the envelopes viciously with the steel paper cutter.
The sounds of the mill――the creaking of the windlass drawing the big
sticks up the run, the scream of the saws tearing through logs, the
pistol-claps of fresh-cut boards tossed flatly upon other boards by the
laborers――annoyed him, and he rose and kicked shut the connecting door,
which had been left slightly ajar.
Resuming his seat at the desk, his eye fell on a square, flat package
at the bottom of the letters remaining unopened, and he caught it up
eagerly.
“Ha!” he breathed, after looking at the address. “Fletcher’s
handwriting! He got it! This is what I sent for.”
Even as he was tearing off the wrapper, however, hesitation and fear
came upon him. What if it should not be what he wanted? What if the
photograph he knew the wrapping contained were not that of the man he
had accused? The possibility gave him a gripping throb that was keen as
the thrust of steel.
“It must be,” he muttered huskily. “I can’t be wrong. He has put up a
big bluff, but he’s the man.”
His hands were not wholly steady as he finished removing the wrapper
of brown manila. The picture was faced with cardboard, and this he
flung aside, revealing the printed likeness that had been caught by the
camera. Snatching it up, he turned eagerly to permit the light to fall
full upon it. His face flamed with triumph; his mouth opened, but no
sound issued forth; his clenched fist rose and fell on the desk as if
the blow settled the doom of a mortal foe. After a time he laughed; it
was not a pleasant laugh.
Presently, when he had gazed until satisfied that even the most obtuse
or most obstinate could not behold it and express a doubt as to the
almost perfect likeness of the picture to the man who called himself
Tom Locke, a likeness far stronger than a mere verisimilitude, he
turned again swiftly to the letters that had not yet been opened.
Running them over, he selected one on which the writing corresponded to
that upon the wrapper that had been removed from the photograph. No
time was wasted in opening it.
NEW YORK, June 28, 19――.
DEAR BENT: Found an opportunity yesterday to run out to
Princeton and get the photograph of Paul Hazelton, which you
desire so urgently, and I am sending it under separate cover,
letter rates, so it will travel along without delay. Why didn’t
you tell me more fully what you want of the thing? Night
letters by wire are cheap, and even a brief explanation would
not have left me puzzling my brains in weather that will hatch
eggs without the assistance of either setting hen or incubator.
You’re lucky to be up there in the open pastures on the border
of the big woods, where you can breathe without fancying you
are stoking an Atlantic liner.
Crisply,
FLETCH.
“Good old Fletch!” chuckled Bent. “I’ll write him about it later. He
has done me a great service, and Janet, also. This settles the matter
beyond any question or dispute.”
He looked at his watch; it was nine-thirty. Late enough for him to see
Janet, he decided, and, thrusting the letter and the photograph into
his pocket, he rose from the desk, leaving the remainder of the mail
unopened.
The screams of the mill saws followed him into the streets of the town,
and at times it seemed as if their cries of conquering triumph took
on something resembling entreaty or warning, but his hurrying feet
did not falter, and soon he was ringing at the parsonage door. The
white-capped maid answered and said she would find out if Miss Harting
could see him. He entered and waited.
He did not have to wait long before Janet appeared, his heartstrings
giving a tug as he beheld her in a simple morning gown. In her blue
eyes there was a look of wonder, not wholly free from apprehension.
“I――I could hardly believe you were here――so early,” she said, scanning
his face as if seeking to find there some explanation of this unusual
call. “Has――has anything happened?”
“I beg your pardon for coming at this hour,” he returned, “but I simply
couldn’t wait. I hope you understand me and believe me, Janet, when I
say that I am your sincere friend, something I hope to prove to your
entire satisfaction. Taking the privilege of a friend whose motives
cannot be questioned, I must tell you how much I regret having seen you
yesterday with the man who calls himself Locke.”
Her face did not harden, for there was nothing of hardness in her
nature, but it changed, warning him that he was treading on most
dangerous ground. She lifted her hand quickly, retreating a step.
“If that is what brings you here, I am sorry you came. I met Mr. Locke
quite by accident while out walking with the children. Jimmy Bryant
cut his foot frightfully on a broken bottle, and Mr. Locke bound it up
and brought him in to the doctor. I hardly know why I should make this
explanation.”
“You could not be seen with the man without arousing more or less
comment, and you should know what the gossips of this town will say.”
“Mr. Locke has satisfied me that he is a thorough gentleman, and
unwarranted gossip of narrow-minded persons who are eager for something
to talk about cannot frighten me.” The color was in her cheeks now.
“A gentleman!” cried Bent, losing his head for a moment. “That
two-faced sneak a gentleman! That man who has boasted already that,
as you happen to be the prettiest girl in town, he proposes to amuse
himself with you! He thinks himself a crusher, the sort that girls get
stuck on. He has the post-card photograph of one now, who signs herself
‘Tid,’ doubtless a silly creature he has flattered and fooled with his
lying tongue. And now he proposes to get you on the string and――”
“Stop, Benton King!” Her cheeks had lost the flush, and there was
something in her voice he had never heard before. “Whatever your
motive, you are making a blunder. How do you know these things you are
saying?”