Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “Yes. She will be the chief sufferer when her grandfather’s innocence is finally proved.”

  “It will break her heart,” said Josie, with a sigh.

  “Perhaps not. She’s mighty fond of her grandfather. She’ll be glad to have him freed from suspicion and she’ll be sorry — about the other thing.”

  Sarah Judd — otherwise Josie O’Gorman — sighed again; but presently she gave a little chuckle of glee.

  “Won’t Nan be wild, though, when she finds I’ve beaten her and won the case for Hathaway?”

  “Nan won’t mind. She’s an old hand at the game and has learned to take things as they come. She’ll be at work upon some other case within a week and will have forgotten that this one ever bothered her.”

  “Who is Agatha Lord, and why did they send her here as principal, with

  Nan as her maid?”

  “Agatha is an educated woman who has moved in good society. The Chief thought she would be more likely to gain the friendship of the Conants than Nan, for poor Nan hasn’t much breeding to boast of. But she was really the principal, for all that, and Agatha was instructed to report to her and to take her orders.”

  “They were both suspicious of me,” said the girl, “but as neither of them had ever set eyes on me before I was able to puzzle them. On the other hand, I knew who Nan was because I’d seen her with you, which gave me an advantage. Now, tell me, how’s mother?”

  “Pretty chirky, but anxious about you because this is your first case and she feared your judgment wasn’t sufficiently matured. I told her you’d pull through all right.”

  For an hour they sat talking together. Then Officer O’Gorman kissed his daughter good night and walked back to the Bigbee house.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  FACING THE TRUTH

  Irene was a great comfort to Mary Louise in this hour of trial. The chair-girl, beneath her gayety of demeanor and lightness of speech, was deeply religious. Her absolute faith sounded so cheering that death was robbed of much of its horror and her bereaved friend found solace. Mary Louise was able to talk freely of “Mamma Bee” to Irene, while with Aunt Hannah she rather avoided reference to her mother.

  “I’ve always longed to be more with Mamma Bee and to learn to know her better,” she said to her friend; “for, though she was very loving and gentle to me while I was with her, she spent most of her life caring for Gran’pa Jim, and they were away from me so much that I really didn’t get to know Mamma very well. I think she worried a good deal over Gran’pa’s troubles. She couldn’t help that, of course, but I always hoped that some day the troubles would be over and we could all live happily together. And now — that can never be!”

  Irene, knowing more of the Hathaway family history than Mary Louise did, through the letter she had found and read, was often perplexed how to console her friend and still regard honesty and truth. Any deception, even when practiced through the best of motives, was abhorrent to her nature, so she avoided speaking of the present affliction and led Mary Louise to look to a future life for the motherly companionship she had missed on earth.

  “That,” said she, “is the thought that has always given me the most comfort. We are both orphans, dear, and I’m sure your nature is as brave as my own and that you can bear equally well the loss of your parents.”

  And Mary Louise was really brave and tried hard to bear her grief with patient resignation. One thing she presently decided in her mind, although she did not mention it to Irene. She must find Gran’pa Jim and go to him, wherever he might be. Gran’pa Jim and her mother had been inseparable companions; Mary Louise knew that her own present sorrow could be nothing when compared with that of her grandfather. And so it was her duty to find him and comfort him, to devote her whole life, as her mother had done, to caring for his wants and cheering his loneliness — so far, indeed, as she was able to do. Of course, no one could quite take the place of Mamma Bee.

  She was thinking in this vein as she sat in the den with Irene that Saturday afternoon. The chair-girl, who sewed beautifully, was fixing over one of Mary Louise’s black dresses while Mary Louise sat opposite, listlessly watching her. The door into the hall was closed, but the glass door to the rear porch was wide open to let in the sun and air. And this simple scene was the setting for the drama about to be enacted.

  Mary Louise had her back half turned to the hall door, which Irene partially faced, and so it was that when the door opened softly and the chair-girl raised her head to gaze with startled surprise at someone who stood in the doorway, Mary Louise first curiously eyed her friend’s expressive face and then, rather languidly, turned her head to glance over her shoulder.

