“Thank you, Mr. O’Gorman,” she said. “I — I — your kindness embarrasses me.”
“Don’t allow it to do that. A detective is a man, you know, much like other men, and I have always held that the better man he is the better detective he is sure to prove. I’m obliged to do disagreeable things, at times, in the fulfillment of my duty, but I try to spare even the most hardened criminal as much as possible. So why shouldn’t I be kind to a helpless, unfortunate girl?”
“Am I that?” she asked.
“Perhaps not. But I fear your grandfather’s fate is destined to cause you unhappiness. You seem fond of him.”
“He is the best man in all the world!”
O’Gorman looked at the tablecloth rather than to meet her eyes.
“So I will now say good-bye, Miss Burrows, and — I wish you the happiness you deserve. You’re just as good a girl as my Josie is.”
With this he rose to his feet and bowed again. He was a little man and he had a fat nose, but Mary Louise could not help liking him.
She was still afraid of the detective, however, and when he had left the dining room she asked herself if his story could be true, if Gran’pa Jim was not in Dorfield — if he had never even come to the town, as O’Gorman had stated.
The Conants would know that, of course, and if the detective went away she would be free to go to the Conants for information. She would find shelter, at least, with these old friends.
As she passed from the dining room into the hotel lobby Mr. O’Gorman was paying his bill and bidding the clerk farewell. He had no baggage, except such as he might carry in his pocket, but he entered a bus that stood outside and was driven away with a final doff of his hat to the watching girl.
Mary Louise decided in the instant what to do. Mr. Peter Conant was a lawyer and had an office in one of the big buildings down-town. She remembered that he always made a point of being in his office at eight o’clock in the morning, and it was nearly eight now. She would visit Mr. Conant in his office, for this could not possibly endanger the safety of Gran’pa Jim in case the detective’s story proved false, or if an attempt had been made to deceive her. The man had seemed sincere and for the time being he had actually gone away; but she was suspicious of detectives.
She ran upstairs for her coat and hat and at once left the hotel. She knew the way to Peter Conant’s office and walked rapidly toward it.
CHAPTER X
RATHER QUEER INDEED
Mary Louise found the door of the office, which was located on the third floor of the Chambers Building, locked. However, the sign: “Peter Conant, Attorney at Law,” was painted on the glass panel in big, distinct letters, so she was sure she had made no mistake. She slowly paced the hall, waiting, until the elevator stopped and Mr. Conant stepped out and approached the door, his morning paper in one hand, a key in the other. Running to him, the girl exclaimed:
“Oh, Mr. Conant!”
He stopped short and turned to face her. Then he stepped a pace backward and said:
“Great heavens, it’s Mary Louise!”
“Didn’t you recognize me?” she asked.
“Not at first,” he answered slowly. “You have grown tall and — and — older, in two years.”
“Where is Gran’pa J-”
“Hush!” with a startled glance up and down the hall. Then he unlocked the door and added: “Come in.”
Mary Louise followed him through the outer office and into a smaller room beyond, the door of which Mr. Conant carefully closed after them. Then he turned to look steadily at the girl, who thought he did not seem especially delighted at her appearance in Dorfield. Indeed, his first words proved this, for he asked sternly:
“Why are you here?”
“I left the school at Beverly because the girls made it so uncomfortable for me there that I could not bear it longer,” she explained.
“In what way did they make it uncomfortable for you?”
“They jeered at me because — because — Gran’pa Jim is being hunted by the officers of the law, who accuse him, of doing something wicked.”
Mr. Conant frowned.
“Perhaps their attitude was only natural,” he remarked; “but there was no accusation against you, my child. Why didn’t you stick it out? The scandal would soon have died away and left you in peace.”
“I was unhappy there,” she said simply, “and so I thought I would come here to mother and Gran’pa Jim.”
“Here?” as if surprised.
“Yes. Aren’t they here, with you?”
“No.”
“Then where are they?”
“I’ve no idea.”
She sat still and stared at him, while he regarded her with a thoughtful and perplexed look on his face.
Mr. Conant is difficult to describe because he was like dozens of men one meets every day, at least in outward appearance. He was neither tall nor short, lean nor fat, handsome nor ugly, attractive nor repulsive. Yet Peter Conant must not be considered a nonentity because he was commonplace in person, for he possessed mannerisms that were peculiar. He would open his eyes very wide and stare at one steadily until the person became confused and turned away. The gaze was not especially shrewd, but it was disconcerting because steadfast. When he talked he would chop off his words, one by one, with a distinct pause between each, and that often made it hard to tell whether he had ended his speech or still had more to say. When very earnest or interested he would play with a locket that dangled from his watch chain; otherwise he usually stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
Mary Louise well knew these peculiarities, having previously lived in his house, and also she knew he was a kind-hearted man, devotedly attached to his deaf wife and thoroughly trusted by Gran’pa Jim.
“I was told,” said the girl presently, “to direct all my letters to my grandfather in your care.”
“I am aware that you have done so,” he replied.
“So I thought, of course, that he and my mother were with you.”
“No; they did not come here. Colonel Weatherby arranged for me to forward your letters, which I did as soon as they arrived.”
