SIMEON DEAVES TURNS PHILANTHROPIST

During his long vigil beside the spruce tree a scheme for dealing out poetic justice all around had occurred to Evan. Of course one can never tell in advance how people are going to take things, but he had chuckled and resolved to try it anyhow. So full was he of his scheme, even in sleep, that he awoke in an hour, and bathed, dressed and breakfasted at his usual time.

On the slip of paper that Corinna had given Evan was written:

Thomas Dordess, -- Broadway, Give Weir the bonds.

C. PLAYFAIR.

Evan presented himself at this address at a few minutes past nine, when offices were just opening. Dordess, it appeared, was not a journalist, as Evan had once guessed, but an architect; that is to say, an elderly architectural draughtsman, one of the race of slaves who help build other men's reputations.

Early as it was, Dordess had already been apprised of Evan's coming.

Evan had only to look at him to know that. The ironic smile of the man of the world was on his lips, in his eyes the resentful hatred of a youth for his successful rival. The package of bonds was already done up and waiting, it appeared. With scarcely a glance at Corinna's note, which Evan offered him, Dordess handed it over.

"Better open it and look them over," he said bitterly.

"Time enough for that," said Evan. "I want to talk to you."

Dordess' eyebrows went up.

"Oh, I know you hate me like the devil," said Evan. "But I'm hoping you'll know me better some day. Anyhow, I want to talk to you privately for a few minutes. Is it safe here? I want to put up a scheme to you."

Dordess indicated the package. "What more is there to say?" he asked with his bitter smile.

"Better hear it," said Evan. "It may make it easier all around. Won't hurt you to listen, anyway."

"All right," said Dordess. "Can't talk here. Too many going in and out. I'll come out with you."

They ensconced themselves in an alcove of the cafe across the street.

"What's your scheme?" said Dordess. "Shoot!"

"Well, I gather from your generally humorous style," said Evan, "that it was you who wrote the letters for the Ikunahkatsi. By the way, what does Ikunahkatsi mean?"

"An Indian word for avengers. Yes, I wrote the letters. What of it?"

"I want you to write one more. Also another article for the _Clarion_."

"I would have to consult Miss Playfair."

"No. She mustn't know anything about it until later."

"Nothing doing, then."

"But listen----!"

Their heads drew close over the table, and for five minutes Evan talked uninterruptedly. As Dordess listened his expression changed oddly; a conflict of feelings was visible in his face; incredulity, chagrin, an unwilling admiration, and laughter.

"d.a.m.n you!" he cried at last. "It's true I hate you! I wish to G.o.d you were an out and out bad one so I could hate you right. But now you're trying to bluff me that you're a decent head! I don't believe you!"

Evan laughed. "Call my bluff," he said. "I'd do the writing myself, only it would lose all its effect in another handwriting. And I never could imitate your style."

"Very well, I'll do it," said Dordess. "Come back to my office in an hour and a half and they'll be ready."

He was as good as his word. He and Evan laughed grimly together over the result of his labours.

"Send it up by messenger," said Evan. "It will save time. I'll be on hand when it arrives."

It was past eleven when Evan rang the bell of the Deaves house. He was not without anxiety as to the reception he would receive. It was possible that the old man, when he had quieted down, might begin to remember things, and to put two and two together. However, he had to take that chance.

He learned that Simeon Deaves was not yet up, that Mrs. George Deaves was out, and her husband in the library. The latter received him with no friendly face.

"You shouldn't have come here," he said.

Evan excused himself on the score of his anxiety about the old man.

"Papa got home all right," said George Deaves. "What happened to you last night?"

Evan led him to suppose that his chase had ended in nothing. He asked a cautious question.

"Oh," said the other. "Papa told a confused story about the house where he was confined being raided by the police, and a chase through the woods. I thought maybe you were mixed up in it."

The old man had not recognized him, then. Evan was relieved. He affected to be greatly astonished.

"The police!" he said. "Who could have put them on to it? There was nothing in the paper this morning."

"No, thank Heaven!" said Deaves fervently. "Maybe his mind was wandering. I couldn't make sense of his story. I hope and pray the thing is done with now."

But poor George Deaves was due to receive a shock when the second man presently entered.

"Letter by messenger, sir. No answer."

At the sight of the superscription Deaves turned livid and fell back in his chair. He stared at the envelope like a man bewitched. He moistened his lips and essayed to speak, but no sound came out.

"What's the matter?" asked Evan when the servant had left.

"Another letter--already!" whispered Deaves huskily. "And only yesterday--four hundred thousand! What a fool I was to believe in their promises!"

"But open it!" said Evan.

"I can't--I can't face any more!"

"Let me."

Deaves feebly shoved it towards him.

Evan tore open the envelope. His cue was to express surprise, and he did not neglect it.