He communicated the purpose of his errand at once. Larry Haines suspected everything. All must be put to the torch now. Tomorrow would be too late. If he loved Alice Cary—if he really felt that he could make her happy to the end of her life—he must prepare to push matters, for, in the morning, Larry Haines would be at liberty, and he would reveal the deception in the writing of the letters. Before morning dawned, Alice must be the wife of Joe Bigot.
Poor Joe listened to the storm of words and bowed his head. It was the result of the first real lie he had ever lived and acted.
“Go to her now,” urged Jack softly. “Tell her that you’ve got to marry her now. And you can do it. You can have a minister here in no time. You can have everything fixed right away, eh?”
Joe Bigot, for answer, went to the window and leaned out into the cooler and the more placid air of the night.
Chapter 11
The man-of-all-work who took the letter from Larry Haines to his home hitched a horse to a cart, jogged the two miles into the country to the farmhouse of the Haines family, and then, having delivered the envelope, turned about and jogged peacefully back toward the village, his head jerking forward sleepily as the cart wriggled down the road. He had no idea of the hubbub that broke out behind him in the Haines house when he delivered the letter.
It was opened by a gray-haired lady, and, when she scanned the contents, she frowned, and then rose from her seat and began to walk the floor anxiously, very much as men do when they are in trouble. As a matter of fact, Larry Haines had managed to write into that apparently harmless note the message that all was not well with him. It had been in an entirely simple manner, and it had succeeded because Jack Trainor knew nothing of the domestic history of the Haines family. The alarm note lay entirely in the opening address—Dear Dad, read Mrs.Haines—and caught her breath. Her husband had died ten years before!
It was one of those things that could not indicate a lapse of mind. One does not carelessly write down at the head of a letter a familiar name for someone who has been dead for ten years and in a quiet grave.
She read the note through. It was certainly sanely phrased. There was no evidence of liquor in it. Besides that, she knew that her boy did not drink. Moreover, it was his handwriting, or it seemed to be his handwriting. But, when she looked at the handwriting again, she said to herself that it was changed. And changed it certainly was, for with consummate art Larry Haines had altered some of the small details of his script. They had to be small things, and they had to be swiftly and smoothly done, for every line that he made was under the inspection of the hawk eye of the victor. What he managed to change was the method of crossing the Ts, not curling a line back from the bottom of the letter and swirling it over the top, making a separate and straight line through the letter to complete it. It was not hard, also, to follow the same method throughout the note. Every letter he formed with greater care than usual, leaving out all of those lazy little flourishes that tell where a careless writer’s pen has trailed across the paper.
Mrs. Haines stared eagerly at the letter, and then she went to her desk and took out a letter that her son had written from Montreal the year before. One glance was sufficient to sweep all of the color from her face.
“Boys!” she cried, and dropped into her chair almost in a faint.
It happened by the grace of Providence that two tall nephews were at that moment laughing and jesting in the next room. They came hurrying to her, and she thrust the two letters into their hands.
“Larry is in danger…Larry is in danger!” she cried. “Henry…Bob…help him!”
They stared at her as though she might have lost her mind. What danger could have overtaken clever Larry Haines, whose prowess with his fists and with weapons of all kinds they knew only too well?
“It’s a forged letter!” cried the poor mother. “Don’t you see? It’s addressed to his father…ten years dead! And look at the handwriting…forgery!”
The two crowded their heads close together, and they stared at the two letters.
“It is a forgery,” said Bob suddenly. “It’s got the swing of Larry’s writing, but all the little touches are left out. Come on, Henry. We’ll ride in to the hotel.”
Five minutes later they were in the saddle, and their horses’ hoofs were roaring down the hard road toward the village. They rode recklessly, for they were come of a reckless race. They covered the two miles before them in hardly more time than it had taken them to catch and saddle their horses, and then they flung out of their stirrups and rushed into the hotel.
“Where’s Larry Haines?” they asked. “Seen him around here?”
“Sure,” said the proprietor. “What’s happened? Is his house on fire? He’s right upstairs writing!”
Bob and Henry exchanged embarrassed looks.
“We’ll be drifting back, then,” growled Bob.
“Better see him and make sure, first,” said Henry. “You never can trust anything until you’ve seen it with your own eyes. I’ve heard that said a pile of times.”
He led the way up the stairs, and at the designated door they saw the filtering of light through the crack at its edges. They tapped, but there was no response.
“He’ll be mighty mad when we come in,” muttered Bob. “You know how he hates to be bothered. We better go back.”
“I’d rather have him mad at me,” insisted Henry, “than go back and face Aunt Marie without having seen him. I sure would!”
The fear of Aunt Marie made them knock again, and then call softly to tell Larry who was there.
Still there was no answer. They then tried the knob of the door and found that it was locked. Next they beat heavily against the door, and, when that summons brought no answer, they exchanged half-frightened, half-grim looks and in silence both put their strong shoulders to the door.
Something was certainly wrong when a light burned in a room where the door was locked and no one gave an answer. Down went the door with a crash, and, stepping over the threshold, they found the object of their quest lying near the bed, helpless with his bonds and nearly choked by the gag that had worked deeply into his mouth.
That was removed. Their knives slashed the strips of sheet away. For a moment he could only gasp for air, and then he managed to say: “Not a word of this…not a word of how you found me here. You understand? Otherwise, I’ll do a murder on you!”
The injury done to his vanity was, after all, of the first importance in the eyes of Larry. But now, in another moment, he had regained his breath and could speak and act. His first move was to tear the revolver out of Henry’s holster.
Then, briefly and savagely, he told them what he knew—that a conspiracy had been formed against Alice Cary—that she might at this very moment be in the midst of a ceremony that was making her the wife of the wrong man!
The mention of the name of the pretty girl and a wrong done to her sent the others into a fury. In a trice they were down the stairs. It was only a short distance down the street to the house of Alice Cary, but they traveled that distance on horseback, with Larry clinging beside Bob.
They reached the house. They rushed inside and shouted for Alice. The shout brought her sleepy father who, amazed, repeated the call for the girl, received no answer, and then threw her door open. But Alice was gone! Her bed had not been slept in!