PAGE 13
The Twinkling Of An Eye
by
V
When Paul Whittier said he had a photograph of the mysterious enemy of the Ramapo Steel and Iron Works in the very act of opening the safe, Mr. Whittier and Mr. Wheatcroft looked at each other in amazement. Major Van Zandt stared at the young man with fear and shame struggling together in his face.
Without waiting to enjoy his triumph, Paul put his hand in his pocket and took out two squares of bluish paper.
“There,” he said, as he handed one to his father, “there is a blue print of the man taken in this office at ten minutes past three yesterday afternoon, just as he was about to open the safe in the corner. You see he is kneeling with his hand on the lock, but apparently just then something alarmed him and he cast a hasty glance over his shoulder. At that second the photograph was taken, and so we have a full-face portrait of the man.”
Mr. Whittier had looked at the photograph, and he now passed it to the impatient hand of the junior partner.
“You see, Mr. Wheatcroft,” Paul continued, “that although the face in the photograph bears a certain family likeness to Major Van Zandt’s, all the same that is not a portrait of the Major. The man who was here yesterday was a young man, a man young enough to be the Major’s son!”
The old book-keeper looked at the speaker.
“Mr. Paul,” he began, “you won’t be hard on the—-” then he paused abruptly.
“I confess I don’t understand this at all!” declared Mr. Wheatcroft, irascibly.
“I am afraid that I do understand it,” Mr. Whittier said, with a glance of compassion at the Major.
“There,” Paul continued, handing his father a second azure square, “there is a photograph taken here ten minutes after the first, at 3.20 yesterday afternoon. That shows the safe open and the young man standing before it with the private letter-book in his hand. As his head is bent over the pages of the book, the view of the face is not so good. But there can be no doubt that it is the same man. You see that, don’t you, Mr. Wheatcroft?”
“I see that, of course,” returned Mr. Wheatcroft, forcibly. “What I don’t see is why the Major here should confess if he isn’t guilty!”
“I think I know the reason for that,” said Mr. Whittier, gently.
“There haven’t been two men at our books, have there?” asked Mr. Wheatcroft–“the Major, and also the fellow who has been photographed?”
Mr. Whittier looked at the book-keeper for a moment.
“Major,” he said, with compassion in his voice, “you won’t tell me that it was you who sold our secrets to our rivals? And you might confess it again and again, I should never believe it. I know you better. I have known you too long to believe any charge against your honesty, even if you bring it yourself. The real culprit, the man who is photographed here, is your son, isn’t he? There is no use in your trying to conceal the truth now, and there is no need to attempt it, because we shall be lenient with him for your sake, Major.”
There was a moment’s silence, broken by Wheatcroft suddenly saying:
“The Major’s son? Why, he’s dead, isn’t he? He was shot in a brawl after a spree somewhere out West two or three years ago–at least, that’s what I understood at the time.”
“It is what I wanted everybody to understand at the time,” said the book-keeper, breaking silence at last. “But it wasn’t so. The boy was shot, but he wasn’t killed. I hoped that it would be a warning to him, and he would make a fresh start. Friends of mine got him a place in Mexico, but luck was against him–so he wrote me–and he lost that. Then an old comrade of mine gave him another chance out in Denver, and for a while he kept straight and did his work well. Then he broke down once more and he was discharged. For six months I did not know what had become of him. I’ve found out since that he was a tramp for weeks, and that he walked most of the way from Colorado to New York. This fall he turned up in the city, ragged, worn out, sick. I wanted to order him away, but I couldn’t. I took him back and got him decent clothes and took him to look for a place, for I knew that hard work was the only thing that would keep him out of mischief. He did not find a place, perhaps he did not look for one. But all at once I discovered that he had money. He would not tell me how he got it. I knew he could not have come by it honestly, and so I watched him. I spied after him, and at last I found that he was selling you to the Tuxedo Company.”