he amount, the offer would
in the end have been accepted with outward reluctance but inward joy.
Had he refused to return a penny Kendrick would not have been surprised.
But Egbert, after making up his mind, had paid the entire sum without a
whimper, had paid it almost casually and with the air of one obliging a
well-meaning, if somewhat annoying, inferior. Inspecting and pocketing
Kent's power of attorney and the captain's receipt he had dismissed his
visitor at the parsonage door as King Solomon in all his glory might
have graciously dismissed a beggar whose petition had been granted. And
the look in his eye and the half smile beneath the long mustache were
not those of one beaten at a game--no, they were not.

The recollection of that look and that smile bothered Sears Kendrick. He
could not guess what was behind them. One thing seemed to be certain,
his threats of prosecution and his bluffs concerning the Boston bonds
had not alarmed Phillips greatly. He had not given in because he was
afraid of imprisonment. No; no, the only symptoms of nervousness he had
shown were his repeated glances at the clock, at his watch, and when he
looked out of the parsonage window. More and more the captain was forced
to the conclusion that Egbert had paid him to get rid of him, that he
did not wish to be detained or to have Kendrick remain there, and his
reasons must have been so important that he was willing to part with
sixteen hundred dollars to get his visitor out of the way.

But what possible reason could be as important as that? Why had he run
away from Bayport? Why was he taking the three-fifteen train--at
Denboro? Why was he spending the time before the departure of that train
in the parlor of the Methodist parsonage? And he had made an appointment
with the minister himself. Was he expecting some one else at that
parsonage?

Eh? The captain straightened on the buggy seat. He spoke aloud one word,
a name.

"Cordelia!" he cried.

For another five minutes Captain Sears Kendrick, his frown growing
deeper and deeper as the conviction was forced upon him, sat motionless
in the buggy. Then he spoke sharply to his horse, turned the latter
about, and drove rapidly back to Denboro. He could do nothing worth
while, he could prevent nothing, but he could answer that riddle. He
believed he had answered it already.

It was half-past three when he again knocked at the parsonage door. The
Reverend Backus himself answered the knock.