But Gregory did not sit down. He stood where he was, and continued to eye David intently.
“I don't know just what it conveys to you, Doctor, but I am Beverly Carlysle's brother.”
David lowered himself into his chair. His knees were suddenly weak under him. But he was able to control his voice.
“I see,” he said. And waited.
“Something happened last night at the theater. It may be important. I'd have to see your nephew, in order to find out if it is. I can't afford to make a mistake.”
David's ruddy color had faded. He opened a drawer of his desk and produced a copy of the photograph of Dick in his uniform. “Maybe this will help you.”
Gregory studied it carefully, carrying it to the window to do so. When he confronted David again he was certain of himself and his errand for the first time, and his manner had changed.
“Yes,” he said, significantly. “It does.”
He placed the photograph on the desk, and sitting down, drew his chair close to David's. “I'll not use any names, Doctor. I think you know what I'm talking about. I was sure enough last night. I'm certain now.”
David nodded. “Go on.”
“We'll start like this. God knows I don't want to make any trouble. But I'll put a hypothetical case. Suppose that a man when drunk commits a crime and then disappears; suppose he leaves behind him a bad record and an enormous fortune; suppose then he reforms and becomes a useful citizen, and everything is buried.”
Doctor David listened stonily. Gregory lowered his voice.
“Suppose there's a woman mixed up in that situation. Not guiltily, but there's a lot of talk. And suppose she lives it down, for ten years, and then goes back to her profession, in a play the families take the children to see, and makes good. It isn't hard to suppose that neither of those two people wants the thing revived, is it?”
David cleared his throat.
“You mean, then, that there is danger of such a revival?”
“I think there is,” Gregory said bitterly. “I recognized this man last night, and called a fellow who knew him in the old days, Saunders, our stage manager. And a newspaper man named Bassett wormed it out of Saunders. You know what that means.”
David heard him clearly, but as though from a great distance.
“You can see how it appears to Bassett. If he's found it, it's the big story of a lifetime. I thought he'd better be warned.”
When David said nothing, but sat holding tight to the arms of his old chair, Gregory reached for his hat and got up.
“The thing for him to do,” he said, “is to leave town for a while. This Bassett is a hound-hog on a scent. They all are. He is Bassett of the Times-Republican. And he took Jud—he took your nephew's automobile license number.”
Still David sat silent, and Gregory moved to the door.
“Get him away, to-night if you can.”
“Thank you,” David said. His voice was thick. “I appreciate your coming.”
He got up dizzily, as Gregory said, “Good-evening” and went out. The room seemed very dark and unsteady, and not familiar. So this was what had happened, after all the safe years! A man could work and build and pray, but if his house was built on the sand—
As the outer door closed David fell to the floor with a crash.
XI
Bassett lounged outside the neat privet hedge which it was Harrison Miller's custom to clip with his own bachelor hands, and waited. And as he waited he tried to imagine what was going on inside, behind the neatly curtained windows of the old brick house.
He was tempted to ring the bell again, pretend to have forgotten something, and perhaps happen in on what might be drama of a rather high order; what, supposing the man was Clark after all, was fairly sure to be drama. He discarded the idea, however, and began again his interested survey of the premises. Whoever conceived this sort of haven for Clark, if it were Clark, had shown considerable shrewdness. The town fairly smelt of respectability; the tree-shaded streets, the children in socks and small crisp-laundered garments, the houses set back, each in its square of shaved lawn, all peaceful, middle class and unexciting. The last town in the world for Judson Clark, the last profession, the last house, this shabby old brick before him.
He smiled rather grimly as he reflected that if Gregory had been right in his identification, he was, beyond those windows at that moment, very possibly warning Clark against himself. Gregory would know his type, that he never let go. He drew himself up a little.
The house door opened, and Gregory came out, turning toward the station. Bassett caught up with him and put a hand on his arm.
“Well?” he said cheerfully. “It was, wasn't it?”
Gregory stopped dead and stared at him. Then:
“Old dog Tray!” he said sneeringly. “If your brain was as good as your nose, Bassett, you'd be a whale of a newspaper man.”
“Don't bother about my brain. It's working fine to-day, anyhow. Well, what had he to say for himself?”
Gregory's mind was busy, and he had had a moment to pull himself together.
“We both get off together,” he said, more amiably. “That fellow isn't Jud Clark and never was. He's a doctor, and the nephew of the old doctor there. They're in practice together.”
“Did you see them both?”
“Yes.”
Bassett eyed him. Either Gregory was a good actor, or the whole trail ended there after all. He himself had felt, after his interview, with Dick, that the scent was false. And there was this to be said: Gregory had been in the house scarcely ten minutes. Long enough to acknowledge a mistake, but hardly long enough for any dramatic identification. He was keenly disappointed, but he had had long experience of disappointment, and after a moment he only said:
“Well, that's that. He certainly looked like Clark to me.”
“I'll say he did.”
“Rather surprised him, didn't you?”
“Oh, he was all right,” Gregory said. “I didn't tell him anything, of course.”
Bassett looked at his watch.
“I was after you, all right,” he said, cheerfully. “But if I was barking up the wrong tree, I'm done. I don't have to be hit on the head to make me stop. Come and have a soda-water on me,” he finished amiably. “There's no train until seven.”
But Gregory refused.
“No, thanks. I'll wander on down to the station and get a paper.”
The reporter smiled. Gregory was holding a grudge against him, for a bad night and a bad day.
“All right,” he said affably. “I'll see you at the train. I'll walk about a bit.”
He turned and started back up the street again, walking idly. His chagrin was very real. He hated to be fooled, and fooled he had been. Gregory was not the only one who had lost a night's sleep. Then, unexpectedly, he was hailed from the curbstone, and he saw with amazement that it was Dick Livingstone.
“Take you anywhere?” Dick asked. “How's the headache?”
“Better, thanks.” Bassett stared at him. “No, I'm just walking around until train-time. Are you starting out or going home, at this hour?”
“Going home. Well, glad