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"In Fossingford?" in deep disgust. "There's no hotel here. He was to drive me to the home of a friend out in the country." Rossiter leaned against the wall suddenly. There was a long silence. He could not find his tongue, but his eyes were burning deep into the plaintive blue ones that looked up into his face. "I'll ask the agent," he said at last. "Ask him what?" she cried anxiously.
Well, I'm out for the sole purpose of saving a million or so for old Wharton, and to save as much of her reputation as I can besides. With the proof in hand the old duffer can scare her out of any claim against his bank account, and she shall have the absolute promise of 'no exposure' in return. Isn't it lovely? Well, here's Albany. Now for the dinky road up to Fossingford Station.
The station agent had inquired at the "eating-house" for the gentleman, and that was enough. With the eyes of a Fossingford score or two upon him, Rossiter read the despatch from Grover & Dickhut. "Too bad, ain't it?" asked the agent, compassionately regarding the newcomer. Evidently the contents were supposed to be disappointing. "Oh, I don't know," replied Rossiter easily.
"I'm carrying it to establish your identity with Dudley if he happens to come. He'll recognize the purple parasol, you know." "Oh, I see," she said dubiously. "He gave it to me for a birthday present." "I knew it," he muttered. "What?" "I mean I knew he'd recognize it," he explained. The flyer shot through Fossingford at that juncture, a long line of roaring shadows.
"You see it was perfectly natural for me to mistake you for Mrs. Wharton," he said after awhile. "You had the gray jacket, the sailor hat, the purple parasol, and you are beautiful. And, besides all that, you were found red-handed in that ridiculous town of Fossingford. Why shouldn't I have suspected you with such a preponderance of evidence against you?
Van Haltford's man came in and got Miss Dering's telegram yesterday, but it was not delivered to me until a neighbor came to the house with both the message and messenger in charge. Joseph had drunk all the whisky in Fossingford. "Then there's no chance for me to get a drink, I suppose," said Rossiter with a wry smile. "Do you need one?" asked Miss Dering saucily. "I have a headache."
But just the same he was troubled in mind as he walked over and sat down upon his steamer trunk in the shade of the building. The telegram read: "She left New York five-thirty this evening. Stops over night Albany. Fossingford to-morrow morning. Watch trains. Purple parasol. Sailor hat. Gray travelling suit. "G. and D." It meant that he would be obliged to stay in Fossingford all night but where?
A telegram awaited him at Fossingford Station. Fossingford was so small and unsophisticated that the arrival of a telegraphic message that did not relate to the movement of railroad trains was an "occasion." Everybody in town knew that a message had come for Samuel Rossiter, and everybody was at the depot to see that he got it.
"Going away, Mr. Rollins?" inquired the clerk, glancing at the clock. It was eleven-twenty and the last stage-coach left for Fossingford at eleven-thirty, in time to catch the seven o'clock down train. "Certainly," was the excited answer. "A telegram came a few moments ago for you, sir, but I thought you were in bed," and the other tossed a little envelope out to him.
My ticket said 'Fossingford, and, besides, I was to be met at the station in a most legitimate manner. You had no right to jump at conclusions." "Well, if you had not descended to earth at Fossingford I wouldn't be in heaven at Eagle Nest. Come to think of it, I believe you did quite the proper thing in getting off at Fossingford no matter what the hour."
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