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“I wonder how much he will offer!”

“Oh, a good round sum. I shall suggest five thousand dollars, if he asks me.”

The next day Miss Tennant despatched the following note to Mr. Hemingway:

DEAR, KIND MR. HEMINGWAY:

You have heard of the great robbery and of my dreadful fright. But there is no use crying about it. It is one of those dreadful things, I suppose, that simply have to happen. The burglar was smooth-shaven. How awful that this should have to happen in Aiken of all cities. In Aiken where we never have felt hitherto that it was ever necessary to lock the door. I suppose Mr. Powell’s nice hardware store will do an enormous business now in patent bolts. Papa is going to offer five thousand dollars’ reward for the return of my jewels, and no questions asked. Do you know, I have a feeling that you are going to be instrumental in finding the stolen goods. I have a feeling that the thief (if he has any sense at all) will negotiate through you for their return. And I am sure the thief would never have taken them if he had known how badly it would make me feel, and what a blow he was striking at the good name of Aiken.

I am, dear Mr. Hemingway, contritely and sincerely yours,

SAPPHIRA TENNANT
(formerly Dolly Tennant).

But Mr. Hemingway refused to touch the reward, and Miss Tennant remained in his debt for the full amount of her loan. She began at once to save what she could from her allowance. And she called this fund her “conscience money.”

Miss Tennant and David Larkin did not meet again until the moment of the latter’s departure from Aiken. And she was only one of a number who drove to the station to see him off. Possibly to guard against his impulsive nature, she remained in her runabout during the brief farewell. And what they said to each other might have been (and probably was) heard by others.

Aiken felt that it had misjudged Larkin, and he departed in high favor. He had paid what he owed, so Aiken confessed to having misjudged his resources. He had suddenly stopped short in all evil ways, so Aiken confessed to having misjudged his strength of character. He had announced that he was going out West to seek the bubble wealth in the mouth of an Idaho apple valley, so Aiken cheered him on and wished him well. And when Aiken beheld the calmness of his farewells to Miss Tennant, Aiken said: “And he seems to have gotten over that.”

But Larkin had done nothing of the kind, and he said to himself, as he lay feverish and restless in a stuffy upper berth: “It isn’t because she’s so beautiful or so kind; it’s because she always speaks the truth. Most girls lie about everything, not in so many words, perhaps, but in fact. She doesn’t. She lets you know what she thinks, and where you stand … and I didn’t stand very high.”

Despair seized him. How is it possible to go into a strange world, with only nine hundred dollars in your pocket, and carve a fortune? “When can I pay her back? What must I do if I fail?…” Then came thoughts that were as grains of comfort. Was her lending him money philanthropy pure and simple, an act emanating from her love of mankind? Was it not rather an act emanating from affection for a particular man? If so, that man–misguided boy, bird tumbled out of the nest, child that had escaped from its nurse–was not hard to find. “I could lay my finger on him,” thought Larkin, and he did so–five fingers, somewhat grandiosely upon the chest. A gas lamp peered at him over the curtain pole; snores shook the imprisoned atmosphere of the car. And Larkin’s thoughts flitted from the past and future to the present.