“Oh; then you know his address?”
“I do not. There are six different points to which I forward letters, in rotation, both those from you and from others on various matters of business, and these points are widely scattered. My impression is that Colonel Weatherby is in none of these places and that the letters are again forwarded to him to — wherever he may be.”
Mary Louise felt quite discouraged. With hesitation she asked:
“Do you suppose you could find him for me?”
“It is impossible.”
“What am I to do, Mr. Conant?”
“I advise you to go back to your school.”
“Can’t I stay here, with you?”
He stared at her with his round eyes, playing with his locket.
“I haven’t the money for the return trip,” she went on falteringly. “I had to sell some of my jewelry to get here. I won’t be much trouble, if you will let me live with you until I can find Gran’pa Jim.”
Mr. Conant still stared.
“I’m sure,” said Mary Louise, “that my grandfather will gladly repay you any money it costs you to keep me.”
“You — don’t — un-der-stand,” he retorted, chopping off his words rather viciously. “Moreover, you can’t understand. Go to the house and talk to Hannah. Have you any baggage!”
“I’ve a suit case at the hotel,” she said, and went on to tell him the experiences of her journey and of her encounter with Detective O’Gorman.
During this relation, which he did not interrupt, Mr. Conant toyed persistently with his watch charm. His features were noncommittal but he was thoroughly interested.
“You see,” he remarked when she had finished, “Colonel Weatherby’s elaborate system of evading discovery is quite necessary.”
“But why should he wish to hide?” asked the girl.
/> “Don’t you know?”
“No, sir.”
“Then your grandfather doesn’t wish you to know. I am his lawyer — at least I am one of his lawyers — and a lawyer must respect the confidences of his clients.”
Mary Louise looked at him wonderingly, for here was someone who evidently knew the entire truth.
“Do you believe my grandfather is a bad man?” she asked.
“No. I have the highest respect for Colonel Weatherby.”
“Do you know his name to be Weatherby — or is it Hathaway?”
“I am his lawyer,” reiterated Mr. Conant.
“Is it possible that an innocent man would change his name and hide, rather than face an unjust accusation?”
“Yes.”
Mary Louise sighed.
“I will go with you to the hotel and pay your bill,” said the lawyer. “Then you may go to the house and talk to Hannah. When I have talked with her myself, we will determine what to do with you.”
So they went to the hotel and the girl packed her suit case and brought it downstairs.
“Queer!” said Mr. Conant to her, fingering his locket. “Your bill has been paid by that man O’Gorman.”
“How impertinent!” she exclaimed.
“There is also a note for you in your box.”
The clerk handed her an envelope, which she opened. “I hope to be able to send you your grandfather’s address very soon,” wrote O’Gorman. “You will probably stay in Dorfield; perhaps with the Conants, with whom you lived before. You might try sending Colonel Weatherby a letter in care of Oscar Lawler, at Los Angeles, California. In any event, don’t forget my card or neglect to wire me in case of emergency.”
Having read this with considerable surprise the girl handed the note to Mr. Conant, who slowly read it and gave a bark like that of an angry dog when he came to the name of the California attorney. Without remark he put the detective’s letter in his pocket and picking up Mary Louise’s suit case led the girl outside to the street corner.
“This car will take you to within two blocks of my house,” he said.
“Can you manage your grip alone?”
“Easily,” she assured him.
“You have carfare!”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Then good-bye. I’ll see you this evening.”
He turned away and she boarded the street car.
CHAPTER XI
MARY LOUISE MEETS IRENE
As Mary Louise approached the home of the Conants, which was a pretty little house set far back in a garden filled with trees and shrubs, she was surprised to hear a joyous ragtime tune being drummed upon the piano — an instrument she remembered Mrs. Conant kept in the house exclusively as an ornament, being unable to play it. Then, as the girl reached the porch, the melody suddenly stopped, a merry laugh rang out and a fresh, sweet voice was heard through the open window talking rapidly and with eager inflection.
“I wonder who that can be?” thought Mary Louise. Everyone had to speak loudly to poor Mrs. Conant, who might be entertaining a visitor. She rang the bell and soon her old friend appeared in the doorway.
“My dear, dear child!” cried the good lady, recognizing the girl instantly and embracing her after a welcoming kiss. “Where on earth have you come from?”
“From Beverly,” said Mary Louise with a smile, for in her depressed state of mind this warm greeting cheered her wonderfully.
“Come right in,” said Mrs. Conant, seizing the suit case. “Have you had breakfast?”
“Yes, indeed; hours ago. And I’ve seen Mr. Conant at his office. He — he wanted me to talk to you.”
She spoke loudly, as she had been accustomed to do, but now Mrs. Conant wore on her ear an instrument similar in appearance to a small telephone receiver, and she seemed to hear quite distinctly through its mechanism. Indeed, she pointed to it with an air of pride and said: “I can hear a whisper, my dear!”
As Mary Louise was ushered into the cosy sitting room she looked for the piano-player and the owner of the merry laugh and cheery voice. Near the center of the room was a wheeled chair in which sat a young girl of about her own age — a rather pretty girl in spite of her thin frame and pallid countenance. She was neatly dressed in figured dimity, with a bright ribbon at her throat. A pair of expressive brown eyes regarded Mary Louise with questioning earnestness. Over her lap lay a coverlet; her slender white fingers rested upon the broad arms of her chair.
