The Man from Jericho Part 17

They did, in a firm grasp.

"Now to business," resumed the speaker, producing a black briar pipe and filling it slowly from a "hand" of natural leaf which lay on the top of his desk. "You're a banker, Dillard. How's a fellow to transfer money to another fellow and not let the other fellow nor anyone else in the world know anything about it?" The round face before him broke into a smile, at the same time becoming thinly veiled by the smoke of a light cigar.

"That takes me back to school," he answered. "It sounds exactly like one of those puzzle problems in arithmetic which I used to sweat and groan over. It's about as hard, too, don't you think?"

"Harder, by far. It seems impossible on the face of it, but it must be done. You're the banker; you can't expect me to teach you your business.

I'll give you half an hour to solve it. In the meantime I'll be thinking, too, just for mind culture."

"You'd better think of something closer to hand, for I'll never unriddle it."

"Not another word for half an hour!" commanded John, placing his open watch upon the table between them. "We'll pa.s.s this night in silence periods of thirty minutes duration each, then have five minutes recess after each, unless one or the other has solved the great question. It is now ten-thirty. Aren't you sorry you came in?--To work!"

He tilted his chair, elevated his heels to the other end of the table, let the long-stemmed pipe sink between his two hands, and lapsed into a meditative silence.

Dillard kept his feet on the floor, probably because of his extra amount of flesh, and likewise endeavoured to think. Just as the first half hour was up the figment of a tenable plan floated into Glenning's brain.

"How goes it?" he asked, squinting across at the placid face of his friend.

"Slow. You're right; it's worse than arithmetic."

"I've started," announced John, quietly elated. "Give me another thirty minutes, and I believe I can let you go home."

"Proceed," was the laconic reply, and again silence.

Glenning, searching desperately about in his mind, had really hit upon an entirely feasible way to carry out his idea. The project quickly developed as he brought his brain into active service, and long before the time he had asked for had expired, it was all clear, and ready to his hand.

"There's no use wasting further time in reflection, my boy," said John, suddenly lowering his feet and swinging around. "Listen, and I'll a tale unfold."

"I'm listening. You're a wonder if you've got it straight."

"There's not a hitch in the whole thing. Here's my plan. I can't write my name on the back of this piece of paper, walk in your bank and request the teller to place it to the credit of Major Dudley. That would cause comment, and Major Dudley would naturally and rightly refuse to touch a cent of it. And I would be in bad odour with them and the community. My plan is to make Major Dudley deposit this money himself."

He stopped for a moment to enjoy the look of undisguised curiosity and blank amazement on Dillard's face.

"Now I know something of the family history, in spite of the fact that I have but recently become a citizen of the town. There was a brother, you perhaps know this also, who went west many years ago, and disappeared soon after. They suppose he died long ago, and very likely he did, but for our purposes we will say he died last week. He was on his way back to Kentucky, to see his brother once more in the flesh. He reached St.

Louis, and was taken ill. His sickness a.s.sumed a malignant turn, and he realized that he must die. He sent for a reliable lawyer, who happened to be my college friend and chum, Will Porter. While not attaining riches, this brother, Arthur Dudley, had something over two thousand dollars in cash with him. The surplus was enough for his board, doctor bill, lawyer fee and burial expenses, and he had Porter purchase a draft with the two thousand left, payable to his brother in Kentucky. This draft Porter forwarded to Major Dudley, with a brief letter explaining all the circ.u.mstances. Now if you don't think I'm a first-cla.s.s rascal with a long head for schemes I don't know why. Can you find a flaw in this skein of base duplicity?"

Dillard rose to his feet and slowly shook his head.

"You're a marvel. You've got it. When are you going to do this?"

"Tonight. Now. We'll have to explain the whole thing to Porter, but he's true as steel, and will do his part without fail. Two days for my letter to go to St. Louis; two for his to get back. Major and Miss Dudley will be relieved of their financial embarra.s.sment the fourth day from tomorrow!"

John took a pen and endorsed the draft to the order of his western friend in a firm, bold hand, free from flourishes.

Ten minutes later Dillard was gone, and by the light of a smoky lamp a man sat driving a pen frantically across sheet after sheet of paper. He had to make things plain, or Porter would think his mind had gone wrong.

He wrote feverishly, and soon the message was done, sealed and addressed, with the draft inside. He looked at the envelope for several moments fixedly, then suddenly he sighed, cast his arms across the table and let his face fall in them, his laced fingers writhing and an inarticulate prayer falling from his lips. The old phantom had returned, even as he wrote--that dread night visitant which had robbed him of so many hours of sleep, and planted gray streaks about his temples. It came tonight with its eyes of languor and its scented hair and its smile of temptation--to drag him back! Its power was awful; its presence so real.

Would not his present act be some expiation for his past weakness? Would it not serve to help banish this haunting vision which still sought to claim him?

