THE WIDOW CANBY'S MONEY
I am sure my readers will well understand why my thoughts were busy as
the train rolled on its way to Newville. I could hardly realize that I
held the proofs of my father's innocence in my possession; and I was
strongly tempted several times to ask my kind Western friend to pinch
me to make sure that I was really awake, and was not merely dreaming
my good fortune.
Mr. Harrison probably guessed what was passing in my mind, for he
placed a kindly hand upon my shoulder, and said, with a smile:--
"Does it seem almost too good to be true?"
"That's just it," I returned. "The events of the past week have so
crowded on each other that I'm in a perfect whirl."
"You will have a little more excitement before it is over."
"I suppose so. But now that I know it is all right I shall not mind
it. I wonder if I couldn't send my father the good news by telegraph?"
"You can easily enough. But don't you think you had better wait until
all is settled? You might raise false hopes."
"No fear; Aaron Woodward is guilty beyond a doubt. But I will wait if
you think best."
It was not long before the train rolled into Newville. On alighting
Mr. Harrison insisted on hiring a cab, and in this we bowled swiftly
on our way to Darbyville. As we passed out of the city and up on the
country road I wondered how matters had progressed during my absence.
Had the merchant returned home?
At Darbyville a crowd of men gazed at us with curious eyes. Among them
was Parsons the constable and others who knew me.
"Hello, you back again?" shouted Parsons.
"Yes, indeed," I replied. "I suppose you didn't expect me so soon?"
"I'll allow as how I didn't expect you at all," he returned, with a
grin.
"Well, you were mistaken. I'm back, and back to stay," said I.
My heart beat high as we turned into the side road that led to the
Widow Canby's house. I strained my eyes to catch sight of the first
one who might appear. It was my Uncle Enos. He was doing a bit of
mending on the front fence. As soon as he saw me he threw down his
hammer, and ran toward us.
"Well, well, Roger, struck port again, have you? Glad you're back."
And he shook my right hand hard.
"My friend, Mr. Harrison, from Chicago," said I. "This is my uncle,
Captain Enos Moss."
They had hardly finished hand-shaking, when Kate and the Widow Canby
came out of the house.
"Oh, Roger, I'm so glad you're back!" cried Kate. And then she looked
earnestly into my eyes. "Did you--did, you--"
"Yes, Kate, I've succeeded. Father's innocence can be proven."
"Oh, thank God!" cried my sister, and the tears of joy started from
her eyes. I felt like crying, too, and soon, somehow, there was hardly
a dry eye in the group.
"You must have had a hard time of it," sail the Widow Canby.
"My kind friend here helped me a good deal," I said.
Mr. Harrison was introduced to the others, and soon we were seated, on
the piazza, and I was relating my experiences.
The interest of my listeners grew as I went on. They could hardly
believe it possible that Mr. Aaron Woodward, with all his outward show
of gentlemanliness, was such a thoroughly bad man. When I came to
speak of John Stumpy, alias Ferguson, Kate burst out:--
"I declare, I've almost forgotten. I've got good news, too. This very
morning I went hunting again and picked up the paper that was lost. I
was trying to read it when you drove up. Here it is."
And my sister handed over Nicholas Weaver's dying statement.
"It is hardly of use now," I said. "Still, it will make the evidence
against Mr. Woodward so much stronger."
"I've discovered that this Nick Weaver was a chum of Woodward's," said
Uncle Enos.
"A chum?"
"Yes. He came from Chicago."
"From Chicago!" I ejaculated.
"Exactly."
Meanwhile Mr. Harrison was examining the statement, which Kate had
produced from her dress pocket.
"I see it all," he cried. "Nicholas Weaver was the man who helped
Holtzmann concoct the scheme whereby a relative in Chicago was
supposed to have died and willed Aaron Woodward all his money."
"I see. But why did he leave the statement?" I asked.
"Because, he says here, Woodward did not treat him right. This
Ferguson or Stumpy was a friend to Weaver, and the paper was gotten up
to bring Woodward to terms."
That explanation was clear enough, and I could easily understand why
John Stumpy had come to Darbyville, and how it was the merchant had
treated him with so much consideration.
"And there is another thing to tell you, Roger," put in the Widow
Canby. "Something I know you will be greatly pleased to hear."
"What is it?" I asked, in considerable curiosity.
"I have evidence to show that this John Stumpy was the man who robbed
me of my money. Of course I knew it was so when Kate and you said so,
but outsiders now know it."
"And how?"
"Miles Nanson saw the man running from the house. He was hurrying to
get a doctor for his wife, who was very sick, and he didn't stop to
question the fellow."
"But why didn't he speak of it before?" I asked. "He might have saved
us a deal of trouble."
"He never heard of the robbery until last night, his wife has been so
sick. He can testify to seeing the man."
"I'm glad of that," I said. "But unfortunately, that doesn't restore
the money."
"No, I suppose not. This Stumpy still has it."
"No; he claims to have lost it," I returned, and I related the
particulars as I had overheard them in the boarding-house on the
opposite side of the Pass River.
"I wish I could find it--the money, I mean--as I did the papers,"
put in Kate.
"Where did he jump over the fence?" I asked suddenly.
"Down by the crab-apple tree," said Uncle Enos.
"Have you looked there?" queried Mr. Harrison.
"No," said Kate; "you don't think--" she began.
"There is nothing like looking," said my Western friend, slowly.
"I guess you're right," I replied, "and the sooner the better."
In a minute I was out of the house. Kate was close on my heels, and
together we made our way to the orchard, followed by the others.
"Now, let me see," I went on. "If he went over the fence here he must
have vaulted over. I'll try that, and note how the money might have
dropped."
I placed my hands on the top rail and sprang up to vault over. As my
head bent over, my eyes caught sight of an object lying in the hole of
the fence post.
I picked it up. It was the Widow Canby's pocketbook.