The Cross-Cut | Page 2

almost feared to learn. Once, on a black, stormy night, they had sat
together, father and son before the fire, silent for hours. Then the hand
of the white-haired man had reached outward and rested for a moment
on the young man's knee.
"I wrote something to you, Boy, a day or so ago," he had said. "That
little illness I had prompted me to do it. I--I thought it was only fair to
you. After I 'm gone, look in the safe. You 'll find the combination on a
piece of paper hidden in a hole cut in that old European history in the
bookcase. I have your promise, I know--that you 'll not do it until after I
'm gone."
Now Thornton Fairchild was gone. But a message had remained behind;
one which the patient lips evidently had feared to utter during life. The
heart of the son began to pound, slow and hard, as, with the memory of
that conversation, he turned toward the bookcase and unlatched the
paneled door. A moment more and the hollowed history had given up
its trust, a bit of paper scratched with numbers. Robert Fairchild turned
toward the stairs and the small room on the second floor which had
served as his father's bedroom.

There he hesitated before the little iron safe in the corner, summoning
the courage to unlock the doors of a dead man's past. At last he forced
himself to his knees and to the numerals of the combination.
The safe had not been opened in years; that was evident from the
creaking of the plungers as they fell, the gummy resistance of the knob
as Fairchild turned it in accordance with the directions on the paper.
Finally, a great wrench, and the bolt was drawn grudgingly back; a
strong pull, and the safe opened.
A few old books; ledgers in sheepskin binding. Fairchild disregarded
these for the more important things that might lie behind the little inner
door of the cabinet. His hand went forward, and he noticed, in a hazy
sort of way, that it was trembling. The door was unlocked; he drew it
open and crouched a moment, staring, before he reached for the thinner
of two envelopes which lay before him. A moment later he straightened
and turned toward the light. A crinkling of paper, a quick-drawn sigh
between clenched teeth; it was a letter; his strange, quiet,
hunted-appearing father was talking to him through the medium of ink
and paper, after death.
Closely written, hurriedly, as though to finish an irksome task in as
short a space as possible, the missive was one of several pages,--pages
which Robert Fairchild hesitated to read. The secret--and he knew full
well that there was a secret--had been in the atmosphere about him ever
since he could remember. Whether or not this was the solution of it,
Robert Fairchild did not know, and the natural reticence with which he
had always approached anything regarding his father's life gave him an
instinctive fear, a sense of cringing retreat from anything that might
now open the doors of mystery. But it was before him, waiting in his
father's writing, and at last his gaze centered; he read:
My son:
Before I begin this letter to you I must ask that you take no action
whatever until you have seen my attorney--he will be yours from now
on. I have never mentioned him to you before; it was not necessary and
would only have brought you curiosity which I could not have satisfied.

But now, I am afraid, the doors must be unlocked. I am gone. You are
young, you have been a faithful son and you are deserving of every
good fortune that may possibly come to you. I am praying that the
years have made a difference, and that Fortune may smile upon you as
she frowned on me. Certainly, she can injure me no longer. My race is
run; I am beyond earthly fortunes.
Therefore, when you have finished with this, take the deeds inclosed in
the larger envelope and go to St. Louis. There, look up Henry F.
Beamish, attorney-at-law, in the Princess Building. He will explain
them to you.
Beyond this, I fear, there is little that can aid you. I cannot find the
strength, now that I face it, to tell you what you may find if you follow
the lure that the other envelope holds forth to you.
There is always the hope that Fortune may be kind to me at last, and
smile upon my memory by never letting you know why I have been the
sort of man you have known, and not the jovial, genial companion that
a father should be. But there are certain things, my son, which defeat a
man.