The Lady Sleuths MEGAPACK ™: 20 Modern and Classic Tales of Female Detectives

by Catherine Louisa Pirkis

  Irene read a good many books and magazines and through the daily papers kept well posted on the world’s affairs. Indeed, she was much better posted than Mary Louise, who, being more active, had less leisure to think and thus absorb the full meaning of all that came to her notice. Irene would play the piano for hours at a time, though obliged to lean forward in her chair to reach the keys, and her moods ran the gamut from severely classical themes to ragtime, seeming to enjoy all equally. She also sewed and mended with such consummate skill that Mary Louise, who was rather awkward with her needle, marveled at her talent.

  Nor was this the end of the chair-girl’s accomplishments, for Irene had a fancy for sketching and made numerous caricatures of those persons with whom she came in contact. These contained so much humor that Mary Louise was delighted with them—especially one of “Uncle Peter” toying with his watch fob and staring straight ahead of him with round, expressionless eyes.

  “Really, Irene, I believe you could paint,” she once said.

  “No,” answered her friend, “I would not be so wicked as to do that. All imitations of Nature seem to me a mock of God’s handiwork, which no mortal brush can hope to equal. I shall never be so audacious, I hope. But a photograph is a pure reflex of Nature, and my caricatures, which are merely bits of harmless fun, furnish us now and then a spark of humor to make us laugh, and laughter is good for the soul. I often laugh at my own sketches, as you know. Sometimes I laugh at their whimsical conception, before ever I put pencil to paper. Lots of caricatures I make secretly, laughing over and then destroying them for fear they might be seen and hurt the feelings of their innocent subjects. Why, Mary Louise, I drew your doleful face only yesterday, and it was so funny I shrieked with glee. You heard me and looked over at me with a smile that made the caricature lie, so I promptly tore it up. It had served its purpose, you see.”

  So many of these quaint notions filled the head of the crippled girl that Mary Louise’s wondering interest in her never flagged. It was easy to understand why Mrs. Conant had declared that Irene was the joy and life of the household, for it was impossible to remain morbid or blue in her presence.

  For this reason, as well as through the warm and sincere affection inspired by Irene, Mary Louise came by degrees to confide to her the entire story of the mystery that surrounded her grandfather and influenced the lives of her mother and herself. Of her personal anxieties and fears she told her new friend far more than she had ever confessed to anyone else and her disclosures were met by ready sympathy.

  “Phoo!” cried Irene. “This isn’t a REAL trouble; it will pass away. Everything passes away in time, Mary Louise, for life is a succession of changes—one thing after another. Remember the quotation: ‘Whate’er may be thy fate to-day, remember—this will pass away.’ I love that little saying and it has comforted me and given me courage many a time.”

  “Life will also pass away,” observed Mary Louise pessimistically.

  “To be sure. Isn’t that a glad prospect? To pass to a new life, to new adventures, planned for us by the wisdom of God, is the most glorious promise we mortals possess. In good time that joy will be ours, but now we must make the most of our present blessings. I take it, Mary Louise, that there is a purpose in everything—a Divine Purpose, you know—and that those who most patiently accept their trials will have the better future recompense. What’s a twisted ankle or a shriveled leg to do with happiness? Or even a persecuted grandfather? We’re made of better stuff, you and I, than to cry at such babyish bumps. My! what a lot of things we both have to be thankful for.”

  Somehow these conversations cheered Mary Louise considerably and her face soon lost its drawn, worried look and became almost as placid as in the days when she had Gran’pa Jim beside her and suspected no approaching calamity. Gran’pa Jim would surely have loved Irene, had he known her, because their ideas of life and duty were so similar.

  As it was now less than a month to the long summer vacation, Mary Louise did not enter the Dorfield High School but studied a little at home, so as not to get “rusty,” and passed most of her days in the society of Irene Macfarlane. It was a week or so after her arrival that Peter Conant said to her one evening:

  “I have now received ample funds for all your needs, Mary Louise, so I have sent to Miss Stearne to have your trunk and books forwarded.”

