“Well, Lucy was a gentle, sweet country girl, of little experience in life. Her nature was so susceptible, so very sensitive, that when she discovered Tom Gates, whom she loved, to be guilty of a forgery, she worried herself into an attack of brain-fever; or at least she became insane, reproaching herself for having driven the boy to this dreadful deed. Under the influence of her mania she wandered away from her home, and has not been seen since. That’s the story of Lucy Rogers. Now look at Eliza Parsons. She appeared the very day after Lucy’s disappearance, to be sure; but that proves they are not the same person. For Eliza is not demented. She is a cold, hard woman of the world, in spite of her tender years. She is doing the work of an experienced spy, while any deceit was foreign to Lucy’s nature. Instead of being plunged in grief Eliza is happy and gay, reckless of consequences and fully self-possessed. She is also well and healthy, to all appearances. Taking all these things into consideration, it is impossible to connect the two girls in any way — save the coincidence of personal resemblance.”
Mr. Burke listened to this quietly, and then shook his head.
“Your arguments all tend to make me suspect that she is Lucy Rogers,” he said, quietly.
For a moment there was an impressive silence, while everyone eagerly, inquiringly or doubtfully looked at the detective, according to their diverse acceptance of his statement.
“In pursuance of the task set me,” began Mr. Burke, “I had met with such absolute failure to trace the missing girl that I began to suspect no ordinary conditions were attached to this case. In my experience, which covers many years, I have had occasion to study sudden dementia, caused by shocks of grief or horror, and I have come to comprehend the fact that the human mind, once unbalanced, is liable to accomplish many surprising feats. Usually the victim is absolutely transformed, and becomes the very opposite, in many ways, of the normal personality. I imagine this is what happened to Lucy Rogers.”
“Do you imagine that Lucy would try to deceive me, sir?” asked Tom, reproachfully.
“I am sure she doesn’t know who you are,” answered the detective, positively. “She doesn’t even know herself. I have known instances where every recollection of the past was wiped out of the patient’s mind.”
There was another thoughtful pause, for the detective’s assertions were so astonishing that they fairly overwhelmed his hearers.
Then Louise asked:
“Is such a case of dementia hopeless, Mr. Burke?”
“Not at all hopeless. Often, I admit, it develops into permanent insanity, but there are many examples of complete recovery. Our first business must be to assure ourselves that we are right in this conjecture. I may be entirely wrong, for the unexpected is what I have been taught to look for in every case of mystery that has come under my observation. But I believe I have the material at hand to prove the personality of this Eliza Parsons, and after that I shall know what to do. Who employs your servants, Mr. Forbes?”
“Martha, my housekeeper, usually employs the maids.”
“Will you send for her, please?”
Kenneth at once obeyed the request, and presently Martha entered the library.
She was a little, withered old woman, but with a pleasant face and shrewd but kindly eyes.
“Martha,” said Kenneth, “did you employ the new linen maid, Eliza Parsons?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, apparently surprised at the question.
“This is Mr. Burke, Martha. Please answer any questions he may ask you.”
“Yes, Master Kenneth.”
“Did the girl bring any recommendations?” asked the detective.
Martha reflected.
“I do not think she did, sir.”
“Are you accustomed to hiring maids without recommendations?” asked Mr. Burke.
“Oh, Eliza had a letter from my cousin, Mrs. Hopkins, who lives in Elmwood.”
“Is Mrs. Hopkins your cousin?” asked Kenneth.
“Yes, sir. She were a Phibbs before she married Erastus, and my name is Phibbs.”
“What did the letter from Mrs. Hopkins say?”
“It said she knew Eliza to be a clever and worthy girl, and if I had a place for her I couldn’t do better than take her on. So I needed a linen maid and Eliza went right to work. Isn’t she satisfactory, sir? Has she been doing anything wrong?”
“No. Please do not mention this interview to her at present, Miss Phibbs,” said the detective. “That is all, I believe.”
