David cleared his throat.
“You mean, then, that there is danger of such
a revival?”
“I think there is,” Gregory said bitterly.
“I recognized this man last night, and called
a fellow who knew him in the old days, Saunders, our
stage manager. And a newspaper man named Bassett
wormed it out of Saunders. You know what that
means.”
David heard him clearly, but as though from a great
distance.
“You can see how it appears to Bassett.
If he’s found it, it’s the big story
of a lifetime. I thought he’d better be
warned.”
When David said nothing, but sat holding tight to
the arms of his old chair, Gregory reached for his
hat and got up.
“The thing for him to do,” he said, “is
to leave town for a while. This Bassett is a
hound-hog on a scent. They all are. He
is Bassett of the Times-Republican. And he took
Jud—he took your nephew’s automobile
license number.”
Still David sat silent, and Gregory moved to the door.
“Get him away, to-night if you can.”
“Thank you,” David said. His voice
was thick. “I appreciate your coming.”
He got up dizzily, as Gregory said, “Good-evening”
and went out. The room seemed very dark and unsteady,
and not familiar. So this was what had happened,
after all the safe years! A man could work and
build and pray, but if his house was built on the sand—
As the outer door closed David fell to the floor with
a crash.
Bassett lounged outside the neat privet hedge which
it was Harrison Miller’s custom to clip with
his own bachelor hands, and waited. And as he
waited he tried to imagine what was going on inside,
behind the neatly curtained windows of the old brick
house.
He was tempted to ring the bell again, pretend to
have forgotten something, and perhaps happen in on
what might be drama of a rather high order; what,
supposing the man was Clark after all, was fairly
sure to be drama. He discarded the idea, however,
and began again his interested survey of the premises.
Whoever conceived this sort of haven for Clark, if
it were Clark, had shown considerable shrewdness.
The town fairly smelt of respectability; the tree-shaded
streets, the children in socks and small crisp-laundered
garments, the houses set back, each in its square
of shaved lawn, all peaceful, middle class and unexciting.
The last town in the world for Judson Clark, the
last profession, the last house, this shabby old brick
before him.
He smiled rather grimly as he reflected that if Gregory
had been right in his identification, he was, beyond
those windows at that moment, very possibly warning
Clark against himself. Gregory would know his
type, that he never let go. He drew himself up
a little.
The house door opened, and Gregory came out, turning
toward the station. Bassett caught up with him
and put a hand on his arm.
