“I think Fred's letter is a lie out of whole cloth,” old Simon blurted out. “I don't think he is at work; I don't think it was ever _in_ him to work in any capacity; but I _do_ believe he has set out to make good that shortage for a deep-laid reason. Some sharper or money-shark may be backing him, or he may have had a temporary streak of luck at poker or cotton futures, and has decided to invest something in me, as too big a fish to remain unhooked. I don't swallow one word of his mealymouthed tale. I'd bet my last dollar he's this F. B. Jenkins, and that he has been hanging around Atlanta all these years, keeping himself out of sight, and, like as not, coming here now and then under cover of night to see that woman. That's why she has kept so close at home. They have guarded the child, too, so that he wouldn't let the cat out of the bag. Toby, if I wanted to--if I just _wanted_ to--I could put a watch on that cottage and nab our man in less than a month. I say, if I just _wanted_ to.” “Then you wouldn't arrest him, Mr. Walton?” Lassiter breathed, in relief. “Well, not now, at any rate,” Walton said, grimly. “We are too solid in every way now for such a thing to do us any great financial damage, but I don't fancy the idea of stirring up the stench again. He has put in a pretty big amount to start with, and he won't lie idle after that. Mark my words, we'll hear from Atlanta, and it will be apt to come through the fellow that calls himself F. B. Jenkins.” CHAPTER VI |OH, here you are, you old agnostic!” Wynn Dearing called out jovially to Galt, one afternoon when he found the railroad president walking to and fro on the veranda of the latter's home. “If you say so, we'll go in the house, and I'll make that examination here and save you the trouble of coming down to my pigpen of an office.” “You could do it here, then?” said Galt, a weary look on his pale face. “Easy enough; I've got my stethoscope in this satchel. I've just been across the street to see a negro with a whiskey liver. He is a goner, I guess, but I have more hopes of you. Your trouble may be found in those cigar boxes your railroad friends are sending you. If it is that, I'll cut you down to one a day, and smoke the rest myself.” They had gone into the big library, the walls of which were hung with family portraits in oil, and lined with long, low cases filled with Galt's favorite books. “Take the big chair,” Dearing said, “and open your shirt in front.” Galt tossed his half-smoked cigar through an open window and complied. The examination was made, and questions in regard to diet and habits were asked and answered. Dearing said nothing as he put his instrument into the satchel and closed it. He stood over his patient, eying him critically.