“Would you like to see Eliza?” asked Kenneth, when the housekeeper had retired.
“Not at present. I want to interview Mrs. Hopkins first.”
“Tonight?” asked Tom, eagerly.
“I will go at once, with Mr. Forbes’s permission.”
“Certainly, sir,” said Kenneth. “Shall we see you tomorrow?”
“Just as soon as I have accomplished anything.”
“Would you like a horse or an automobile?”
“Your man may drive me to the town, sir, if it is convenient.”
Kenneth gave the required order, and then Mr. Burke asked:
“How far are you prepared to go in this matter, sir?”
“In what way?”
“In expending money.”
“Will any large expenditure be required?”
“I cannot say. But we may require the services and advice of an expert physician — a specialist in brain diseases.”
“Do you know of one?” asked Kenneth.
“Yes; but he must be brought from Buffalo. It will be expensive, sir. That is why I ask if your interest in the girl warrants our going to the limit to save her.”
Kenneth was thoughtful, while the girls looked at him expectantly and Tom Gates with visible anxiety.
“My original idea was merely to find the missing girl in order to relieve the anxiety of her blind mother,” said young Forbes. “To accomplish that I was willing to employ your services. But, as a matter of fact, I have never seen the girl Lucy Rogers, nor am I particularly interested in her.”
“I am,” declared Beth.
“And I!”
“And I!” repeated Patsy and Louise.
“I think,” said Uncle John, who had been a quiet listener until now, “that Kenneth has assumed enough expense in this matter.”
“Oh, Uncle!” The remonstrance was from all three of the girls.
“Therefore,” continued Mr. Merrick, “I propose that I undertake any further expense that may be incurred, so as to divide the burden.”
“That’s better!” declared Patsy. “But I might have known Uncle John would do that.”
“You have my authority to wire the physician, if necessary, or to go to any expense you deem advisable,” continued Mr. Merrick, turning to the detective. “We seem to have undertaken to unravel an interesting mystery, and we’ll see it through to the end.”
“Very good, sir,” said Mr. Burke, and left them with a brief nod of farewell.
“Somehow,” said Beth, “I’ve a lot of confidence in that little man.”
“Why, he’s a detective,” replied Uncle John, with a smile, “and the chief business of detectives is to make mistakes.”
CHAPTER XVII
MRS. HOPKINS GOSSIPS
The home of Representative Hopkins was not a very imposing edifice. It was a modest frame building standing well back in a little yard at the outskirts of the village, and Mrs. Hopkins did the housework, unaided, to save the expense of a maid. It never occurred to the politician, who had risen from the position of a poor stable-boy to one of affluence, to save his wife from this drudgery. To him poor Mary was merely one of his possessions, and it would have astonished him to know that her sharp tongue and irritable temper were due to overwork and neglect. The Honorable Erastus was not averse to champagne dinners and other costly excesses while at the state capital, and his fellow legislators considered him a good fellow, although rather lax in “keeping his end up.” Moreover, he employed a good tailor and was careful to
keep up an appearance of sound financial standing. But his home, which he avoided as much as possible, had little share in his personal prosperity. Mary Hopkins’s requests for new and decent gowns were more often refused than acceded to, and he constantly cautioned her to keep down expenses or she would drive them both to the poor-house.
The woman well knew that Erastus could afford to keep her in luxury, if he would, but some women are so constituted that they accept their fate rather than rebel, and Mary Hopkins lived the life of a slave, contenting herself with petty scoldings and bickerings that did nothing to relieve her hard lot.
She had little interest in politics and resented the intrusion of the many who came to the house to see and consult with her husband during the tiresome political campaigns. On these occasions Mr. Hopkins used the sitting-room as his office and committee headquarters, but this did not materially interfere with his wife’s comfort, as she was usually busy in the kitchen.
On this Saturday evening, however, they had an early supper and she finished her dishes betimes and sat down to darn stockings in the sitting-room. Erastus had hurried away to a meeting of his henchmen in the town, and would not be home until after his wife was in bed.