  The next moment she sprang to her feet and rushed forward.

  “Gran’pa Jim — Oh, Gran’pa Jim!” she cried, and threw herself into the arms of a tall man who folded her to his breast in a close embrace.

  For a while they stood there silent, while Irene dropped her eyes to her lap, deeming the reunion too sacred to be observed by another. And then a little stir at the open porch door attracted her attention and with a shock of repulsion she saw Agatha Lord standing there with a cynical smile on her lovely face. Softly the sash of the window was raised, and the maid Susan stood on the ground outside, leaned her elbows on the sill and quietly regarded the scene within the den.

  The opening of the window arrested Colonel Weatherby’s attention. He lifted his head and with a quick glance took in the situation. Then, still holding his granddaughter in his arms, he advanced to the center of the room and said sternly, addressing Agatha:

  “Is this a deliberate intrusion, because I am here, or is it pure insolence?”

  “Forgive us if we intrude, Mr. Hathaway,” replied Agatha. “It was not our desire to interrupt your meeting with your granddaughter, but — it has been so difficult, in the past, to secure an interview with you, sir, that we dared not risk missing you at this time.”

  He regarded her with an expression of astonishment.

  “That’s it, exactly, Mr. Weatherby-Hathaway,” remarked Susan mockingly, from her window.

  “Don’t pay any attention to them, Gran’pa Jim,” begged Mary Louise, clinging to him. “They’re just two dreadful women who live down below here, and — and — ”

  “I realize who they are,” said the old gentleman in a calm voice, and addressing Agatha again he continued: “Since you are determined to interview me, pray step inside and be seated.”

  Agatha shook her head with a smile; Nan Shelley laughed outright and retorted:

  “Not yet, Hathaway. We can’t afford to take chances with one who has dodged the whole Department for ten years.”

  “Then you are Government agents?” he asked.

  “That’s it, sir.”

  He turned his head toward the door by which he had entered, for there was an altercation going on in the hallway and Mr. Conant’s voice could be heard angrily protesting.

  A moment later the lawyer came in, followed by the little man with the fat nose, who bowed to Colonel Weatherby very respectfully yet remained planted in the doorway.

  “This is — er — er — very unfortunate, sir; ve-ry un-for-tu-nate!” exclaimed Peter Conant, chopping off each word with a sort of snarl. “These con-found-ed secret service people have trailed us here.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Mr. Conant,” replied the Colonel, in a voice composed but very weary. He seated himself in a chair, as he spoke, and Mary Louise sat on the arm of it, still embracing him.

  “No,” said O’Gorman, “it really doesn’t matter, sir. In fact, I’m sure you will feel relieved to have this affair off your mind and be spared all further annoyance concerning it.”

  The old gentleman looked at him steadily but made no answer. It was

  Peter Conant who faced the speaker and demanded:

  “What do you mean by that statement?”

  “Mr. Hathaway knows what I mean. He can, in a few words, explain why he has for years borne the accusation of a crime o
f which he is innocent.”

  Peter Conant was so astounded he could do nothing but stare at the detective. Staring was the very best thing that Peter did and he never stared harder in his life. The tears had been coursing down Mary Louise’s cheeks, but now a glad look crossed her face.

  “Do you hear that, Gran’pa Jim?” she cried. “Of course you are innocent! I’ve always known that; but now even your enemies do.”

  Mr. Hathaway looked long into the girl’s eyes, which met his own hopefully, almost joyfully. Then he turned to O’Gorman.

  “I cannot prove my innocence,” he said.

  “Do you mean that you WILL not?”

  “I will go with you and stand my trial. I will accept whatever punishment the law decrees.”

  O’Gorman nodded his head.

  “I know exactly how you feel about it, Mr. Hathaway,” he said, “and I sympathize with you most earnestly. Will you allow me to sit down awhile? Thank you.”

