XII
Two days later the dean of Purified Thought was back at his mahogany table. He was rather pale; under his eyes were dark circles which spoke of sleepless nights and nervous strain; and he limped a little when he walked. However, business is business, and checks usually come by mail. So the Great Gilmore was at work with his jade-handled paper-cutter once more.
Into the hush of the inner chamber came James Edward Dacey, humbled, chastened in spirit, all previous calculations rejected, earnestly seeking information. He took some rare old Scotch instead, the sad-eyed and silent Hindu serving it from a silver tray into monogrammed glasses of crystal.
Dacey hoisted his glass with a smile.
"Human nature, doc!" he said. "The most interesting study in the world!"
They drank that broad toast in meditative silence.
"That was wonderful about old Buckshot John!" said the reporter at last, in the tone of voice of one continuing an argument. "You've seen the newspapers?"
Gilmore shook his head wearily.
"Just the head-lines," he said.
"Just imagine that old coot running around the State with all that money!" said the reporter. "Every sheriff after him and about a million private detectives, and yet he marches right into Denver with that stuff in a sack, and turns every nickel over to a trust company! He wanted 'em to give bond or something, guaranteeing to divide it square among the owners."
Dacey paused and shook his head. The wrinkles deepened between his eyebrows.
"I've been working on this case ever since Buckshot John disappeared from Sand Creek," he said, "I thought I knew something once; now I don't know. This restitution business knocks my theory higher than a cocked hat. And old Buckshot won't say anything except that he wanted to bring it back himself, and that's why he ran away from Sand Creek. I've misjudged that old boy, and I told him so. I've had the wrong angle on this case from the start. Blamed if I don't believe that old coot has got religion after all! What do you think about it, doc?"
The doc thought a great deal, but he said nothing. A slight shake of his head indicated that the impulses of the convict breast were too complex for him.
"Oh, yes," said Dacey, "I've just seen the old boy off on the train for Canyon City. They had him ironed all over. Looked as happy as if he was going to his own wedding. Funny old devil! Darned if I don't like him!"
Still the Great Gilmore refused comment. Dacey cleared his throat, set down his glass, and leaned over the table, thumping the mahogany from time to time with the heel of his fist.
"Now, then, doc," he said confidentially, "let's come down to cases. No use your trying to stall with me. I'm on! You've been all tangled up with this affair from the start, and I've cut your trail in three distinct places—the night you read up the dope in the files, the visit you made to Sand Creek the next night, and I know you've seen Buckshot John since he got away and before he came into Denver with the junk. That last one made you jump a little, doc. You see, you've got a habit of lending that overcoat of yours. You loaned it to me once, and I spilled some ink on the sleeve. When John turned up with that coat, I knew he'd seen you somewhere. I thought I knew the reason he ran away, and I thought I knew who told him something that scared him into it; but when he turned up here with the stuff—well, my theory busted, that's all. You went away for a complete rest, and you come back here a physical wreck. You're stiff and sore from riding a horse. You didn't have very much of a pleasure trip, doc. I've pumped away at old Buckshot John until I'm tired. He won't mention your name; he won't answer questions about you. I deserve something, doc, because a week or so ago a mighty ugly story might have been written about your connection with this case, and I held you under cover. I'd like to know something, doc. I know where you got on, but how far did you ride and where did you get off?"
Doc Gilmore could play a four-card flush about as hard as any man in the world, but he also knew when to slip one back into the deck.
"Jim," said he, "I've got to hand it to you! You're immense—a regular Hawkshaw. Now, I'd really like to tell you all about this business, but there's a mighty good reason why I can't. I can tell you something, though, and I know you'll respect the confidence as sacred."
He paused expectantly. Dacey raised his right hand and nodded his head.
"Jimmy," said the Great Gilmore, weighing each word impressively, "if it hadn't been for little Buchanan here, that money would have stayed out in the hills until it rotted!"
The reporter leaped from his chair with a startled ejaculation.
"You had a hand in the actual recovery of the stuff, doc?" he demanded excitedly.
Gilmore lifted both hands, mutely offered them in evidence, and dropped them with a sweeping gesture more expressive than words.
"Can you prove that?" cried Dacey breathlessly.
"I can," said the Great Gilmore calmly, "but I won't. I promised a man that I'd keep my hands off entirely and not let myself be known. It was a compact."
"Compact, nothing!" ejaculated the reporter. "Why, man alive, there's thirty thousand dollars' reward for the return of that stuff, and all you've got to do is prove your claim and demand it! They couldn't pay it to Buckshot John, but they could pay it to you!"
The Great Gilmore dropped back in his chair, limp and nerveless.
"I never heard of it," he said weakly. "What reward?"
"The old express company rewards," cried Dacey. "When the news came that Buckshot Jolm had escaped, everybody believed that he had gone after the stuff, and would try to get out of the country with it. Right away quick, the express companies and the banks came to the front with the announcement that the old rewards still held good. Don't you see, man? All you've got to do is just get Buckshot to say that you had a hand in it, and there's thirty thousand dollars, as good as wheat! Wake up!"
The Great Gilmore took his head in his hands, and steadied it amid the crash of a new disaster. The noiseless Hindu removed the tray and the glasses. Dacey, furiously performing sums in mental addition, was getting farther and farther away from the real answer, and he realized it.
Down in the street an ambulance gong clanged and clanged again. The Great Gilmore did not hear it. He had found a sentence somewhere in that remarkable brain of his—a sentence which kept repeating itself over and over, and every word fell like the stroke of a hammer.
"Figger it out any way you like, and there ain't no way you can ever get a cent of this money!"
Between the Great Gilmore and thirty thousand legitimate dollars there stood the forbidding figure of a shabby, middle-aged man with close-cropped hair and pale-gray eyes—Convict No. 1113.
It was some time before Gilmore looked up and faced his inquisitor. His handsome face was haggard and drawn and seamed with the lines of suffering. It is enough to make a man look old to kiss two fortunes good-by inside of three days.
"Jimmy," said the founder of Purified Thought, "I guess you'll think I'm a fool. Maybe I am; but a promise is a promise. I'm peculiar that way, I suppose, but sooner than break faith with—one who trusted me, I'd close up this place. Whether you believe it or not, that's the solemn truth. Yes, Jimmy, this is one case where virtue must be its own reward—its own reward. And that's the devil of it!" he added softly.