The Yellow Phantom
Page 18
CHAPTER XVII
THE ONLY ANSWER
And yet Judy felt that no one had heard, that it was all up to her.Even Dale Meredith seemed not to be helping, and Pauline.... How muchdid Pauline care? Neither of them had attempted to follow Judy’ssuggestion that they write down every possible clue. Instead theytalked—talked until midnight, almost—when she was trying so hard tothink.
Then Mary came in. Mary usually came in when Pauline stayed up toolate. The cocoa that she served was a signal for Dale to leave and thegirls to retire.
Pauline drank her cocoa quickly and walked with him to the door. Whenit closed behind him she still stood there, her head pressed againstthe panels.
“You’re tired,” Judy told her. “I’ll take this cocoa into my room andlet you sleep.”
“Aren’t you going to drink it?”
Judy shook her head. “Not with Irene gone. It would make me sleepy too,and I’ve simply got to think.”
Alone in her room she tried to turn herself into an abstract thing, amental machine that could think without feeling. In her heart she couldnot believe Irene had taken the poetry, but in her mind she knew thatit must be so.
Didn’t Irene want the poems because they described a house? Even theaddress might have been among the conglomeration of papers. When herfather suggested that she visit relatives in Brooklyn he had describeda house also. Perhaps the two descriptions were the same. Perhaps therelative she sought was Sarah Glenn! For surely it was more thancoincidence that Irene looked so much like the poet’s daughter, JoyHoliday. Could she have been an aunt? No, because Sarah Glenn had onlythe one child. A distant cousin? Hardly. Then there was only oneconclusion left: Joy Holiday might have been Irene’s own mother!
Could Irene have put two and two together, just as Judy was doing, andgone to the poet’s house the day she disappeared? No doubt, if she did,she planned to be back again before either Judy or Pauline returned.Something had prevented her!
That something might have been Jasper Crosby, cruel, scheming,mercenary creature that he was. Or it might have been poor, dementedSarah Glenn. She might have locked Irene in the tower the way she hadonce locked her own daughter away from her friends. There was notelling what a crazy woman might do!
An hour later Judy still sat on her bed, trying to decide what to do.Her cocoa, on a forgotten corner of the dresser, had crusted over likecold paste. She rose, walked across the room, tasted the cold drink andset down the cup. She must come to some decision! Irene might be livingthrough a nightmare of torture in that horrible house Sarah Glenn haddescribed in her poems.
In the next room Pauline was sleeping soundly. Judy could wake her, askher advice. Downstairs the telephone waited ready to help her. Shecould call Lieutenant Collins at the police station and tell herfindings to him. She could telephone Mr. Lang again and ask him morequestions—worry him more. She could call the young author, DaleMeredith.
Yes, she could call Dale and tell him that the insane poet might beIrene’s grandmother; that the scheming miser, Jasper Crosby, might beher uncle and that Irene, herself, had probably stolen the poetry tohelp locate them. What a shock that would be to the young author whohad idolized Irene and called her his Golden Girl. Judy hadn’t theheart to disillusion him although her own spirit was heavy with thehurt of it all.
She wouldn’t notify the police either. Irene must not be subjected toan unkind cross fire of questions when, or if, she did return. Judywould find Irene herself and let her explain. Suppose she had stolenthe poetry? What did it matter? Judy was learning not to expectperfection in people. She would love Irene all the more, forgiving her.And if Irene had stolen the poetry she could give it back quietly, andJudy could explain things to Emily Grimshaw. Dale need never be told.
Judy wouldn’t have done that much to shield herself. She could.... Oh,now she knew she could stand shock, excitement, tragedy. But itwouldn’t do to have people blaming Irene.
That night Judy buried her head in the pillows waiting, wide-eyed, formorning. Morning would tell. She knew that work was slack at the officeand that Emily Grimshaw often did not come in until afternoon. Shewould take the morning off and go ... she consulted the bit of paperwith the poet’s latest verse on one side and her address scribbled onthe other. She got up out of bed to take it from her pocketbook andstudy it. The street apparently had no name.
_One blk. past Parkville, just off Gravesend Avenue._
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