But he ducks an' blubbers. 'Gimme that letter,'
says I, 'and you just kite back to the folks that sent you, and tell
them what's the matter. I'll give your note to your man if he comes
while I'm on the beat,' says I. I knows too much to try to git anything
more out of him. I says to meself that Mr. Wilton ain't in the safest
place in the world, and this kid's folks maybe means him well, and
might know some other place to look for him. The kid jaws a bit, an'
then does as I tells him, an' cuts away. That's half an hour ago, an'
here you are, an' here's your letter."
I hesitated for a little before saying anything. It was with quick
suspicion that I wondered why Mother Borton had secured again that
gloomy and deserted house for the interview she was planning. That
mystery of the night, with its memories of the fight in the bar-room,
the escape up the stair, the fearsome moments I had spent locked in the
vacant place, came on me with nerve-shaking force. It was more likely
to be a trap than a meeting meant for my advantage. There was, indeed,
no assurance that the note was written by Mother Borton herself. It
might well be the product of the gentlemen who had been lending such
variety to an otherwise uninteresting existence.
All these considerations flashed through my mind in the seconds of
hesitation that passed before my reply to Policeman Corson's account.
"That was very kind of you. You didn't know what was in the letter
then?"
"No, sor," replied Corson with a touch of wounded pride.
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