Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  Mary Louise did not appear at dinner. She begged to be left alone in her room. Sarah took her some toast and tea, with honest sympathy in her eyes, but the sorrowing girl shook her head and would not taste the food. Later, however, in the evening, she entered the living room where the others sat in depressed silence and said:

  “Please, Mr. Conant, tell me all you know about — mother.”

  “It is very little, my dear” replied the lawyer in a kindly tone. “This morning I received a message from your grandfather which said: ‘Poor Beatrice passed away on Monday and at her request her body was cremated to-day. Be very gentle in breaking the sad news to Mary Louise.’ That was all, my child, and I came here as quickly as I could. In a day or so we shall have further details, I feel sure. I am going back to town in the morning and will send you any information I receive.”

  “Thank you,” said the girl, and was quietly leaving the room when Irene called to her.

  “Mary Louise!”

  “Yes?” half turning.

  “Will you come with me to my room?”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. You know I cannot go up the stairs. And — I lost my own dear mother not long ago, you will remember.”

  Tears started to the girl’s eyes, but she waited until Irene wheeled her chair beside her and then the two went through the den to Irene’s room.

  Mrs. Conant nodded to Peter approvingly.

  “Irene will comfort her,” she said, “and in a way far better than I might do. It is all very dreadful and very sad, Peter, but the poor child has never enjoyed much of her mother’s society and when the first bitter grief is passed I think she will recover something of her usual cheerfulness.”

  “H-m,” returned the lawyer; “it seems a hard thing to say, Hannah, but this demise may prove a blessing in disguise and be best for the child’s future happiness. In any event, I’m sure it will relieve the strain many of us have been under for the past ten years.”

  “You talk in riddles, Peter.”

  “The whole thing is a riddle, Hannah. And, by the way, have you noticed anything suspicious about our hired girl?”

  “About Sarah? No,” regarding him with surprise.

  “Does she — eh — snoop around much?”

  “No; she’s a very good girl.”

  “Too good to be true, perhaps,” observed Peter, and lapsed into thought. Really, it wouldn’t matter now how much Sarah Judd — or anyone else — knew of the Hathaway case. The mystery would solve itself, presently.

  CHAPTER XXII

  THE FOLKS AT BIGBEE’S

  Mr. Conant decided to take the Friday morning train back to Dorfield, saying it would not be possible for him to remain at the Lodge over Sunday, because important business might require his presence in town.

  “This demise of Mrs. Burrows,” he said confidentially to his wife in the privacy of their room, “may have far-reaching results and turn the whole current of Colonel Weatherby’s life.”

  “I don’t see why,” said Aunt Hannah.

  “You’re not expected to see why,” he replied. “As the Colonel is my most important client, I must be at the office in case of developments or a sudden demand for my services. I will tell you one thing, however, and that is that this vacation at Hillcrest Lodge was planned by the Colonel while I was in New York, with the idea that he and Mrs. Burrows would come here secretly and enjoy a nice visit with Mary Louise.”

  “You planned all that, Peter!”

  “Yes. That is, Weatherby planned it. He knows Will Morrison well, and

  Will was only too glad to assist him; so they wired me to come to New

  York, where all was quickly arranged. This place is so retired that we

  considered it quite safe for the fugitives to come here.”

  “Why didn’t they come, then?”

  “Two reasons prevented them. One was the sudden breaking of Mrs. Burrows’ health; the other reason was the Colonel’s discovery that in some way our carefully laid plans had become known to the detectives who are seeking him.”

  “Good gracious! Are you sure of that, Peter!”

  “The Colonel seemed sure. He maintains a detective force on his own account and his spies discovered that Hillcrest is being watched by agents of the Secret Service.”

  “Dear me; what a maze of deceit!” wailed the good woman. “I wish you were well out of the whole affair, Peter; and I wish Mary Louise was out of it, too.”

  “So do I, with all my heart. But it’s coming to a focus soon, Hannah.