  “Oh; then you have heard from Gran’pa Jim?” she asked eagerly.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I do not know,” chopping the words apart with emphasis. “The Colonel has been very liberal. I am to put twenty dollars in cash in your pocketbook and you are to come to me for any further sums you may require, which I am ordered to supply without question. I would have favored making you an allowance, had I been consulted, but the Colonel is—eh—eh—the Colonel is the Colonel.”

  “Didn’t Gran’pa Jim send me any letter, or—any information at all?” she asked wistfully.

  “Not a word.”

  “In my last letter, which you promised me to forward, I begged him to write me,” she said, with disappointment.

  Peter Conant made no reply. He merely stared at her. But afterward, when the two girls were alone, Irene said to her:

  “I do not think you should beg your grandfather to write you. A letter might be traced by his enemies, you know, and that would mean his undoing. He surely loves you and bears you in mind, for he has provided for your comfort in every possible way. Even your letters to him may be dangerous, although they reach him in such roundabout ways. If I were you, Mary Louise, I’d accept the situation as I found it and not demand more than your grandfather and your mother are able to give you.”

  This frank advice Mary Louise accepted in good part and through the influence of the chair-girl she gradually developed a more contented frame of mind.

  Irene was a persistent reader of books and one of Mary Louise’s self-imposed duties was to go to the public library and select such volumes as her friend was likely to be interested in. These covered a wide range of subjects, although historical works and tales of the age of chivalry seemed to appeal to Irene more than any others. Sometimes she would read aloud, in her sweet, sympathetic voice, to Mary Louise and Mrs. Conant, and under these conditions they frequently found themselves interested in books which, if read by themselves, they would be sure to find intolerably dry and uninteresting. The crippled girl had a way of giving more than she received and, instead of demanding attention, would often entertain the sound-limbed ones of her immediate circle.

  CHAPTER XIII

  BUB SUCCUMBS TO FORCE

  One day Peter Conant abruptly left his office, came home and packed his grip and then hurried down town and caught the five o’clock train for New York. He was glum and uncommunicative, as usual, merely telling Aunt Hannah that business called him away and he did not know when he would be back.

  A week later Peter appeared at the family breakfast table, having arrived on the early morning express, and he seemed in a more gracious mood than usual. Indeed, he was really talkative.

  “I met Will Morrison in New York, Hannah,” he said to his wife. “He was just sailing for London with his family and will remain abroad all summer. He wanted us to occupy his mountain place, Hillcrest Lodge, during July and August, and although I told him we couldn’t use the place he insisted on my taking an order on his man to turn the shack over to us.”

  “The shack!” cried Aunt Hannah indignantly.

  “Why, Peter, Hillcrest Lodge is a little palace. It is the cosiest, most delightful place I have ever visited. Why shouldn’t we accept Will Morrison’s proposition to occupy it?”

  “I can’t leave my business.”

  “You could run up every Friday afternoon, taking the train to Millbank and the stage to Hillcrest, and stay with us till Monday morning.”

  He stared at he
r reflectively.

  “Would you be safe in that out-of-the-way place?” he asked.

  “Of course. Didn’t you say Will had a man for caretaker? And only a few scattered cottages are located near by, so we shall be quite by ourselves and wholly unmolested. I mean to go, and take the girls. The change will do us all good, so you may as well begin to make arrangements for the trip.”

  Peter Conant stared awhile and then resumed his breakfast without comment. Mary Louise thought she saw a smile flicker over his stolid features for a moment, but could not be positive. Aunt Hannah had spoken in a practical, matter-of-fact way that did not admit of argument.

  “Let me see,” she resumed; “we will plan to leave on Thursday morning, over the branch road, which will get us to Millbank by noon. If you telegraph the stage-driver to meet us we can reach Hillcrest Lodge by three o’clock—perhaps earlier—and that will enable us to get settled before dark. That is far better than taking the afternoon train. Will you make the proper arrangements, Peter?”