  He took a chair facing that of the hunted man. Agatha, seeing this, seated herself on the door-step. Nan maintained her position, leaning through the open window.

  “This,” said O’Gorman, “is a strange ease. It has always been a strange case, sir, from the very beginning. Important government secrets of the United States were stolen and turned over to the agent of a foreign government which is none too friendly to our own. It was considered, in its day, one of the most traitorous crimes in our history. And you, sir, a citizen of high standing and repute, were detected in the act of transferring many of these important papers to a spy, thus periling the safety of the nation. You were caught red-handed, so to speak, but made your escape and in a manner remarkable and even wonderful for its adroitness have for years evaded every effort on the part of our Secret Service Department to effect your capture. And yet, despite the absolute truth of this statement, you are innocent.”

  None cared to reply for a time. Some who had listened to O’Gorman were too startled to speak; others refrained. Mary Louise stared at the detective with almost Peter Conant’s expression — her eyes big and round. Irene thrilled with joyous anticipation, for in the presence of this sorrowing, hunted, white-haired old man, whose years had been devoted to patient self-sacrifice, the humiliation the coming disclosure would, thrust upon Mary Louise seemed now insignificant. Until this moment Irene had been determined to suppress the knowledge gained through the old letter in order to protect the feelings of her friend, but now a crying need for the truth to prevail was borne in upon her. She had thought that she alone knew this truth. To her astonishment, as well as satisfaction, the chair-girl now discovered that O’Gorman was equally well informed.

  CHAPTER XXV

  SIMPLE JUSTICE

  All eyes were turned upon Mr. Hathaway, who had laid a hand upon the head of his grandchild and was softly stroking her hair. At last he said brokenly, repeating his former assertion:

  “I cannot prove my innocence.”

  “But I can,” declared O’Gorman positively, “and I’m going to do it.”

  “No — no!” said Hathaway, startled at his tone.

  “It’s this way, sir,” explained the little man in a matter-of-fact voice, “this chase after you has cost the government a heavy sum already, and your prosecution is likely to make public an affair which, under the circumstances, we consider it more diplomatic to hush up. Any danger to our country has passed, for information obtained ten years ago regarding our defenses, codes, and the like, is to-day worthless because all conditions are completely changed. Only the crime of treason remains; a crime that deserves the severest punishment; but the guilty persons have escaped punishment and are now facing a higher tribunal — both the principal in the crime and his weak and foolish tool. So it is best for all concerned, Mr. Hathaway, that we get at the truth of this matter and, when it is clearly on record in the government files, declare the case closed for all time. The State Department has more important matters that demand its attention.”

  The old man’s head was bowed, his chin resting on his breast. It was now the turn of Mary Louise to smooth his thin gray locks.

  “If you will make a statement, sir,” continued O’Gorman, “we shall be able to verify it.”

  Slowly Hathaway raised his head.

  “I have no statement to make,” he persisted.

  “This is rank folly,” exclaimed O’Gorman, “but if you refuse to make the statement, I shall make it myself.”

  “I beg you — I implore you!” said Hathaway pleadingly.

  The detective rose and stood before him, looking not at the old man but at the young girl — Mary Louise.

  “Tell me, my child,” he said gently, “would you not rather see your grandfather — an honorable, high-minded gentleman — acquitted of an unjust accusation, even at the expense of some abasement and perhaps heart-aches on your part, rather than allow him to continue to suffer disgrace in order to shield you from so slight an affliction?”

  “Sir!” cried Hathaway indignantly, starting to his feet; “how dare you throw the burden on this poor child? Have you no mercy — no compassion?”

  “Plenty,” was the quiet reply. “Sit down, sir. This girl is stronger than you think. She will not be made permanently unhappy by knowing the truth, I assure you.”

  Hathaway regarded him with a look of anguish akin to fear. Then he turned and seated himself, again putting an arm around Mary Louise as if to shield her.

  Said Irene, speaking very slowly:

  “I am quite sure Mr. O’Gorman is right. Mary Louise is a brave girl, and she loves her grandfather.”