  Be patient and it may end better than we now fear.”

  So Bub drove Mr. Conant to Millbank and then the boy took the car to the blacksmith shop to have a small part repaired. The blacksmith made a bungle of it and wasted all the forenoon before he finally took Bub’s advice about shaping it and the new rod was attached and found to work successfully.

  It was after one o’clock when the boy at last started for home and on the way was hailed by a stranger — a little man who was trudging along the road with both hands thrust in his pockets.

  “Going far?” he asked.

  “Up th’ mount’n to Hillcrest,” said Bub.

  “Oh. May I have a lift?”

  “How fer?”

  “Well, I can’t say how far I’ll go. I’m undecided. Just came out here for a little fresh air, you know, with no definite plans,” explained the stranger.

  “Hop in,” said Bub and for a time they rode together in silence.

  “This ‘ere’s the Huddle, as we’re comin’ to,” announced the boy. “Ol’

  Miss’ Parsons she sometimes takes boarders.”

  “That’s kind of her,” remarked the stranger. “But the air isn’t so good as further up the hill.”

  “Ef ye go up,” said Bub with a grin, “guess ye’ll hev to camp out an’ eat scrub. Nobody don’t take boarders, up th’ mount’n.”

  “I suppose not.”

  He made no demand to be let out at the Huddle, so Bub drove on.

  “By the way,” said the little man, “isn’t there a place called

  Bigbee’s, near here?”

  “Comin’ to it pretty soon. They’s some gals livin’ there now, so ye won’t care to stop.”

  “What sort of girls are they?”

  “Sort o’ queer.”

  “Yes?”

  “Ye bet ye. Come from the city a while ago an’ livin’ by theyselves.

  Someth’n’ wrong ‘bout them gals,” added Bub reflectively.

  “In what way?” asked the little man in a tone of interest.

  “They ain’t here fer nuth’n’ special ‘cept watchin’ the folks at Hillcrest. Them’s the folks I belongs to. For four bits a week. They’s someth’n’ queer ‘bout them, too; but I guess all the folks is queer thet comes here from the city.”

  “Quite likely,” agreed the little man, nodding. “Let me out at Bigbee’s, please, and I’ll look over those women and form my own opinion of them. They may perhaps be friends of mine.”

  “In thet case,” asserted Bub, “I pity ye, stranger. F’r my part, I ain’t got no use fer anything thet wears skirts — ’cept one er two, mebbe,” he added reflectively. “Most men I kin git ‘long with fust-rate; but ef a man ever gits in trouble, er begins cussin’ an’ acts ugly, it’s ‘cause some gal’s rubbed him crossways the grain er stuck a knife in him an’ twisted the blade — so’s ter speak.”

  “You’re an observant lad, I see.”

  “When I’m awake I kain’t help seein’ things.”

  “And you’re a pastoral philosopher.”

  Bub scowled and gave him a surly glance.

  “What’s the use firin’ thet high-brow stuff at me?” he asked indignantly. “I s’pose ye think I’m a kid, jes’ ‘cause I don’t do no fancy talkin’.”

  “I suspect you of nothing but generosity in giving me this ride,” said the stranger pleasantly. “Is that Bigbee’s, over yonder?”

  “Yes.”

  The
little man got out at the point where the Bigbee drive met the road, and walked up the drive toward the house. Agatha Lord was standing at the gateway, as he approached it, and seemed rather startled at his appearance. But she quickly controlled her surprise and asked in a calm voice, as she faced him:

  “What’s up, O’Gorman?”

  “Hathaway’s coming here,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “He’s in Dorfield to-day, waiting to see Lawyer Conant, who went in on the morning train. Where’s Nan?”

  “Here, my lord!” said Nan Shelley, stepping from behind a tall shrub. “How are you, partner? I recognized you as you passed the Huddle with the boy.”

  “Field glasses, eh? There isn’t much escapes you, Nan.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Agatha reproachfully.

