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Mary Louise Solves A Mystery
By
L. Frank Baum
(AKA Edith Van Dyne)
Contents
CHAPTER II MOTHER AND
DAUGHTER
CHAPTER VII MARY LOUI=
SE
INTRUDES
CHAPTER VIII MARY LOU=
ISE
MEETS ALORA
CHAPTER IX MARY LOUIS=
E SCENTS
A MYSTERY
CHAPTER XI ALORA SPEA=
KS
FRANKLY
CHAPTER XI JASON JONE=
S IS
FRIGHTENED
CHAPTER XV THE PUZZLE=
BECOMES
INTRICATE
CHAPTER XVI ALORA WIN=
S HER
WAY
CHAPTER XVII THE
DISAPPEARANCE
CHAPTER XXI THE PRICE=
OF
LIBERTY
CHAPTER XXIII MARY LO=
UISE HAS
AN INTUITION
CHAPTER XXIV AN INTER=
RUPTION
CHAPTER XXVI WHAT MAR=
Y LOUISE
ACCOMPLISHED
A little girl sat shivering in a corner of a
reception room in the fashionable Hotel Voltaire. It was one of a suite of
rooms occupied by Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, widely known for her wealth=
and
beauty, and this girl--a little thing of eleven--was the only child of Mrs.=
Antoinette
Seaver Jones, and was named Alora.
It was not cold that made her shiver, for acro=
ss
the handsomely furnished room an open window gratefully admitted the summer
sunshine and the summer breeze. Near the window, where the draught came
coolest, a middle-aged woman in a sober dress sat reading. Alora did not lo=
ok
at this person but kept her gaze fixed anxiously upon the doorway that led =
to
the corridor, and the spasmodic shudders that at times shook her little body
seemed due to nervous fear.
The room was so still that every tick of the
Dresden clock could be distinctly heard. When Miss Gorham, Alora's governes=
s,
turned a page of her book, the rustle was appallingly audible. And the clock
ticked on, and Miss Gorham turned page after page, and still the child sat
bowed upon her chair and eagerly eyed the passageway.
It seemed ages before the outer door of the su=
ite
finally opened and a man moved softly down the passage and paused at the
entrance of the reception room. The man was white-haired, dignified and
distinguished in appearance. Hat in hand, he stood as if undecided while Al=
ora bounded
from her seat and came to him, her eyes, big and pleading, reading his face
with dramatic intentness.
"Well, well, my dear; what is it?" he
said in a kindly voice.
"May I see my mamma now, Doctor?" she
asked.
He shook his head, turning to the table to pla=
ce
his hat and gloves upon it.
"Not just yet, little one," he gently
replied, and noting her quick-drawn breath of disappointment he added:
"Why, I haven't seen her myself, this morning."
"Why do you keep me from her, Doctor
Anstruther? Don't you know it's-- it's wicked, and cruel?"--a sob in h=
er
voice.
The old physician looked down upon the child
pityingly.
"Mamma is ill--very ill, you know--and to
disturb her might--it might-- well, it might make her worse," he expla=
ined
lamely.
"I won't disturb her. There's a nurse in
there, all the time. Why should I disturb my mamma more than a nurse?"
asked Alora pleadingly.
He evaded the question. The big eyes disconcer=
ted
him.
"When I have seen your mother," said=
he,
"I may let you go to her for a few minutes. But you must be very quiet=
, so
as not to excite her. We must avoid anything of an exciting nature. You und=
erstand
that, don't you, Lory?"
She studied his face gravely. When he held out=
a
hand to her she clung to it desperately and a shudder again shook her from =
head
to foot.
"Tell me, Doctor Anstruther," in low,
passionate tones, "is my mother dying?"
He gave an involuntary start.
"Who put that notion into your head,
Lory?"
"Miss Gorham."
He frowned and glanced reprovingly at the
governess, who had lowered her book to her lap and was regarding the scene =
with
stolid unconcern.
"You mustn't mind such idle gossip, my de=
ar.
I am the doctor, you know, and I am doing all that can be done to save your
mother's life. Don't worry until I tell you to, Lory; and now let me go to =
see
my patient."
He withdrew his hand from her clasp and turned
into the passage again. The girl listened to his footsteps as he approached=
her
mother's bedchamber, paused a moment, and then softly opened the door and e=
ntered.
Silence again pervaded the reception room. The clock resumed its loud ticki=
ng.
Miss Gorham raised her book. Alora went back to her chair, trembling.
The front bedchamber was bright and cheery, a =
big
room fitted with every modern luxury. The doctor blinked his eyes as he ent=
ered
from the dim passage, for here was sunlight and fresh air in plenty. Beside=
the
bed stood a huge vase of roses, their delicate fragrance scenting the atmos=
phere.
