Chapter TWENTY-SIX

A letter went that night from Fledra Vandecar to her husband in Albany. It was written after the woman had paced her room for several hours in inexplicable disquietude and unrest. Puzzled, the governor read:

"_Dearest_.--

"I went today to see Ann Shellington, with my mind fully made up to
speak to her about the boy and girl who have been with her for
these last few months. Everett was here to dinner last night with
me, and confided in me his trouble with Horace, which has finally
culminated in a breach with Ann. It seems the difficulty arose over
the case of the squatter from Ithaca who has demanded his children.

"Everett has taken the man's side, and until I called upon Ann I
felt quite in sympathy with him. And still I cannot tell you,
dearest Floyd, what changed my mind, unless it was the sight of
that sick boy. He was sleeping when I went in, and was muttering
over a babyish prayer, which quite touched me. I had no opportunity
to talk with him, nor the girl either. She was riding with Horace,
and Everett tells me that he (Horace) is quite infatuated with the
child.

"I'm going to ask you, Floyd darling, to help Horace all you can,
and if Everett comes to see you, as he said he was going to, I want
you to know that it is my wish that you should keep to your policy
with Ann and her brother. I cannot tell why I am writing you this,
only that my heart aches for that boy, and that for years I have
never felt so impelled to help a human being as I have him.

"I thought Everett might tell you that I was won to his way of
thinking by his pleading how he wanted to remove Ann from contact
with the boy and girl; so I hasten to write you. Kiss my precious
Mildred for her mother, and, Floyd, dear, see to it that she
doesn't stay up too late; for she is not strong. I cautioned
Katherine about it; but I'm afraid she might yield to the child's
entreaties.

"With fondest love to you, my darling, and to my baby and
Katherine, I am,

"Your own loving wife,
"FLEDRA."

The governor read and reread the letter, especially the part in which his wife implored him to aid Horace Shellington. He laid it down with a sigh. He well knew that Fledra's heart was tender toward all little ones since the disappearance of her own. All hope that he would ever see his twin children had left him years before, and now, for some moments, with his hand on the envelop, his mind wandered into hidden places, where he saw a boy and a girl growing to manhood and womanhood, and he groaned deeply.

* * * * *

Later, when Everett Brimbecomb was ushered into his office at the capital, the governor was primed with the sympathy that he had gathered from his wife's letter.

"This is something of a surprise, my dear boy," he said. "I did not know you were coming to Albany so soon."

"I came with a purpose," replied Everett; "for, as you know, my father is away, and I need your advice in something."

Vandecar waited for his visitor to proceed.

"Do you see any reason," Everett stammered, "why two young lawyers should not be friends, even if they have to take opposite sides in a lawsuit?"

"No," replied the governor slowly.

"Then I'll lay the whole thing before you, and let you tell me what you think of it."

"Have a cigar while we talk," broke in Vandecar, offering Everett his case.

In silence they began to smoke, and both remained quiet until the governor said:

"Now, explain it to me, please."

Everett began the story of the children's running away, as the squatter had told it to him, and of their coming to Horace. He did not forget to add that he believed Shellington had lied to him the night he came into the dining-room and discovered Fledra and Floyd with the two little animals. When a shade passed over the governor's face, Everett quickly noted that he had made a mistake in the drawing of conclusions.

"Don't be too hasty, Everett," cautioned Vandecar, shaking an ash deliberately from his cigar. "Horace is the soul of truth. If he did not tell it to you, he had good reasons."

Brimbecomb frowned. He could have bitten his tongue out for making that misstep.

"That's so," he admitted. "But, ever since last September, Horace, and I might say Ann, too, have drawn more and more away from me. For my part, I see no good that can come of their relations with squatters."

"It was the most charitable act I have ever heard of," replied Vandecar. "But you are straying from the case. Do I understand that you have taken up the side of the father?"

"Yes."

"And that you intend to make a move to return his children to him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

As Everett looked at the stern, unyielding man before him, his excuse to Mrs. Vandecar seemed tame as it ran through his mind. The governor's eyes were scanning him critically, almost dazzling him with their steely gray. An expression in the steady gaze made him tremble; but he took heart as he thought of the friendship between the governor and his foster father.

"It's hardly fair to ask me why I took the case, which came to me in a legitimate manner," said he. "I can see no reason why the man, although poor, should not have his own children. Do you?"

It was a pointed question, and Vandecar waived it by saying:

"There are always circumstances surrounding these things, such as when parents are cruel to their children, which might make it advisable, almost imperative, to take the youngsters away and put them with reputable people. I think Horace is of the impression that this is true in the present case."

"Then is one man's opinion to be taken? Do you advise that?"

"No; but I do not yet understand why you should be interested against your friends. I should think that, rather than disagree with them, you would wish to have nothing to do with it."

Everett would have to use Ann again to convince the governor of his right to act. It had been far easier to explain his interest in Cronk to Mrs. Vandecar than to this quiet, powerful man opposite. The brown-flecked gray eyes looked unusually sober and truth-demanding.

"I won't have them any longer with Ann than I can help," Everett broke forth suddenly. "She is killing herself over them. Have you ever seen them, Mr. Vandecar?"

