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It was a day when men of mark often wrote to each other in cipher there was nothing strange in Lewis Rand so corresponding with whom he chose. Most probably it was a letter from the President though that could hardly be, seeing that the President was at Monticello! Mrs.
"Why couldn't they get in through a window?" pursued Rand. "The windows were all locked on the inside as well as the doors." "I see. They must have been professionals." "Then I don't see what they wanted there." "Why not?" "Because they wouldn't get enough swag to make it worth while," answered Jack, "Swag?" questioned Rand. "Oh, that's slang for plunder," explained Jack.
"That could have been feigned, or it could have been overcome," Rand replied. "I mean your knowledge of biology and biochemistry. If you'd killed Lane Fleming, there'd have been no clumsy business of fake accidents; not as long as both of you ate at the same table. He'd have just died, an unimpeachably natural death." He turned to Ritter.
I have heard that there lives a great viking in Salten fiord who is skilled in sorcery. A wizard he is, for he has power over the wind and the sea, and he and his great horde of heathens still worship Odin and Thor and offer them blood sacrifice. Rand is his name, and he is chief over all the Godoe Isles."
Rand and Gladys did most of the talking, in spite of Nelda's best efforts to monopolize the conversation. Geraldine, after a few minutes, retired into her private world and only roused herself when her sister and stepmother were about to leave. When they went out, Gladys promised to send Walters up directly; Rand heard her speaking to him at the foot of the main stairway.
For half an hour there had been a thought at the back of her head, and now it suddenly opened wings. Those strangely arranged lines of figures on that paper which had fluttered to the floor, they formed no sum that Lewis Rand was working! The paper that they covered was not a stray leaf; it had been folded like a letter. There was, she remembered, a piece of wax upon it.
His thoughts were black and bitter as how indeed should they be otherwise? He had come to this place to make one final effort to retrieve his fortunes. That effort had failed. He had put what little remained to him into various companies awaiting the boom and no boom had ensued. On the contrary, things had never looked more dead than at this moment, never since the Rand had been opened up.
I go because I shall not stay to disgrace you, and because the girl that I brought trouble upon has gone away too, to hide her disgrace and mine; and where she goes, Rand, I ought to follow her, and, please God, I will! I am not as wise or as good as you are, but it seems the best I can do; and God bless you, dear old Randy, boy!
And he remembered that Witterton, a journalist whom he had met at the office of the Morning Record, had climbed on to the plinth in Trafalgar Square during the Boer War and made a speech in denunciation of Chamberlain and the Rand lords, and had been badly mauled by the mob. "By God, that's courage!" he murmured. That was the sort of person Rachel was.
"Like Paul Revere, 'one if by land, and two if by sea," quoted Rand. "If you hear them coming down the road, Pepper, you can give the whip-poor-will call, and Gerald, if he hears anything, can give the owl call." "Owl right," responded Gerald, as they each went to their appointed stations. The night was warm and pleasant.
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