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Bristow's place stood for too much of memory, and the inevitable questions of his friend loomed before him, as the trifle which a man who has stood much more than trifles cannot bring himself to face. Yet there was no danger of his being late. That time was the one fixed point on the calendar of his future.
Bristow, in his shirt-sleeves, his right arm held up, continued to crowd against him, threatening him, commanding him to speak. Braceway was amazed by the intensity of Bristow's glance, the tautness of his body, the harsh authority in his voice. This man who had been ill a few hours before exhibited now a strength and a vitality that would have been remarkable in anybody.
Bristow's hand fell and gripped his shoulder painfully, shook him, brought him back to the main issue. "What did you see? That's what we want to know, every bit of it, all of it!" Morley flinched, trying to throw off Bristow's hand. The lame man stepped back. "All right," he said, "I'm not going to hurt you."
The horse was lathered and his sides heaved wearily as they pounded across the bridge over the creek which was the outlet to the swamp and emerged from a patch of woods in sight of Bristow's farm buildings. The house was set on a little hill among cleared fields and was in other respects much like the squire's own house except that it was smaller and not so well painted.
The pause belonged to them their moment of reprieve. At last she said quietly: "But you are stupid not to guess it." "Guess what?" he inquired. "There is no Pagratide. Pagratide's real name is Karyl of Galavia." If the living-room at "Idle Times" bore the impress of Van Bristow's individuality and taste, his den was the tangible setting of his personality.
Withers was buried, according to his friends, but said nothing as to his destination or the probable length of time he would be away. "The Atlanta authorities were asked by the Washington police to locate him if possible. No reason for the request was given." There was a smile on Bristow's lips when he tossed the paper to one side.
"He has already given me good advice, dear " she said, "good advice that I can't follow." The first day of quail-shooting found Van Bristow's guests afield. Separated from the others, Benton and Cara came upon a small grove, like an oasis in the stretching acres of stubble.
Bristow's smile was tolerant, as if he dealt with a child. But Fulton, his angry eyes boring into the accused man, saw that, for the first time, there were tired lines tugging the corners of his mouth. It was an expression that heralded defeat, the first faint shadow of despair. "You have my story, and I've the facts to prove it a hundred times over," Braceway announced. "Why waste more time?"
Let me read it to you: "'Have all the stuff I can get on Withers case. Can not go further before conferring with you, Bristow, Fulton, and Abrahamson. Please arrange meeting of all these Bristow's bungalow eight tonight. Withers not with me." "That fits in," Bristow commented; "lets me start for New Orleans on the late night train." "Wonder what he's got," the chief questioned. "Do you know?"
The father was of no particular occupation, picking up odd jobs, and leaning largely to the shrimp trade. He stood high in Honora Bristow's regards as having regularly paid his 1s. 9d. a week for five years, or, at least, being some 5s. behind now; a sum which will probably be covered by the chattels in the back garden. The poor home was silent then.
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