  “Yes,” he briefly replied.

  As he was leaving the house after breakfast he fixed his stare on Irene and said to her:

  “In New York I ran across a lot of second-hand books at an auction sale—old novels and romances which you will probably like. I bought the lot and shipped them home. If they arrive in time you can take them to Hillcrest and they will keep you reading all summer.”

  “Oh, thank you, Uncle Peter!” exclaimed the chair-girl gratefully.

  “Have you any—any—news of Gran’pa Jim?” asked Mary Louise diffidently.

  “No,” he said and walked away.

  During the few days that remained before their exodus they were busy preparing for the anticipated vacation. Summer gowns had to be looked over and such things gathered together as might be useful during their two months’ stay at Hillcrest.

  “Of course no one will see us,” remarked Aunt Hannah; “it’s really the jumping-off place of the world; but Will Morrison has made it as cosy as possible and we three, with just Peter at the week-ends, can amuse one another without getting lonely. Peter will fish in the mountain streams, of course, and that’s the reason he is allowing us to go. We’ve visited the Morrisons two or three times at the Lodge and Peter has fished for trout every minute he was there.”

  “Who are the Morrisons?” asked Mary Louise.

  “Will Morrison is a rich banker and his wife Sallie was an old schoolmate of mine. The Lodge is only a little resort of theirs, you know, for in the city they live in grand style. I know you girls will enjoy the place, for the scenery is delightful and the clear mountain air mighty invigorating.”

  All girls delight in change of location and although Irene was a little worried over the difficulties of getting to Hillcrest Lodge in her crippled condition, she was as eager to go as was Mary Louise. And she made the trip more comfortably than she had feared.

  At Millbank the stage-driver fixed a comfortable seat for her in his carryall and loaded the boxes and baggage and the wheeled chair and the box of books—which had arrived from New York—on the railed top of his bus, and then they drove away through a rough but picturesque country that drew from the girls many exclamations of delight.

  Presently they came to a small group of dwellings called the “Huddle,” which lay at the foot of the mountain. Then up a winding path the four horses labored patiently, halting often to rest and get their breaths. At such times the passengers gloried in the superb views of the valley and its farms and were never impatient to proceed. They passed one or two modest villas, for this splendid location had long ago been discovered by a few others besides Will Morrison who loved to come here for their vacations and so escape the maddening crowds of the cities.

  Aunt Hannah had planned the trip with remarkable accuracy, for at about three o’clock the lumbering stage stopped at a pretty chalet half hidden among the tall pines and overlooking a steep bluff. Here the baggage and boxes were speedily unloaded.

  “I gotta git back ter meet the aft’noon train,” said Bill Coombs, their driver. “They won’t be any more passingers in this direction, tain’t likely, ’cause the houses ’roun’ here is mighty scattered an’ no one’s expectin’ nobody, as I know of. But in the other direction from Millbank—Sodd Corners way—I may catch a load, if I’m lucky.”

  So back he drove, leaving the Conants’ traps by the roadside, and Peter began looking around for Morrison’s man. The doors of the house were fast locked, front and rear. There was no one in the barn or the shed-like garage, where a rusty looking automobile stood. Peter looked around the grounds in vain. Then he whistled. Afterward he began bawling out “Hi, there!” in a voice that echoed lonesomely throughout the mountain side.

  And, at last, when they were all beginning to despair, a boy came slouching around a corner of the house, from whence no one could guess. He was whittling a stick and he continued to whittle while he stared at the unexpected arrivals and slowly advanced. When about fifteen paces away he halted, with feet planted well apart, and bent his gaze sturdily on his stick and knife. He was barefooted, dressed in faded blue-jeans overalls and a rusty gingham shirt—the two united by a strap over one shoulder—and his head was covered by a broad Scotch golf cap much too big for him and considerably too warm for the season.