So she was rather surprised when a timid knock sounded upon the door. She opened it to find a little, lean man standing upon the porch.
“Mrs. Hopkins?” he asked, quietly.
“Yes. What do you want?”
“Your husband asked me to come here and wait for him. It’s important or I wouldn’t disturb you.”
“Well, then; come in,” she replied, tartly. “Thank the Lord this thing is nearly over, and we’ll have a few weeks of peace.”
“It is rather imposing on you,” remarked the man, following her to the sitting-room, where he sat down with his hat in his hands. “A political campaign is trying to everybody. I’m tired out and sick of the whole thing myself.”
“Then why don’t you chuck it,” she retorted, scornfully, “and go to work makin’ an honest living?”
“Oh, this is honest enough,” he said, mildly.
“I don’t believe it. All them secret confabs an’ trickery to win votes can’t be on the square. Don’t talk to me! Politics is another name for rascality!”
“Perhaps you’re right, ma’am; perhaps you’re right,” he said, with a sigh.
She looked at him sharply.
“You don’t belong in Elmwood.”
“No, ma’am; I’m from beyond Fairview. I’ve come to see your husband on business.”
She sniffed, at that, but picked up her darning and relapsed into silence. The little man was patient. He sat quietly in his chair and watched her work.
His mildness disarmed Mary Hopkins. She was not especially averse to having him sit there. It relieved the loneliness of her occupation. On occasions she loved to talk, as Erastus had long ago discovered; and this visitor would not try to shut her up the way Erastus did.
“You don’t often get out, ma’am; into society, and such like,” ventured the caller, presently.
“What makes you think that?” she demanded.
“A woman can’t keep a house neat and trim like this, and be a social gadder,” he observed.
“You’re right about that,” she returned, somewhat mollified. “If I was like them girls up at Elmhurst, fussin’ round over politics all the time, this house would go to rack an’ ruin.”
“Oh, them!” he said, with mild scorn. “Them girls ‘ll never be housekeepers.”
“Not for a minute,” she affirmed.
There was another pause, then; but the ice was broken. A subtle sympathy seemed established between the two.
“What do you think of ‘Rast’s chances?” she asked, presently, as she threaded new cotton into her needle.
“I guess he’ll win. He’s worked hard enough, anyhow.”
“Has he?”
“Yes; ‘Rast’s a good worker. He don’t leave any stone unturned. He’s up to all the tricks o’ the trade, is ‘Rast Hopkins!”
Here he began shaking with silent laughter, and Mrs. Hopkins looked at him curiously.
“What are you laughing at?” she inquired, with a sniff of disdain.
“At — at the way he come it over the gals up at Elmhurst. ‘Rast’s a pretty slick one, he is!”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, settin’ that ‘Liza to watch ‘em, and tell all they does. Who’d a thought of it but ‘Rast Hopkins?”
“I don’t see anything mighty funny about that,” declared Mrs. Hopkins, contemptuously. “The girl’s too pert and forward for anything. I told ‘Rast not to fool with her, or she’d make him trouble.”
“Did you, now!” exclaimed the man, wonderingly.
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Hopkins, pleased to have made an impression. “I suspected there was something wrong about her the morning she came to the house here. And she changed her name, too, as brassy as you please.”
“Well, I declare!” said the visitor. “Did you know her before that, Mrs. Hopkins?”
“Why, I didn’t exactly know her, but I seen her workin’ around Miss Squiers’s place many a time, and she didn’t seem to ‘mount to much, even then. One day she stole a di’mond ring off’n old Miss Squiers and dug out, and I told Nancy then — Nancy’s young Miss Squiers — that I’d always had my suspicions of the hussy. She hid the ring in a vase on the mantle and they found it after she was gone.”
“Well, well! I didn’t know that about her,” said the man, looking with admiration at Mrs. Hopkins.
“That’s why I told ‘Rast not to have any truck with her, when she came here bright and early one morning and asked for work.”
“Oh, she came here, did she?”
