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Updated: May 25, 2025
There was no mention of Braddock's name in the dispatches, yet he could not banish the fear that ultimately the man would be implicated. Dick Cronk's story of the crime, as presented by the newspapers, was clear and unwavering. He said that he had shot the man in the heat of a quarrel over money matters.
She glanced fearfully from Lon to the scowman, whose lips were now free of the nails. His wide smile disclosed his darkened teeth as he stammered: "Yer Granny Cronk's been chucked into a six-foot hole in the ground, and ye won't see her no more." Staring at the speaker, Fledra fell back against the wall. "Granny Cronk ain't dead! She ain't! You're lying, Lem Crabbe!"
He laid his hand on Cronk's shoulder and was about to speak kindly to him. The other drew back, shaking off the compassionate hand. "None o' that, now. I don't need any pity from you. Keep your trap closed about me." He jammed his hands into his coat pockets and allowed his gaze to travel toward the ferry entrance. The despondent note returned to his voice.
At last it fell, fell not only upon the brilliant district attorney, but upon his lovely wife and his hapless children. One blustering night in March, Lem Crabbe's scow was tied at the locks near Syracuse. The day for the fulfilment of Lon Cronk's revenge had arrived. That afternoon Lon had come from Ithaca with his brother Eli to meet Lem. "Be ye goin' to steal the kids tonight, Lon?" asked Lem.
Three abreast they moved down the main street of the town, soon mingling with the throngs of country people in the neighborhood of the public square. Dick Cronk's hands were in his trouser pockets; his shoulders were thrown back, his chin elevated, his long legs stepping out freely, confidently. His stiff black hat was cocked airily over his right ear.
His presence there was disquieting in more than one sense. Dick had said that Braddock was "hanging 'round" with his brother. This, of itself, was sufficient to create alarm in David's mind. He searched the scurrying throng for a glimpse of the drab, sinister figure of Christine's father, all the while conscious that Ernie Cronk's baleful gaze was upon him.
"Eli!" shouted Lem. Eli greeted him with a wave of the pole. The boats neared each other, and Lem shouted that he wanted to get into Cronk's craft. "What ye doin'?" asked Crabbe, as the boat he had just left shot away toward the bridge. "Catching frogs," replied Eli. "I sell a lot of 'em to the hotels, and this flood is jest the thing to make 'em thick."
"Say, Colonel, on the square, the police here are the slowest bunch of " "Never mind," snapped the Colonel. "He's still at large, and he's not over there at Dick Cronk's. So much for your fine detective work." The man was an operative for one of the biggest private detective agencies in New York.
He could not seize the paper that Ruby held before his eyes, nor were his eyes quite capable of reading the sharp, characteristic headlines that stood out before him in the first column of the Enquirer. The letters danced impishly, as if to confuse him further. Jenison Jenison Jenison everywhere! That was all he could see, all he could grasp. Dick Cronk's prophecy had been fulfilled.
He knew that it would be far into the night before he reached Lon Cronk's, and, with his whole soul, he hoped he would be in time to save Fledra from harm. At the little window in the station he hurriedly demanded of the agent a mode of conveyance to take him to the spot nearest the squatter's home.
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