It might be true in her case—it must be, or why had she let him go that afternoon?—but, for himself, the separation had taught him that he loved her as much as ever, more than ever. Absence had purified him of that dull anger which had been his so short a while before. He looked back and marvelled that he could ever have imagined for a moment that he had ceased to love her.
Now, as he drove along the empty country roads, he forced his mind to dwell, as far as he could, only upon his son. There was a mist before his eyes as he thought of him. What a bully lad he had been! What fun they had had in the old days! But that brought his mind back to Ruth, and he turned his mind resolutely to the future again.
He chuckled silently as he thought of Steve. Of all the mad things to do! What had made him think of it? How had such a wild scheme ever entered his head? This, he supposed, was what Steve called punching instead of sparring. But he had never given him credit for the imagination that could conceive a punch of this magnitude.
And how had he carried it out? He could hardly have broken into the house. Yet that seemed the only way in which it could have been done.
From Steve his thoughts returned to William Bannister. He smiled again. What a time they would have—while it lasted! The worst of it was, it could not last long. Tomorrow, he supposed, he would have to take the child back to his home. He could not be a party to this kidnapping raid for any length of time. This must be looked on as a brief holiday, not as a permanent relief.
That was the only flaw in his happiness as he stopped the car at the door of the shack, for by now he had succeeded at last in thrusting the image of Ruth from his mind.
There was a light in the ground-floor window. He raised his head and shouted:
“Steve!”
The door opened.
“Hello, Kirk. That you? Come along in. You’re just in time for the main performance.”
He caught sight of Mamie standing beside Kirk.
“Who’s that?” he cried. For a moment he thought it was Ruth, and his honest heart leaped at the thought that his scheme had worked already and brought Kirk and her together again.
“It’s me, Steve,” said Mamie in her small voice. And Steve, as he heard it, was seized with the first real qualm he had had since he had embarked upon his great adventure.
As Kirk had endeavoured temporarily to forget Ruth, so had he tried not to think of Mamie. It was the only thing he was ashamed of in the whole affair, the shock he must have given her.
“Hello, Mamie,” he said sheepishly, and paused. Words did not come readily to him.
Mamie entered the house without speaking. It seemed to Steve that invective would have been better than this ominous silence. He looked ruefully at her retreating back and turned to greet Kirk.
“You’re mighty late,” he said.
“I only got your telegram toward the end of the afternoon. I had been away all day. I came here as fast as I could hit it up directly I read it. We had a blowout, and that delayed us.”
Steve ventured a question.
“Say, Kirk, why ’us,’ while we’re talking of it? How does Mamie come to be here?”
“She insisted on coming. It seems that everybody in the house was away today, so she tells me, so she came round to me with your note.”
“I guess this has put me in pretty bad with Mamie,” observed Steve regretfully. “Has she been knocking me on the trip?”
“Not a word.”
Steve brightened, but became subdued again next moment.
“I guess she’s just saving it,” he said resignedly.
“Steve, what made you do it?”
“Oh, I reckoned you could do with having the kid to yourself for a spell,” said Steve awkwardly.
“You’re all right, Steve. But how did you manage it? I shouldn’t have thought it possible.”
“Oh, it wasn’t so hard, that part. I just hid in the house, and—but say, let’s forget it; it makes me feel kind of mean, somehow. It seems to me I may have lost Mamie her job. It’s mighty hard to do the right thing by everyone in this world, ain’t it? Come along in and see the kid. He’s great. Are you feeling ready for supper? Him and me was just going to start.”
It occurred to Kirk for the first time that he was hungry.
“Have you got anything to eat, Steve?”
Steve brightened again.
“Have we?” he said. “We’ve got everything there is in Connecticut! Why, say, we’re celebrating. This is our big day. Know what’s happened? Why—”
He stopped short, as if somebody had choked him. They had gone into the sitting-room while he was speaking. The table was laid for supper. A chafing-dish stood at one end, and the remainder of the available space was filled with a collection of foods, from cold chicken to candy, which did credit to Steve’s imagination.
But it was not the sight of these that checked his flow of speech. It was the look on Mamie’s face as he caught sight of it in the lamplight. The White Hope was sitting at the table in the attitude of one who has heard the gong and is anxious to begin; while Mamie, bending over him, raised her head as the two men entered and fixed Steve with a baleful stare.
“What have you been doing to the poor mite?” she demanded fiercely, “to get his face scratched this way?”
There was no doubt about the scratch. It was a long, angry red