"No."

"If you had, then you would agree with me. The fact is, your wife thinks the way I do, but would not help me because you were pledged to Horace. Your influence over him is great, and I should like to keep this out of court, if possible. Mrs. Vandecar was rather exercised over Ann."

With a deliberation that baffled Everett, the governor put down his cigar and drew a letter from his pocket. He opened it in silence and glanced at it, while Everett stared uneasily at this unusual proceeding. Presently the governor looked up casually.

"You say that my wife is exercised over Ann?"

"So she told me. She---"

"Well, just at this time," interjected Vandecar, "Mrs. Vandecar is very much in sympathy with the boy. She has seen him, since talking with you." Everett stood up abruptly. "She has changed her mind; so her letter tells me, Brimbecomb," went on the elder man, "and, as I am working with Horace, and this thing touches him so deeply, I shall have to ask you not to come to me for advice or help. You understand," and the governor rose also, "that, while I have a deep feeling of interest in you and your work, I must say that I think it would be better taste for you to withdraw while you can. It will be unpleasant all around, and, as your father is away, it is rather dangerous to connect your office with low people."

* * * * *

Everett went forth from the interview discomfited, but none the less firm in his evil purpose. Only a few days later, when Lem Crabbe's scow was slowly making its way from Ithaca to Tarrytown, _habeas corpus_ papers were served upon Horace Shellington to produce the twins in court and to give reasons why they should not be given to their father.

Horace held a consultation with Ann, and it was decided that they should appeal to the court for time, procuring a doctor's certificate to prove that Floyd was too ill even to know of the proceedings. This having been done, it placed an unlooked-for stay upon Everett Brimbecomb; but he secured a court order instructing the sheriff to guard the children at the Shellington home until the boy was well enough to be taken out. So, a deputy was stationed in the house.

* * * * *

In the meantime Lon watched eagerly for the coming of Lem. When at last he espied the scow fastened in its accustomed place, he went down to carry the news to the owner. After explaining the matter as far as it had gone, he ventured:

"Lem, be ye carin' for Flea yet?"

"Why?" demanded Lem suspiciously.

"'Cause we can make some money outen her, if ye gives up yer claim on her."

"Ye mean to sell her?"

Lem's words sounded hoarse as he wheezed them out.

"'Tain't sellin' her," explained Lon. "A whollopin' good-lookin' feller wants her, and he says he'll buy yer off and give me money fer her. Will ye do it, Lem?"

"Nope, I won't! I want her myself. I been waiting long 'nough fer her."

"But wouldn't ye ruther have a pocketful of money? I would, I bet ye!"

"Lon, be ye goin' to do me dirt?" asked Lem darkly.

Lon straightened his shoulders.

"Nope, I told him ye had to be buyed off, afore I could say nothin'. But I thought ye liked money, Lem."

"So I do; but I like Flea better. I helped ye get 'em when they were babies, Lon, and ye said--"

Cronk flung out his arms.

"I said as how ye wasn't to mention aloud, even to me, that the kids wasn't mine. Ye has Flea, if ye say so, and I'll tell the lawyer--"

"Be it that good-lookin' feller what ye give the fifty dollars to what wants Flea?" Cronk nodded. "I thought ye wouldn't let me marry her," Lem cried, "and now ye be goin'--"

Lon interrupted the scowman fiercely:

"Nuther is he goin' to marry her--ye can bet on that! No kid of Vandecar's gets a boost up from me--a boost down, more like!"

"I'll kill the feller if he touches her," growled Lem, "and ye can make up yer mind to that, Lon!"

Lon Cronk shrugged his shoulders disdainfully.

"Take her if ye want her, Lem. I won't put no straw in yer way. But I never could see what ye wanted her fer. She's a big mouth to feed, let me tell ye!"

For some moments the two men sat in the darkening scow and smoked in silence. Suddenly Lem looked up.

"We couldn't get ahead of the nasty scamp, could we, Lon? I mean, could we git the money, and then keep the gal?"

"I don't want her," growled Lon; "she couldn't stay with me no more."

"We oughter make him pay the money, though," Lem insisted.

"Then, if ye has Flea, Lem," said Lon, looking keenly at the scowman, "and ye git yer share of money, ye has to share up yer half with me. See?"

"Yep," muttered Lem. "Will ye bring the feller down here some day, and we'll talk it over?"

Lon acquiesced by a nod of his head, saying only, "Come on out, and let's get a drink."

"When's he goin' to git 'em--Flea and Flukey, I mean?"

"I dunno. The boy's too sick to come to court. He's liable to die any minute."

Lem started forward at the unexpected word.

"If he croaks, be ye goin' to leave Flea there?"

"Not by a damn sight! We'll git her, and I don't care if the boy goes dead afore mornin'. I only want him to suffer, and die if he wants to. And, Lem," Lon smiled evilly, and, looking into the swart face of his pal, said, "and I guess ye can make the gal come to yer likin'."

Lem's throat worked visibly, his face reddened by the silent laughter that shook him.

"I only want the chance," he said. "Come on and let's git a drink."