Very soon after that the other cars arrived.
They drew up and men emerged from them, variously
clothed and even more variously armed, but all they
saw was the ruined embers of the barn, and in the glow
five figures. Of the five one lay, face up to
the sky, as though the prostrate body followed with
its eyes the unkillable traitor soul of one Cusick,
lately storekeeper at Friendship. Woslosky,
wounded for the second time, lay on an automobile rug
on the ground, conscious but sullenly silent.
On the driving seat of an automobile sat a young
gentleman with an overcoat over a pair of silk pajamas,
carefully inspecting the toes of his right foot by
the light of a match, while another young gentleman
with a white handkerchief around his head was sitting
on the running board of the same car, dripping water
and rather dazedly staring at the ruins.
And beside him stood a gaunt figure, blackened of
face, minus eyebrows and charred of hair, and considerably
torn as to clothing. A figure which seemed disinclined
to talk, and which gave its explanations in short,
staccato sentences. Having done which, it relapsed
into uncompromising silence again.
Some time later the detectives returned. They
had made no further captures, for the refugees had
known the country, and once outside the light from
the burning barn search was useless. The Chief
of Police approached Willy Cameron and stood before
him, eyeing him severely.
“The next time you try to raid an anarchist
meeting, Cameron,” he said, “you’d
better honor me with your confidence. You’ve
probably learned a lesson from all this.”
Willy Cameron glanced at him, and for the first time
that night, smiled.
“I have,” he said; “I’ll never
trust a pigeon again.” The Chief thought
him slightly unhinged by the night’s experience.
CHAPTER XL
Edith Boyd’s child was prematurely born at the
Memorial Hospital early the next morning. It
lived only a few moments, but Edith’s mother
never knew either of its birth or of its death.
When Willy Cameron reached the house at two o’clock
that night he found Dan in the lower hall, a new Dan,
grave and composed but very pale.
“Mother’s gone, Willy,” he said
quietly. “I don’t think she knew
anything about it. Ellen heard her breathing
hard and went in, but she wasn’t conscious.”
He sat down on the horse-hair covered chair by the
stand. “I don’t know anything about
these things,” he observed, still with that
strange new composure. “What do you do
now?”
“Don’t worry about that, Dan, just now.
There’s nothing to do until morning.”
He looked about him. The presence of death gave
a new dignity to the little house. Through the
open door he could see in the parlor Mrs. Boyd’s
rocking chair, in which she had traveled so many conversational
miles. Even the chair had gained dignity; that
which it had once enthroned had now penetrated the
ultimate mystery.