  “Why don’t you make your own discoveries?” retorted her confederate.

  Then, turning to O’Gorman, she continued: “So Hathaway’s coming, is he?

  At last.”

  “A little late, but according to program. How have you been getting along?”

  “Bored to death,” asserted Nan. “Agatha has played the lady and I’ve done the dirty work. But tell me, why didn’t you nab Hathaway at Dorfield?”

  O’Gorman smiled a little grimly as he answered:

  “I’m not sure, Nan, that we shall nab Hathaway at all.”

  “Isn’t he being shadowed?” with some surprise.

  “No. But he’ll come here, right enough; and then — ”

  “And then,” she added, as he paused, “the chase of years will come to an end.”

  “Exactly. We may decide to take him to Washington, and we may not.”

  She gazed at him inquiringly.

  “There are some new developments, then, O’Gorman?”

  “I’m inclined to suspect there are.”

  “Known to the department?”

  “Yes. I’m to investigate and use my judgment.”

  “I see. Then Agatha and I are out of it?”

  “Not yet; I’m still depending on your shrewdness to assist me. The office has only had a hint, so far, of the prospective break in the case, but — ”

  “Oh, yes; I remember now,” exclaimed Nan.

  “That girl up at Conant’s sent a telegram, in a desperate hurry. I suspected it meant something important. Who is she, O’Gorman, and why did the Chief cut under us by planting Sarah Judd in the Conants’ household?”

  “He didn’t. The girl has nothing to do with the Department.”

  “Then some of you intercepted the telegram?”

  “We know what it said,” he admitted.

  “Come, let’s go to the house. I’ve had no lunch. Can you feed me?”

  “Certainly.” They turned and walked slowly up the path. Said Nan, musingly: “That Sarah Judd is rather clever, O’Gorman. Is she in Hathaway’s pay?”

  “I think not,” he replied, with an amused chuckle.

  Nan tossed her head indignantly.

  “Very well; play me for a ninny, if you like,” she said resentfully.

  “You’ll get a heap more out of me, in that way!”

  “Now, now,” said Agatha warningly, “keep your tempers and don’t quarrel. You two are like cats and dogs when you get together; yet you’re the two cleverest people in the service. According to your story, Mr. O’Gorman, there’s an important crisis approaching, and we’d all like to be able to render a good account of ourselves.”

  Agatha Lord may have lacked something of Nan’s experience, but this speech proved her a fair diplomat. It dispersed the gathering storm and during the rest of that afternoon the three counseled together in perfect harmony, O’Gorman confiding to his associates such information as would enable them to act with him intelligently. Hathaway and Peter Conant could not arrive till the next day at noon; they might even come by the afternoon train. Nan’s field glasses would warn them of the arrival and meanwhile there was ample time to consider how they should act.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  A KISS FROM JOSIE

  That evening, as Sarah Judd was sitting in her room reading a book, her work for the day being over, she heard a succession of little taps against her window-pane. She sat still, listening, until the taps were repeated, when she walked straight to the window, drew the shade and threw tip the sash. O’Gorman’s face appeared in the opening and the girl put a hand on each of his cheeks and leaning over kissed him full upon his lips.

  The man’s face, lighted by the lamp from within the room, was radiant. Even the fat nose was beatified by the love that shone in his small gray eyes. He took one of her hands in both of his own and held it close a moment, while they regarded one another silently.

  Then he gave a little beckoning signal and the girl turned to slip on a light coat, for the nights were chill on the mountain. Afterward she unfastened her outside door and joined the detective, who passed an arm around her and led her to one of the benches on the bluff.

  The new moon was dim, but a sprinkling of stars lit the sky. The man and girl were far enough from the Lodge not to be overheard.

  “It’s good to see you again, Josie,” said O’Gorman, as they seated themselves on the bench. “How do you like being a sleuth?”

