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Updated: June 7, 2025
She did not state that this intrusion by Britt into her home was perpetual persecution where she was concerned; Vaniman felt that she did not need to say so. His imagination pictured the situation. He had become morbid. He admitted it, but he could not help himself. He had done his best to keep his judgments sane and his hopes untarnished.
Wagg's narrow rut of occupation had had its full effect on his nature. His striated eyeballs had a vitreous look; they were as hard as marbles. Vaniman knew that he could not look at those eyes and tell a convincing lie. In view of Wagg's settled convictions in the matter of the treasure, the real truth might be harder to support than a lie.
After Vaniman was committed, Wagg complained of rheumatism and asked the warden to transfer him from the wall where he had been doing sentry-go with a rifle and give him an inside job as night warder. And the warden humored Wagg, who was a trusted veteran. Wagg made regular trips along the cell tiers during the night. He padded as noiselessly as a cat, for he had soles of felt on his shoes.
Vaniman could not understand what he was saying, but the sharp questions that were interjected by the manager of the affair the queries that gimleted for additional information suggested the line of confession that Britt was giving forth. "Yes in the bank! Where in the bank? . . . I heard that, but where? . . . In the basement, hey?
The Squire went and opened the door and disclosed Deputy-Warden Bangs of the state prison. But when Bangs made a step forward the notary bulked himself in the doorway with all the dignity his modest size would permit. "I'm led to believe that you have in this house an escaped convict, name of Vaniman," declared the officer.
But you couldn't ask for sunshine. When a prisoner asks for a thing, they go on the plan of doing exactly opposite to what he seems to want. From now on, having seen how I can operate, I expect you to do just what I tell you to do." Vaniman looked at the rifle. Wagg waved it, commanding a convict to hurry past. "Yes, sir!
You have been a man of affairs and you can grasp what I'm saying." But Vaniman did not seem to be grasping even that introduction of the subject. He had heard hurrying footsteps outside the house. "You'll never listen to anything that will stir your blood like what I'm going to tell you of my plans for the future," insisted the colonel. But a tremulous voice called: "Frank! Frank!"
Britt had become a self-operating proposition; Vaniman felt that, although sudden fright were spurring Britt, a fear more inherently characteristic was pulling the usurer on his race to the village he had betrayed the hiding place of hard cash! He was rushing to protect it. By running to the treasure Britt would be betraying something of more moment to Vaniman than gold.
He marched along the corridor and unlocked his office and toasted himself over the furnace register while he finished his cigar; Vaniman was a good fireman and was always down early. Mr. Britt kept his ear cocked; he knew well the tap of certain brisk boot heels that sounded in the corridor every morning and he timed his movements accordingly.
Vaniman, it's plain enough why you hired that hitch! Why don't you tell where you hauled that money?" "I'm not going to do to you what I ought to do, Britt. I'm into the hole deep enough as it is! But let me ask you if any jury is going to believe that I was lunatic enough to hire a livery hitch, if I was hauling away loot?"
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