  “Come here!” commanded Mr. Conant.

  The boy did not move, therefore the lawyer advanced angrily toward him.

  “Why didn’t you obey me?” he asked.

  “They’s gals there. I hates gals,” said the boy in a confidential tone. “Any sort o’ men critters I kin stand, but gals gits my goat.”

  “Who are you?” inquired Mr. Conant.

  “Me? I’m jus’ Bub.”

  “Where is Mr. Morrison’s man?”

  “Meanin’ Talbot? Gone up to Mark’s Peak, to guide a gang o’ hunters f’m the city.”

  “When did he go?” asked the lawyer.

  “I guess a Tuesday. No—a Wednesday.”

  “And when will he be back?”

  The boy whittled, abstractedly.

  “Answer me!”

  “How kin I? D’ye know where Mark’s Peak is?”

  “No.”

  “It takes a week ter git thar; they’ll likely hunt two er three weeks; mebbe more; ye kin tell that as well as I kin. Mister Will’s gone ter You-RUPP with Miss’ Morrison, so Talbot he won’t be in no hurry ter come back.”

  “Great Caesar! Here’s a pretty mess. Are you Talbot’s boy?”

  “Nope. I’m a Grigger, an’ live over in the holler, yonder.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Earnin’ two bits a week.”

  “How?”

  “Lookin’ after the place.”

  “Very well. Mr. Morrison has given us permission to use the Lodge while he is away, so unlock the doors and help get the baggage in.”

  The boy notched the stick with his knife, using great care.

  “Talbot didn’t say nuth’n’ ’bout that,” he remarked composedly.

  Mr. Conant uttered an impatient ejaculation. It was one of his peculiarities to give a bark similar to that of a dog when greatly annoyed. After staring at the boy a while he took out Will Morrison’s letter to Talbot, opened it and held it before Bub’s face.

  “Read that!” he cried.

  Bub grinned and shook his head.

  “I kain’t read,” he said.

  Mr. Conant, in a loud and severe voice, read Mr. Morrison’s instruction to his man Talbot to do everything in his power to make the Conants comfortable and to serve them as faithfully as he did his own master. The boy listened, whittling slowly. Then he said:

  “Mebbe that’s all right; an’ ag’in, mebbe tain’t. Seein’ as I kain’t read I ain’t goin’ ter take no one’s word fer it.
”

  “You insolent brat!” exclaimed Peter Conant, highly incensed. Then he turned and called: “Come here, Mary Louise.”

  Mary Louise promptly advanced and with every step she made the boy retreated a like distance, until the lawyer seized his arm and held it in a firm grip.

  “What do you mean by running away?” he demanded.

  “I hates gals,” retorted Bub sullenly.

  “Don’t be a fool. Come here, Mary Louise, and read this letter to the boy, word for word.”

  Mary Louise, marking the boy’s bashfulness and trying to restrain a smile, read Mr. Morrison’s letter.

  “You see,” said the lawyer sharply, giving Bub a little shake, “those are the exact words of the letter. We’re going to enter the Lodge and take possession of it, as Mr. Morrison has told us to do, and if you don’t obey my orders I shall give you a good flogging. Do you understand that?”

  Bub nodded, more cheerfully.

  “If ye do it by force,” said he, “that lets me out. Nobody kin blame me if I’m forced.”

  Mary Louise laughed so heartily that the boy cast an upward, half-approving glance at her face. Even Mr. Conant’s stern visage relaxed.

  “See here, Bub,” he said, “obey my orders and no harm can come to you. This letter is genuine and if you serve us faithfully while we are here I’ll—I’ll give you four bits a week.”

  “Heh? Four bits!”

  “Exactly. Four bits every week.”

  “Gee, that’ll make six bits a week, with the two Talbot’s goin’ ter give me. I’m hanged ef I don’t buy a sweater fer next winter, afore the cold weather comes!”

  “Very good,” said Mr. Conant. “Now get busy and let us in.”