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Updated: June 11, 2025
Pinney signed it, so that, if the worst were true, Lansing's existence might still remain a secret; for of going back to her in that case, to make her a sharer of his shame, there was no thought on his part. The dispatch was addressed to Mr. Davenport, Mary's minister, and merely asked if the wedding had taken place. They had to wait two hours for the answer.
The satisfaction that lighted up Northwick's eyes caused Pinney to add, "I guess it set a good many people thinking about you in a different way. It showed that there was something to be said on both sides, and I believe it made friends for you, sir. Yes, sir." Pinney had never believed this till the moment he spoke, but then it seemed so probable he had that he easily affirmed it.
It seemed to Pinney that she wished to tell him who went; but she did not tell him; and after waiting for a moment in vain, he rose and said, "Well, I must be getting back to Boston. I should have been up here to see your father about these labor troubles night before last, if I'd taken my wife's advice. I always miss it when I don't," he said, smiling.
It became evident that Père Étienne took Pinney for a detective; and however willing he might have been to save a soul for Paradise in the person of the man whose unhappiness he had witnessed, he was clearly not eager to help hunt a fugitive down for State's prison.
"We must keep it from him at least for to-day." Lansing entered the room. "Is she dead?" he asked quietly. He could not doubt, from what he had overheard, that she was. "God help him! He 'll have to know it now," exclaimed Pinney. "Is she dead?" repeated Lansing. "No, she is n't dead." "Is she dying, then?" "No, she is well." "It's the children, then?" "No," answered Pinney. "They are all right."
They had been sitting on the steps of a structure that Pinney now noticed was an oddity among the bark-sheathed cabins of the little hamlet. "Why, what's this?" "It's the studio of an American painter who used to come here. He hasn't been here for several years."
I know all about it, Pinney, so you might as well save time, on that point, if time's an object with you. They don't seem to know anything here; but the consensus in Hatboro' is that he was running away." "The what is?" asked Pinney. "The consensus." "Anything like the United States Census?" "It isn't spelt like it." Pinney made a note of it. "I'll get a head-line out of that.
"No; I don't," said Markham. "I had an idea I knew who it was," said Pinney. Markham looked sharply at him. "After somebody in Rimouski?" "Well, not just in that sense, exactly, if you mean as a detective. But I'm a newspaper man, and this is my holiday, and I'm working up a little article about our financiers in exile while I'm resting. My name's Pinney."
"That is right," said Northwick. "Now, another matter. Have you got handcuffs?" "Why, Mr. Northwick! What are you giving me?" demanded Pinney. "I'd as soon put them on my own father." "I want you to put them on me," said Northwick. "I intend to go back as your prisoner.
Pinney apparently put great stress upon himself to get this out. "I've looked it in the face," said Northwick. "And your friends know you're coming back?" "They expect me at any time. You can notify them." Pinney drew a long, anxious breath. "Well," he said, with a sort of desperation, "then I don't see why we don't start at once." "Have you got your papers all right?" Northwick asked.
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