  Then Mary Louise spoke — hesitatingly, at first, for she could not yet comprehend the full import of the officer’s words.

  “If you mean,” said she, “that it will cause me sorrow and humiliation to free my grandfather from suspicion, and that he refuses to speak because he fears the truth will hurt me, then I ask you to speak out, Mr. O’Gorman.”

  “Of course,” returned the little man, smiling at her approvingly; “that is just what I intend to do. All these years, my girl, your grandfather has accepted reproach and disgrace in order to shield the good name of a woman and to save her from a prison cell. And that woman was your mother.”

  “Oh!” cried Mary Louise and covered her face with her hands.

  “You brute!” exclaimed Hathaway, highly incensed.

  “But this is not all,” continued O’Gorman, unmoved; “your mother, Mary Louise, would have been condemned and imprisoned — and deservedly so in the eyes of the law — had the truth been known; and yet I assure you she was only guilty of folly and of ignorance of the terrible consequences that might have resulted from her act. She was weak enough to be loyal to a promise wrung from her in extremity, and therein lay her only fault. Your grandfather knew all this, and she was his daughter — his only child. When the accusation for your mother’s crime fell on him, he ran away and so tacitly admitted his guilt, thus drawing suspicion from her. His reason for remaining hidden was that, had he been caught and brought to trial, he could not have lied or perjured himself under oath even to save his dearly loved daughter from punishment. Now you understand why he could not submit to arrest; why, assisted by a small but powerful band of faithful friends, he has been able to evade capture during all these years. I admire him for that; but he has sacrificed himself long enough. Your mother’s recent death renders her prosecution impossible. It is time the truth prevailed. In simple justice I will not allow this old man to embitter further his life, just to protect his grandchild from a knowledge of her mother’s sin.”

  Again a deathly silence pervaded the room.

  “You — you are speaking at random,” said Hathaway, in a voice choked with emotion. “You have no proof of these dreadful statements.”

  “But I have!” said Irene bravely, believing it her duty to support

  O’Gorman.

  “And so have I,” asserted the quiet voice of Sarah Judd, who had entered the room unperceived.

&nb
sp; Hathaway regarded both the girls in surprise, but said nothing.

  “I think,” said Officer O’Gorman, “it will be best for us to read to

  Mr. Hathaway that letter.”

  “The letter which I found in the book?” asked Irene eagerly.

  “Yes. But do not disturb yourself,” as she started to wheel her chair close to the wall. “Josie will get it.”

  To Irene’s astonishment Sarah Judd walked straight to the repeating rifle, opened the sliding plate in its stock and took out the closely folded letter. Perhaps Nan Shelley and Agatha Lord were no less surprised than Irene; also they were deeply chagrined. But O’Gorman’s slip in calling Sarah Judd “Josie” had conveyed to his associates information that somewhat modified their astonishment at the girl’s cleverness, for everyone who knew O’Gorman had often heard of his daughter Josie, of whom he was accustomed to speak with infinite pride. He always said he was training her to follow his own profession and that when the education was complete Josie O’Gorman would make a name for herself in the detective service. So Nan and Agatha exchanged meaning glances and regarded the freckled-faced girl with new interest.

  “I’m not much of a reader,” said Josie, carefully unfolding the paper.

  “Suppose we let Miss Irene read it?”

  Her father nodded assent and Josie handed the sheet to Irene.

  Mr. Hathaway had been growing uneasy and now addressed Officer O’Gorman in a protesting voice:

  “Is this reading necessary, sir?”

  “Very necessary, Mr. Hathaway.”

  “What letter is this that you have referred to?”

  “A bit of information dating nearly ten years ago and written by one who perhaps knew more of the political intrigues of John and Beatrice Burrows than has ever come to your own knowledge.”

  “The letter is authentic, then?”

  “Quite so.”

  “And your Department knows of its existence?”

  “I am acting under the Department’s instructions, sir. Oblige us, Miss Macfarlane,” he added, turning to Irene, “by reading the letter in full.”