  “Really, Daddy,” she replied, “it has been no end of a lark. I’m dead sick of washing other folks’ dishes, I confess, but the fun I’ve had has more than made up for the hard work. Do you know, Dad, I had a session with Nan Shelley one day, and she didn’t have much the best of it, either, although she’s quick as a cat and had me backed off the map in every way except for the matter of wits. My thoughts didn’t crumble much and Nan was good enough to congratulate me. She knew, as soon as I did, about the letter the crippled girl found in a book, but I managed to make a copy of it, while Nan is still wondering where it is hid. I’m patting myself on the back, Dad, because you trained me and I want to prove myself a credit to your training. It’s no wonder, with such a master, that I could hold my own with Nan Shelley!”

  He gave a little amused laugh.

  “You’re all right, Josie dear,” he replied. “My training wouldn’t have amounted to shucks if you hadn’t possessed the proper gray matter to work with. But about that letter,” more seriously; “your telegram told me a lot, because our code is so concise, but it also left a good deal to be guessed at. Who wrote the letter? I must know all the details in order to understand it properly.”

  “It’s all down in my private shorthand book,” said Josie O’Gorman, “but I’ve never dared make a clear copy while Nan was so near me. You can’t read it, Dad, and I can’t read it to you in the dark; so you’ll have to wait.”

  “Have you your notebook here?”

  “Always carry it.”

  He drew an electric storage-lamp from his pocket and shielded the tiny circle of light with his coat.

  “Now, then,” said he, “read the letter to me, Josie. It’s impossible for anyone to see the light from the house.”

  The girl held her notebook behind the flap of his coat, where the lamp shed its white rays upon it, and slowly read the text of the letter. O’Gorman sat silent for some time after she had finished reading.

  “In all my speculations concerning the Hathaway case,” he said to his daughter, “I never guessed this as the true solution of the man’s extraordinary actions. But now, realizing that Hathaway is a gentleman to the core, I understand he could not have acted in any other way.”

  “Mrs. Burrows is dead,” remarked Josie.

  “I know. It’s a pity she didn’t die long ago.”

  “This thing killed her, Dad.”

  “I’m sure of it. She was a weak, though kind-hearted, woman and this trouble wore her out with fear and anxiety. How did the girl — Mary Louise — take her mother’s death?”

  “Rather hard, at first. She’s quieter now. But — see here, Dad — are you still working for the Department?”

  “Of course.”

  “
Then I’m sorry I’ve told you so much. I’m on the other side. I’m here to protect Mary Louise Burrows and her interests.”

  “To be sure. I sent you here myself, at my own expense, both to test your training before I let you into the regular game and for the sake of the little Burrows girl, whom I fell in love with when she was so friendless. I believed things would reach a climax in the Hathaway case, in this very spot, but I couldn’t foresee that your cleverness would ferret out that letter, which the girl Irene intended to keep silent about, nor did I know that the Chief would send me here in person to supervise Hathaway’s capture. Mighty queer things happen in this profession of ours, and circumstances lead the best of us by the nose.”

  “Do you intend to arrest Mr. Hathaway?”

  “After hearing that letter read and in view of the fact that Mrs. Burrows is dead, I think not. The letter, if authentic, clears up the mystery to our complete satisfaction. But I must get the story from Hathaway’s own lips, and then compare his statement with that in the letter. If they agree, we won’t prosecute the man at all, and the famous case that has caused us so much trouble for years will be filed in the office pigeonholes and pass into ancient history.”

  Josie O’Gorman sat silent for a long time. Then she asked:

  “Do you think Mr. Hathaway will come here, now that — now that — ”

  “I’m quite sure he will come.”

  “When?”

  “To-morrow.”

  “Then I must warn them and try to head him off. I’m on his side, Dad; don’t forget that.”

  “I won’t; and because you’re on his side, Josie, you must let him come and be vindicated, and so clear up this matter for good and all.”

  “Poor Mary Louise! I was thinking of her, not of her grandfather. Have you considered how a knowledge of the truth will affect her?”