HOMEWARD BOUND

Tom’s sensational discovery seemed to take the edge off his new resolve in the matter of his duty. Kind fate had taken the matter out of his hands. But he had made his resolve before that discovery. And right or wrong he gloried in his independent decision. He thought of Audry with a kind of bravado.

But all thoughts now were subservient to his new and urgent duty. Hurrying to the local headquarters of police, he told hurriedly of his harrowing discovery, laying the manuscript before the official on duty.

For a few terrible minutes he thought they were going to hold him. But they seemed in the end to be impressed with the straightforwardness of his narrative and let him go after taking his name and address. One of them recognized him as assistant at Temple Camp and doubtless that fact saved him the exasperation of being detained. He said nothing about Whalen for he saw no reason to do so. He would bring Whalen into the light, but in his own way. He wished to manage that end of it. His brain was seething with plans.

Now that he had gotten the burden of his discovery and its startling revelation off his mind and into the proper hands, his one thought was to reach the mountain before the countryside was ringing with the news. The officials had darkly warned him that they might want him any time.

He caught a train down to Kingston, had a bite to eat there, then started for the mountain on foot. It is a long walk over the fine highway from Kingston to West Hurley, but he was accustomed to long hikes, and his excitement gave him an elastic energy. He recalled that Billy the sailor had tramped all the way from Poughkeepsie. His tumultuous thoughts beguiled the journey like a circus. He seemed to be on springs. Twin lights came rapidly along from both directions, now and then a horn honked its warning, once he called asking for a lift but got no answer; he did not care.

“They, the powers that be,” he panted, “know where the culprit—the real culprit—is, and I’ll take care of my end of it—all right, all right.” In his exhilaration it never occurred to him that he had revealed the whereabouts of the murderer of Henry Merrick and might, technically, be entitled to the reward. He was, at least, the means of exposing the ultimate sequel of that old crime.

But he did think of the—thing out there on the river, lying face upward. And he could not repress a certain measure of pity when he thought of those days of wistful waiting; waiting for the drought to bring the ghost of old West Hurley once again to light.

But these were not pleasant thoughts for a lonely wayfarer at night. So he thought of Mr. Fairgreaves, the courtly, the magnificent Mr. Fairgreaves. Well, he would see them all in the morning....

It was midnight when he reached West Hurley and he was not yet tired. He realized how futile was his steady, rapid stride. He could not sleep when he reached the cottage. And he could not see any one before morning. Why hurry? He conquered his nerves and resolved not to hurry.

While West Hurley slept, Tom walked down to the shore of the reservoir. The moon shone upon it and the shimmering area of the vast storage lake looked like a golden island. Not a sound was there. If the water was low, he could see no sign of it on the near shore.

Somewhere under that water, in old ruined masonry, was a box with valuable papers. It seemed preposterously romantic—like buried treasure. And a poor stricken wretch with the stigma of old crime upon him had waited and waited for the stubborn water to subside—and had died waiting.

Three deaths so far—and sorrow and homelessness. And folks away off in the great city of New York turning on their faucets, and watering their lawns, and putting out their fires with this same water, and never thinking, never knowing....