By this time, he feared, Foster would have learned that Kitty Whiting had the diary in her possession. If Swenson communicated with him, stating that Lyman had got away, there might be an immediate attempt to get the figures from Kitty, to delay her voyage and give Swenson a start. They might even try to kidnap the girl. Men will go to great lengths for the sake of a fortune—even Foster, who, having already made one million, no longer considered it as a definite goal.
If he was correct, Swenson would wire. And so could he! At the first store he bought shoes, socks and a cap. Then he found a telegraph office. He had brushed up a little at the store, but the girl looked askance at his desperate looking appearance. He was forced to ask her to write out his messages—one to Kitty Whiting, another to her Cousin Lynda. He believed the latter less likely to trust in Foster, less bound by ideas of partnership. The content of both was the same save for the interchange of names.
Arriving this evening. Vital you keep information mailed you absolutely secret. Also my arrival. Trickery active.
James Lyman.
He found he could get a train shortly after noon that would take him to South Framingham a few minutes before four. That place was about eight miles from Foxfield. Further connections were bad, but he could hire a machine that should surely land him at the antique shop by eight o’clock.
If Swenson had wired, all his calculations might be upset. Foster would be prepared for his appearance and would, of course, be ready to discredit Swenson. Therefore he would proceed as planned and attend the meeting he had himself arranged.
Lyman could have spared himself a lot of worrying had he known that at that very moment, Swenson, with a broken-down engine that obstinately refused to come to life, was cursing the lack of a breeze twelve miles off-shore.
He filled in his wait with lunch and a visit to a barber’s for a shave and a chance to bathe his injured hand. Then to a druggist for bandaging.
“Better show that to a doctor,” advised the man. “Looks like misplaced bones, to me. Ought to have an X-ray taken of it. Delay won’t help it.
“Then it can’t be helped,” said Jim. “I’ve seen worse get well at sea.” The druggist shrugged his shoulders.
“Suppose the other chap is in the hospital?” he said as he rang up his money.
“I sure hope so,” Jim answered fervently. It was a bad hand, but it would have to get along. If only Swenson’s jaw was half-way like it.
At four-thirty he was front-seated beside the driver of a good car, averaging twenty-five miles through incorporated towns and villages with their speed restrictions and wide-awake traffic regulators. At seven o’clock they had a blowout and shifted to the spare. At ten minutes to eight they entered Foxfield by way of a detour for road-mending that brought them over the same bridge that Jim had crossed two nights earlier on his way to Foster’s house. The car took him to the hotel. After the chauffeur was paid off Jim had fifteen dollars and sixty cents; Swenson’s contribution had paid expenses. The clerk at the desk stared at him unbelievingly as Jim asked for his key.
“That room’s rented. Thought you’d skipped. Mr. Foster and his son rang up the other night, wondering why you didn’t show up to their house. Then they came down together in their car. Seemed a bit upset about you. Thought you might have misunderstood their directions, but I told ’em you’d spoken to me about it. Thought you might have fallen in the river, maybe. I told ’em we’d take a look at your junk. If it was worth more than what you owed us you might come back. If not, you’d faded for reasons of your own. You ain’t the only one that’s done it. Mr. Foster figured I was right, but I guess I was wrong. Want another room? What happened.”
“I got into an accident,” said Jim. “Machine hit me, picked me up and took me along with ’em a ways. I’ll take a room, I reckon. And I’d like my things.”
The clerk looked at him with an expression that showed he thought Jim was lying, but said nothing. His things were brought to the new room. They had plainly been overhauled. Foster had doubtless been glad of the chance to see if the diary was there or not. And a new thought struck him. Foster might by now be a confirmed believer in his own suggestion that Jim was a fake, and that, seeing his story was to be investigated thoroughly, he had skipped. Though if Foster had seen the little diary, he could tell almost at a glance—any keen-witted person could—that its content was authentic enough with its everyday comments and the stains upon the pages with their more or less legible entries. But—if Foster had suggested the assault and abduction, it was clever of him to have come to the hotel and shown just the right amount of concern. Foster was clever.
Jim changed shirt, collar, and tie, slicked up to the best of his ability, hard put to it to do much to his only suit. At twenty minutes past eight he pressed the bell between the two porches with a side glance at the ship model. He had already noticed light coming from the two windows of the dining-living room.
The gaunt maid opened the door, starting back.
“Land o’ Goshen!” she exclaimed. “I—”
Jim pushed past her with an imperative gesture for silence. For a moment the woman seemed dazedly about to try and bar his way. She gasped like a stranded fish, muttering confusedly.
“For the land’s sake. I wanter know. Why, I—” Jim grasped her bony wrist with his left hand.
“Shut up,” he said. “Are the rest here? Mr. Foster and his son?” She nodded, gathering herself together.
“I’ll tell Miss Kitty you’re here.”
“You needn’t bother.” Jim went through the hall and abruptly opened the door of the dining room. About the table were seated the four he had expected to find, rising to his entrance. He saw immediately that Kitty and her cousin had received his telegram, though they exhibited well feigned surprise. As for Stephen and Newton Foster, there was no question about their astonishment. The former especially showed some measure of alarm and consternation. They did not seem attempting to mask their emotions. Yet Jim could not construe guilt out of their appearance. Young Newton surveyed him quizzically. The elder Foster swiftly recovered himself. Jim spoke first.
“I’ve got to apologize for my appearance.” he said, “But I’ve been on the jump every minute that I wasn’t tied up since I saw you last.”
“Tied up?” The ejaculation was unanimous. Jim could not detect any difference in expressions.
“Hand and foot, with a couple of sacks to boot,” he said grimly. “Someone asked me to help them with a busted automobile on my way to your house at your invitation to talk things over, Mr. Foster. I stooped and somebody hit me over the head with a blackjack. The rest sounds like a chapter in a dime novel, but I had made up my mind to keep this appointment and here I am.”
“But,” said Kitty Whiting, “you wrote me that you were going away. And you’ve been hurt. Oh—your poor hand!”
“I hurt that on someone else, a gentleman by the name of Hellfire Swenson. I met him at Wareham, Buzzards Bay. Maybe you know the place?” He wheeled on Stephen Foster. There was the idea in the back of his head that Swenson might have been caretaker for Foster, the Wareham place the latter’s summer residence. But Foster’s face was absolutely blank. He was either an accomplished actor or—Jim’s theories commenced to suffer from a reaction that immediately grew.
“Never heard it more than mentioned,” said Foster. “How about Lyman writing to you, Kitty? You didn’t tell me anything about it.” Jim looked from one to the other, puzzled. Then Foster didn’t know anything about the sending of the log.
“I haven’t had a chance,” she said. “You and Newton were out of town, to begin with, up to this afternoon. Newton phoned early yesterday morning and told me you were going before the letter came by special delivery. As you were coming tonight it hardly seemed worth while until you told me that Mr. Lyman had missed an appointment with you. That was just