Blindfolded Part 61

"Mrs. Knapp," I said; "there is no need for you to take this journey.

You had better stop in Oakland for the rest of the night."

"I must go," she replied.

"There is danger," I argued. "You should not expose yourself to the chances of a brush with the enemy. It is a wet, cold ride, and there may be bullets flying at the end of it."

Mrs. Knapp gave a shudder, but she spoke firmly.

"I could not rest--I could not stay away. It may be important that I should be there--it will be important if we find the boy. You do not know him. Mr. Nahl does not know him."

"None of my men seems to know him," I interrupted; "that is, if one may judge by the way they were all taken in on the boy you sent to Livermore."

"I think none of them ever saw his face, though some of them were with Henry Wilton when he first took the boy, and afterward."

"The enemy seem to know him," said I, remembering the scene at Livermore.

"Terrill knows him. I think none of the other agents could be certain of his face, unless it is Mr. Meeker. But truly, I must go."

"You are very brave," I said, admiring her spirit, though I was loath to have the responsibility of her safety on my hands.

"Without you I should not dare to go, I fear," she made answer, "I need a strong arm to lean on, you see."

"You may wish later that you had chosen a cavalier with two strong arms to his equipment. I fear I shouldn't do so well in a hand-to-hand encounter as I should have done before I met Mr. Terrill last night."

"Oh, I hope it will not come to that," said Mrs. Knapp cheerfully, though there was a little tremor in her voice.

"What if they have seized the boy?"

Mrs. Knapp was silent for a little, as if this contingency had not entered her plans.

"We must follow him and save him, even if we have to raise the whole county to do it." Her voice was firm and resolute.

"What would happen to the boy if he were taken?" I found courage to ask.

"He would not live a month," she replied.

"Would he be murdered?"

"I don't know how the end would come. But I know he would die."

I was in the shadow of the mystery. A hundred questions rose to my lips; but behind them all frowned the grim wolf-visage of Doddridge Knapp, and I could not find the courage that could make me speak to them.

"Mrs. Knapp," I said, "you have called me by my name. I had almost forgotten that I had ever borne it. I have lived more in the last month than in the twenty-five years that I remember before it, and I have almost come to think that the old name belongs to some one else. May I ask how you got hold of it?"

"It was simple enough. Henry had told me about you. I remembered that you were coming from the same town he had come from. I telegraphed to an agent in Boston. He went up to your place, made his inquiries and telegraphed me. I suppose you will be pleased to know," she continued with a droll affectation of malice in her voice, "that he mailed me your full history as gathered from the town pump. It is at the house now."

"I trust it is nothing so very disreputable," I said modestly, raking my memory hastily for any likely account of youthful escapades.

"There was one rather serious bit," said Mrs. Knapp gravely. "There was an orchard--"

"There was more than one," I admitted.

Mrs. Knapp broke into a laugh.

"I might have expected it. I knew the account was too good to be true.

You'll have to get Luella's permission if you want to read the charges in full, though. She has taken possession of the doc.u.ment."

Luella knew! At first I was disappointed, then relieved. Something of the promised explanation was taken off my mind.

"I tried to get something out of Mother Borton concerning you,"

continued Mrs. Knapp. "I even went so far as to see her once."

"I don't think you got any more out of her than she wanted to tell."

"Indeed I did not. I was afraid Mr. Richmond had not gone about it the right way. You know Mr. Richmond acted as my agent with her?"

"No, I didn't know. She was as close-mouthed with me as with you, I think."

"Well, I saw her. I wanted to get what information she had of you and of Henry."

"She had a good deal of it, if she wanted to give it up."

"So I supposed. But she was too clever for me. She spoke well of you, but not a word could I get from her about Henry. Yet she gave me the idea that she knew much."

"I should think she might. I had told her the whole story."

"She is a strange woman."

"She was able to hold her tongue."

"A strange gift, you mean to say, I suppose," laughed Mrs. Knapp.

"She was quite as successful in concealing from me the fact that she had ever had word with you, though I suspected that she knew more than she told."

"She is used to keeping secrets, I suppose," replied Mrs. Knapp. "But I must reward her well for what she has done."

"She is beyond fear or reward."

"Dead?" cried Mrs. Knapp in a shocked voice. "And how?"

"She died, I fear, because she befriended me." And then I told her the story of Mother Borton's end.

"Poor creature!" said Mrs. Knapp sadly. "Yet perhaps it is better so.

She has died in doing a good act."

"She was a good friend to me," I said. "I should have been in the morgue before her, I fear, but for her good will."

Mrs. Knapp was silent for a minute.