HOMEWARD BOUND
Tom’s sensational discovery seemed to take the edge off his new resolve
in the matter of his duty. Kind fate had taken the matter out of his
hands. But he had made his resolve before that discovery. And right or
wrong he gloried in his independent decision. He thought of Audry with a
kind of bravado.
But all thoughts now were subservient to his new and urgent duty.
Hurrying to the local headquarters of police, he told hurriedly of his
harrowing discovery, laying the manuscript before the official on duty.
For a few terrible minutes he thought they were going to hold him. But
they seemed in the end to be impressed with the straightforwardness of
his narrative and let him go after taking his name and address. One of
them recognized him as assistant at Temple Camp and doubtless that fact
saved him the exasperation of being detained. He said nothing about
Whalen for he saw no reason to do so. He would bring Whalen into the
light, but in his own way. He wished to manage that end of it. His brain
was seething with plans.
Now that he had gotten the burden of his discovery and its startling
revelation off his mind and into the proper hands, his one thought was
to reach the mountain before the countryside was ringing with the news.
The officials had darkly warned him that they might want him any time.
He caught a train down to Kingston, had a bite to eat there, then
started for the mountain on foot. It is a long walk over the fine
highway from Kingston to West Hurley, but he was accustomed to long
hikes, and his excitement gave him an elastic energy. He recalled that
Billy the sailor had tramped all the way from Poughkeepsie. His
tumultuous thoughts beguiled the journey like a circus. He seemed to be
on springs. Twin lights came rapidly along from both directions, now and
then a horn honked its warning, once he called asking for a lift but got
no answer; he did not care.
“They, the powers that be,” he panted, “know where the culprit—the real
culprit—is, and I’ll take care of my end of it—all right, all right.” In
his exhilaration it never occurred to him that he had revealed the
whereabouts of the murderer of Henry Merrick and might, technically, be
entitled to the reward. He was, at least, the means of exposing the
ultimate sequel of that old crime.
But he did think of the—thing out there on the river, lying face upward.
And he could not repress a certain measure of pity when he thought of
those days of wistful waiting; waiting for the drought to bring the
ghost of old West Hurley once again to light.
But these were not pleasant thoughts for a lonely wayfarer at night. So
he thought of Mr. Fairgreaves, the courtly, the magnificent Mr.
Fairgreaves. Well, he would see them all in the morning....
It was midnight when he reached West Hurley and he was not yet tired. He
realized how futile was his steady, rapid stride. He could not sleep
when he reached the cottage. And he could not see any one before
morning. Why hurry? He conquered his nerves and resolved not to hurry.
While West Hurley slept, Tom walked down to the shore of the reservoir.
The moon shone upon it and the shimmering area of the vast storage lake
looked like a golden island. Not a sound was there. If the water was
low, he could see no sign of it on the near shore.
Somewhere under that water, in old ruined masonry, was a box with
valuable papers. It seemed preposterously romantic—like buried treasure.
And a poor stricken wretch with the stigma of old crime upon him had
waited and waited for the stubborn water to subside—and had died
waiting.
Three deaths so far—and sorrow and homelessness. And folks away off in
the great city of New York turning on their faucets, and watering their
lawns, and putting out their fires with this same water, and never
thinking, never knowing....