“While I was gettin’ breakfast. She said her name was Eliza Parsons, an’ she was looking fer a job. I told her I knew her record an’ to get out, and while we was arguin’ ‘Rast come out and took a hand in the talk. She laughed and flirted with him outrageous, and said she was a stranger in these parts, when I’d seen her many a time at Miss Squiers’s.”
“What was her name then?” asked the man.
“I think it was Rosie — or Lucy, or something — . Anyhow, it wasn’t Eliza, and that I’ll swear to. But the girl laughed at me and made such silly smiles at ‘Rast that he told me to shut up, ‘cause he had a use for her in politics.”
“Well, well!” repeated the visitor. “Just see how stories get twisted. I heard you gave the girl a letter to your cousin Martha.”
“Well, I did. ‘Rast wanted to get her in at Elmhurst, to watch what Forbes was doing to defeat him, so he made me write the letter. But how’d you know so much about this girl?” she inquired, with sudden suspicion.
“Me? I only know what Mr. Hopkins told me. I’m one of his confidential men. But he never said how he happened to find the girl, or what he knew about her.”
“He didn’t know nothing. He’d never seen her ‘till that morning when she came here. But he said she was clever, and she is, if pertness and a ready tongue counts for cleverness. I suppose he pays her for what she tells him about Forbes, but he’d better save his money and fight on the square. I don’t like this tricky politics, an’ never did.”
“I don’t either,” declared the man. “But I’m in it, and can’t get out.”
“That’s what ‘Rast says. But some day they’ll put him out, neck and crop, if he ain’t careful.”
“Is the girl Eliza much use to him?”
“I can’t say. He drove her over to Elmhurst that morning, and he drives over two or three evenings a week to meet her on the sly and get her report. That may be politics, but it ain’t very respectable, to my notion.”
“Well, the campaign is nearly over, Mrs. Hopkins.”
“Thank goodness for that!” she replied.
The visitor sat silent after this, for he had learned all that the poor gossiping woman could tell him. Finally he said:
“I guess your husband’s going to
be late.”
“Yes; if he ain’t more prompt than usual you’ll have a long spell of waiting.”
“Perhaps I’d better go over to the hotel and look him up. I have to get back to Fairview tonight, you know.”
“Do as you please,” she answered carelessly.
So Mr. Burke, for it was the detective, bade her good-night and took his leave, and it was not until after he had gone that Mary Hopkins remembered she had forgotten to ask him his name.
“But it don’t matter,” she decided. “He’s just one o’ ‘Rast’s politicians, and I probably treated the fellow better than he deserved.”
CHAPTER XVIII
ELIZA PARSONS
On Sunday morning Mr. Burke again appeared at Elmhurst, and told Kenneth he wanted an interview with Eliza Parsons.
“I don’t want you to send for her, or anything like that, for it would make her suspicious,” he said. “I’d like to meet her in some way that would seem accidental, and not startle her.”
“That is rather a hard thing to arrange, Mr. Burke,” said the boy, with a smile.
“Why, I think not,” declared Louise. “It seems to me quite easy.”
“That’s the woman of it, sir,” laughed Kenneth; “if it’s a question of wits her sex has the advantage of us.”
“What do you propose, miss?” asked the detective, turning to Louise.
“I’ll have Martha send the girl into the garden to gather flowers,” she replied; “and you can wander around there and engage her in conversation.”
“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “Can this be arranged now?”
“I’ll see, sir.”
She found Martha and asked her to send Eliza Parsons for some roses and chrysanthemums, which were in a retired place shut in by evergreen hedges.
“One of the other maids will know the garden better,” suggested the housekeeper.
“But I wish Eliza to go.”
“Very well, Miss Louise.”
From an upper window the girl watched until she saw Eliza Parsons leave the house with a basket and go into the retired garden she had chosen. Then she returned to the library for Mr. Burke and led him toward the same place.
“Eliza is just beyond that gap in the hedge,” she said, and turned away.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 444