“This,” said Mrs. Conant, “is my niece, Irene Macfarlane, who is living with us just now and is the life and joy of our formerly dull household. You’ll have to love her, Mary Louise, because no one can help doing so.”
Mary Louise advanced to the chair and took one of the wan hands in her own. A thrill of pity flooded her heart for the unfortunate girl, who instantly noted her expression and met it with a charmingly spontaneous smile.
“Don’t you dare think of me as a cripple!” she said warningly. “I am not at all helpless and my really-truly friends quickly forget this ugly wheeled chair. We’re to be friends, are we not? And you’re going to stay, because I see your baggage. Also I know all about you, Mary Louise Burrows, for Aunt Hannah never tires of singing your praises.”
This was said so naturally and with such absence of affectation that
Mary Louise could not fail to respond to the words and smile.
“I’m glad to find you here, Irene,” she said, “and I don’t know yet whether I’m to stay or not. That will depend on Mrs. Conant’s decision.”
“Then you’re to stay,” promptly decided the hospitable lady, who by turning her mechanical ear toward the speaker seemed able to hear her words clearly.
“But you don’t know all the complications yet,” confessed the girl. “I’ve run away from school and — and there are other things you must know before you decide. Mr. Conant wasn’t at all enthusiastic over my coming here, I assure you, so I must tell you frankly the whole story of my adventures.”
“Very good,” returned Mrs. Conant. “I think I can guess at most of the story, but you shall tell it in your own way. Presently Irene is going out to inspect the roses; she does that every morning; so when she is out of the way we’ll have a nice talk together.”
“I’m going now,” said Irene, with a bright laugh at her dismissal. “Mary Louise won’t be happy till everything is properly settled; nor will I, for I’m anxious to get acquainted with my new friend. So here I go and when you’ve had your talk out just whistle for me, Mary Louise.”
She could propel the chair by means of rims attached to the wheels and, even as she spoke, began to roll herself out of the room. Mary Louise sprang to assist her, but the girl waved her away with a little laugh.
“I’m an expert traveler,” she said, “and everyone lets me go and come as I please. Indeed, I’m very independent, Mary Louise, as you will presently discover.”
Away she went, through the hall, out at the front door and along the broad porch, and when she had gone Mary Louise whispered softly into Mrs. Conant’s mechanical eardrum:
“What is wrong with her?”
“A good many things,” was the reply, “although the brave child makes light of them all. One leg is badly withered and the foot of the other is twisted out of shape. She can stand on that foot to dress herself — which she insists on doing unaided — but she cannot walk a step. Irene has suffered a great deal, I think, and she’s a frail little body; but she has the sweetest temperament in the world and seems happy and content from morn till night.”
“It’s wonderful!” exclaimed Mary Louise. “What caused her affliction?”
“It is the result of an illness she had when a baby. Irene is sixteen and has never known what it is to be well and strong, yet she never resents her fate, but says she is grateful for the blessings she enjoys. Her father died long ago and her mother about a year since; so, the child being an orphan, Peter and I have taken her to live with us.”
“That is very kind of y
ou,” asserted Mary Louise with conviction.
“No; I fear it is pure selfishness,” returned the good woman, “for until she came to us the old home had been dreadfully dull — the result, my dear, of your going away. And now tell me your story, and all about yourself, for I’m anxious to hear what brought you to Dorfield.”
Mary Louise drew a chair close to that of Aunt Hannah Conant and confided to her all the worries and tribulations that had induced her to quit Miss Stearne’s school and seek shelter with her old friends the Conants. Also, she related the episode of Detective O’Gorman and how she had first learned through him that her grandfather and her mother were not living in Dorfield.
“I’m dreadfully worried over Gran’pa Jim,” said she, “for those terrible agents of the Secret Service seem bent on catching him. And he doesn’t wish to be caught. If they arrested him, do you think they would put him in jail, Aunt Hannah?”
“I fear so,” was the reply.
“What do they imagine he has done that is wrong?”
“I do not know,” said Mrs. Conant. “Peter never tells me anything about the private affairs of his clients, and I never ask him. But of one thing I am sure, my dear, and that is that Peter Conant would not act as Colonel Weatherby’s lawyer, and try to shield him, unless he believed him innocent of any crime. Peter is a little odd, in some ways, but he’s honest to the backbone.”
“I know it,” declared Mary Louise. “Also I know that Gran’pa Jim is a good man. Cannot the law make a mistake, Aunt Hannah?”
“It surely can, or there would be no use for lawyers. But do not worry over your grandfather, my child, for he seems quite able to take care of himself. It is nine or ten years since he became a fugitive — also making a fugitive of your poor mother, who would not desert him — and to this day the officers of the law have been unable to apprehend him. Be patient, dear girl, and accept the situation as you find it. You shall live with us until your people again send for you. We have excellent schools in Dorfield, where you will not be taunted with your grandfather’s misfortunes because no one here knows anything about them.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 572
