"This fellow Burt said his partner thought a lot of you."
"It's strange," Helen looked up reflectively, "that a cold-blooded
murderer like that would have turned over my brother's things--would
have sent anything back at all."
"I _made_ him," said Sprudell.
"I'm too shocked yet to thank you properly," she said, rising and giving
him her hand, "but, believe me, I do appreciate your disinterested
kindness in making this long trip from Bartlesville, and for total
strangers, too."
"Tut! tut!" Mr. Sprudell interrupted. "It's nothing--nothing at all; and
now I wish you'd promise to dine with me this evening. I'll call for you
if I may and bring the money and the letter and picture. From now on I
want you to feel that I am a friend who is always at your service. Tut!
tut! don't embarrass me with thanks."
He accompanied her to the door, then stepped back into the parlor to
watch her pass the window and cross the street. He liked her brisk,
alert step, her erect carriage, and the straight lines of the dark
clothes she wore mightily became her slender figure. "Wouldn't a girl
like that"--his full, red lips puckered in a whistle--"wouldn't _she_
make a stir in Bartlesville!"
Sprudell returned to his task, but with abated enthusiasm. A vague
uneasiness, which may have been his conscience, disturbed him. He would
write furiously, then stop and read what he had written with an
expression of dissatisfaction.
"Hang it all." He threw his work down finally, and, thrusting his hands
in the pockets of his trousers, paced up and down the floor to "have it
out." What could the girl do with the place if she had it? It was a
property which required money and experience and brains to handle.
Besides, he had committed himself to his friends, talked of it,
promoted it partially, and they shared his enthusiasm. It was something
which appealed intensely to the strong vein of sensationalism in him.
What a pill it would be for his enemies to swallow if he went West and
made another fortune! They might hate him, but they would have to admit
his brains. To emerge, Midaslike, from the romantic West with bags of
yellow gold was the one touch needed to make him an envied, a unique and
picturesque, figure. He _could not_ give it up. He meant to be
honest--he _would_ be honest--but in his own way.
He would see that the girl profited by the development of the ground. He
would find a way. Already there was a hazy purpose in his head which, if
it crystallized, would prove a most satisfactory way. Sprudell sat down
again and wrote until the prospectus of the Bitter Root Placer Mining
Company was ready for the printer.