He returned the picture to the pigeonhole, and investigated the contents of the other letter, consisting of a single sheet of paper, on which a brief note had apparently been scrawled with much haste. The handwriting was masculine, and there was no date line to tell from whence it had come, but the first two words were enough to give Hutchinson considerable satisfaction. They were: “Dear Hazelton.” With some trouble, the manager deciphered what followed: Don’t worry any more about the Kernell case. Wyloft & Pettengall have informed me that it will surely be settled out of court. I’ll have further information from them in a few days, but I’m sure there’ll be no necessity for you to come back here until you get through with your baseball job. Hope you make good up there in the bush, though you were afraid when you left that your arm had lost some of its cunning. Let me know what success you are having. Ever yours, GRANDALL. “Ah!” breathed Bob Hutchinson. “As proof, I think this should satisfy Riley. The envelope is addressed to ‘Tom Locke,’ but the writer calls him Hazelton in the message. That settles it. I don’t need the envelope, but I think I’ll keep its contents for Riley’s eyes. Now, we can go ahead without hesitation, and sink the harpoon to the hilt.” CHAPTER XXXI TOM, TOMMY AND JANET In a grove upon the bank of the log-choked river, Tom Locke lay stretched on a carpet of brown pine needles, reading from a little book. The sunshine, sifting through the trees, cast upon the ground golden fleckings, which wavered and danced as a soft breeze stirred the upper branches. By turning his head and lifting his eyes, Tom could catch a glimpse, through an opening, of the distant village and the mills below the dam, silent and dozing in the peaceful warmth of the Sabbath afternoon. So absorbed was he, however, that he rarely paused to give attention to that view. He scarcely heard the sounds of children’s voices in the grove; sounds which gradually drew nearer. When at last he did take note, it was because their close approach had aroused him, but, trusting he would be left undisturbed in his glade, he resumed his reading. Suddenly he was startled into full attention by a voice which called: “Tommy, Tommy, where are you?” The voice, clear, mellow, flute-like, gave him a singular thrill that brought him up to a sitting position. The book dropped from his hand, forgotten. No child’s voice was that; he had heard it before, coming from lips whose fair curve and fullness he could not forget, and, though he chided himself for his folly, its echoes had haunted him even in his dreams. He waited, breathless, expectant, desiring to hear the call repeated, and that desire was quickly gratified. “Tommy, Tommy, why don’t you answer me?”