CHAPTER XI

Julia slept soundly and sweetly, but awoke early and arose at once. It was an awful thing--this sudden transition from carefree, blissful girlhood into woman's estate, with the attending hardships and strange trials which she had to face. Her plan of action for that morning was not at all clear. She merely knew that she was going to face a desperate and wicked man who had wofully mistreated her and her father. She conceived this to be her duty, and there was no shrinking or hanging back in her soul when she thought of it. But as she combed her hair into place and put on a flowered muslin--she could not wear her riding habit, because her expedition must be kept from her father--she did not know what she would do, or say, when she came before Devil Marston. Her face grew hot as she thought of the swiftly approaching encounter, but this only heightened her unusual beauty. That moment, for the first time in her life, she wished that she was plain. Her beauty had not brought her love or happiness, but had cursed her instead with the obnoxious attentions of a beast in the shape of a man. Concealing the revolver in the folds of a light wrap, she went down stairs. The Major had not risen. Swiftly she pa.s.sed through the library and dining-room, and entered the kitchen. Aunt Frances' fat person was bustling about, and breakfast was in preparation.

"Good morning, Aunt Frances!" said Julia, cheerily; "where's Uncle Peter?"

"Mawnin', missus--whar he allus is 'cep'n' w'en he's sleepin'--foolin'

roun' dat colt ob a Prince!"

There was a degree of asperity in the old colored lady's speech, coupled with an ominous shake of the head. But Julia had been accustomed to the family difficulties upon which Peter and Aunt Frances throve, since infancy, and she paid no heed to the present demonstration of a ruffled temper.

"Thank you," she answered, sweetly. "I want to see him, so I'll run down to the smoke-house."

She pa.s.sed onto the small kitchen porch as she said this, and here the old negress' voice halted her. There was a protesting, plaintive, sad inflection in the one word--

"Missus?"

Julia stopped and turned abruptly, vaguely alarmed.

"Yes, Aunt Frances?"

"Missus, de flour bar'l done gone plum', clean em'ty; de side meat goes dis mawnin' foh breakfus', 'n' de meal bar'l ain' much bettuh. I done kotch a chick'n foh dinner yistiddy, but de Ma.s.sa lub his biscuit breakfus', dinner, _en_ suppuh!"

"You are right to tell me when things get low," she answered bravely, but in a peculiarly low voice. "I'll send Uncle Peter into town with an order this morning. Be careful not to let the flour run out completely again."

"Bress dat chile!" exclaimed Aunt Frances, lifting the corner of her ap.r.o.n to her eye as Julia disappeared. "I wonduh ef she t'inks she's foolin' her ol' mammy? Hain't I lived heah always, 'n' hain't I seen dis house go down 'n' down 'twell now hit mos' tech rock bottom? Some'in's gwi' drap, sho! But me 'n' Peter'll be hyar w'en it comes!"

She tossed her turbaned head, and, stanch old Methodist that she was, began crooning a "'vival" tune, wherewith to bolster up her sinking courage.

Julia came to a standstill in the smoke-house doorway. Within, with his back to her, stood Peter. A curry-comb was in one hand, and a brush in the other. He had evidently come to a halt while making The Prince's morning toilet, to spend a few moments in silent contemplation and admiration. He had withdrawn several feet from the satin-sleek form of the young colt, and reposed in an att.i.tude of adoration, his skinny, ridged neck stretched towards the object of his devotion. Julia was compelled to speak his name twice before he heard her. Then he turned with his customary profound bow, and greeted her deferentially.

"Uncle Peter, I want The Prince this morning," she said, coming straight to the point, for she knew too well the old fellow's garrulousness to attempt circ.u.mlocution. He would have kept her there till noonday.

Now this was the first time Julia had ever said she would ride The Prince, and the wilfully deafened ears of Peter refused to recognize this first declaration.

"Mom--missus--mom?" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, bending slightly from the waist and looking up at her keenly and suspiciously. "D'ye say de Prince look well dis mawnin'? 'Deed he do! He's had he breakfus' 'n' a good rub down--not quite finished, though. I's tekkin' a breathin' spell w'en you come.

Hahd wuk foh an' ol' nigguh gittin' de duht 'n' stuff off'n a hoss w'en he's slep' in it. 'Scuse me, missus, 'n' I'll finish wid 'im now!"

Peter was sly and Peter was jealous. He heard plainly enough what his mistress had said, but he could not bear to think of the colt leaving his sight, even for a short time. His subsequent harangue was given simply to cause his mistress to forget her idea, or to forego its execution. He now approached the colt and began a vigorous attack upon its flank and hind legs, where there was no particle of dirt, and no hair out of place.

"Uncle Peter!" called Julia, firmly, "did you not hear me?"

"Yas'm'; I heah yo', missus!" he replied, between grunts. "I's proud you's pleased wid de way de Prince looks. Oh! he's peart, let me tell yo'!"

"Come here, Uncle Peter; come to me!"