CHAPTER XXXV
THE PHOTOGRAPH
Benton King sat in his office at the mill,
opening the morning mail, which had just
been brought him by a boy. His face
wore a heavy frown, and he ripped open the envelopes
viciously with the steel paper cutter.
The sounds of the mill—the creaking of the windlass drawing the big sticks up the run, the scream of the saws tearing through logs, the pistol-claps of fresh-cut boards tossed flatly upon other boards by the laborers—annoyed him, and he rose and kicked shut the connecting door, which had been left slightly ajar.
Resuming his seat at the desk, his eye fell on a square, flat package at the bottom of the letters remaining unopened, and he caught it up eagerly.
"Ha!" he breathed, after looking at the address. "Fletcher's handwriting! He got it! This is what I sent for."
Even as he was tearing off the wrapper, however, hesitation and fear came upon him. What if it should not be what he wanted? What if the
