“I’ve just left Charley Owen at the house—­you remember Charley Owen?”

“No.”

“Oh, yes, you do—­he’s been here with—­Jack.  He was in Jack’s class in college—­in Jack’s and Ben Armstrong’s.  He used to go on shooting trips with them both—­often.”

“I remember now.”

“Yes, I knew you would.”  The young voice rushed on.  “He has been away just now—­down in Florida shooting—­away from civilization.  He got all his mail for a month in one lump—­just now—­two days ago.  In it was a letter from Jack and Ben Armstrong, written that night, written together.  Do you see what that means?”

“What!” The word was not
a question, but an exclamation. 
“What—­Dick!”

“Yes—­yes.  There were newspapers, too, which gave an account of the trial—­the first he’d heard of it—­he was away in the Everglades.  He started instantly, and came on here when he had read the papers, and realized the bearing his letter would have on the trial.  He has travelled day and night.  He hoped to get here in time.  Jack and Ben thought he was in New York.  They wrote to ask him to go duck-shooting—­with them.  And, father—­here’s the most startling point of it all.”  As the man waited, watching his son’s face, he groaned suddenly and made a gesture of despair.

“Don’t, father—­don’t take it that way.  It’s good—­it’s glorious—­it clears Jack.  My uncle will be almost happy.  But I wouldn’t tell him at once—­I’d be careful,” he warned the other.

“What was it—­the startling point you spoke of?”

“Oh—­surely—­this.  The letter to Charley Owen spoke of Jack’s new pistol—­that pistol.  Jack said they would have target-shooting with it in camp.  They were all crack shots, you know.  He said he had bought it that evening, and that Ben thought well of it.  Ben signed the letter after Jack, and then added a postscript.  It clears Jack—­it clears him.  Doesn’t it, father?  But I wouldn’t tell my uncle just yet.  He’s not fit to take it in for a few hours—­don’t you think so?”

“No, I won’t tell him—­just yet.”

The young man’s wide glance concentrated with a flash on his father’s face.  “What is it?  You speak queerly.  You’ve just come from there.  How is he—­how is my uncle?”

There was a letterbox at the corner, a foot from the older man’s shoulder.  He put out his hand and held to the lid a moment before he answered.  His voice was harsh.

“Your uncle is—­perfectly happy,” he said.  “He’s gone mad.”

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