Upon the bed, beneath a costly lace coverlid, lay a woman thirty-five years=
of
age, her beautiful face still fresh and unlined, the deep blue eyes turned
calmly upon the physician.
"Welcome, Doctor Anstruther," she sa=
id.
"Do you realize you have kept me waiting?"
"I am sorry, Mrs. Jones," he replied,
approaching her. "There are so many demands upon my time that----"=
;
"I know," a little impatiently;
"but now that you are here please tell me how I am this morning."=
"How do you feel?"
"I do not suffer, but it takes more morph=
ine
to quiet the pain. Janet has used the hypodermic four times since
midnight," with a glance at the gray-robed nurse who stood silently by=
the
table.
The doctor nodded, thoughtfully looking down h=
er.
There was small evidence of illness in her appearance, but he knew that her
hours were numbered and that the dread disease that had fastened upon her w=
as creeping
on with ever increasing activity. She knew it, too, and smiled a grim little
smile as she added: "How long can I last, at this rate?"
"Do not anticipate, my dear," he
answered gravely. "Let us do all that may be done, and----"
"I must know!" she retorted. "I
have certain important arrangements to make that must not be needlessly
delayed."
"I can understand that, Mrs. Jones."=
"Then tell me frankly, how long have I to
live?"
"Perhaps a month; possibly less;
but----"
"You are not honest with me, Doctor
Anstruther! What I wish to know-- what I must know--is how soon this disease
will be able to kill me. If we manage to defer the end somewhat, all the
better; but the fiend must not take me unaware, before I am ready to resign=
my
life."
He seated himself beside the bed and reflected.
This was his most interesting patient; he had attended her constantly for m=
ore
than a year and in this time had learned to admire not only her beauty of p=
erson
but her "gameness" and wholesome mentality. He knew something of =
her
past life and history, too, as well from her own lips as from common gossip,
for this was no ordinary woman and her achievements were familiar to many. =
She was the daughter of Captain Bob Seaver, wh=
ose
remarkable career was known to every man in the West. Captain Bob was one
"forty-niners" and had made fortunes and lost them with marvelous
regularity. He had a faculty for finding gold, but his speculations were
invariably unwise, so his constant transitions from affluence to poverty, a=
nd
vice versa, were the subject of many amusing tales, many no doubt grossly e=
xaggerated.
And the last venture of Captain Bob Seaver, before he died, was to buy the
discredited "Ten-Spot" mine and start to develop it.
At that time he was a widower with one motherl=
ess
child--Antoinette--a girl of eighteen who had been reared partly in mining
camps and partly at exclusive girls' schools in the East, according to her
father's varying fortunes. "Tony" Seaver, as she was generally ca=
lled
in those days, combined culture and refinement with a thorough knowledge of=
mining,
and when her father passed away and left her absolute mistress of the
tantalizing "Ten-Spot," she set to work to make the mine a succes=
s,
directing her men in person and displaying such shrewd judgment and
intelligence, coupled with kindly consideration for her assistants, that she
became the idol of the miners, all of whom were proud to be known as employ=
ees
of Tony Seaver's "Ten-Spot" would have died for their beautiful
employer if need be.
And the "Ten-Spot" made good. In five
years Tony had garnered a million or two of well-earned dollars, and then s=
he
sold out and retired from business. Also, to the chagrin of an army of suit=
ors,
she married an artist named Jason Jones, whose talent, it was said, was not=
so
great as his luck. So far, his fame rested on his being "Tony Seaver's=
husband."
But Tony's hobby was art, and she had recognized real worth, she claimed, in
Jason Jones' creations. On her honeymoon she carried her artist husband to
Europe and with him studied the works of the masters in all the art centers=
of
the Continent. Then, enthusiastic and eager for Jason's advancement, she
returned with him to New York and set him up in a splendid studio where he =
had
every convenience and incentive to work.
So much the world at large knew. It also knew =
that
within three years Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones separated from her husband =
and,
with her baby girl, returned West to live. The elaborate Jones studio was a=
bandoned
and broken up and the "promising young artist" disappeared from t=
he
public eye. Mrs. Jones, a thorough business woman, had retained her fortune=
in
her own control and personally attended to her investments. She became note=
d as
a liberal patron of the arts and a generous donor to worthy charities. In s=
pite
of her youth, wealth, and beauty, she had no desire to shine in society and
lived a somewhat secluded life in luxurious family hotels, attending with m=
uch solicitude
to the training and education of her daughter Alora.
At first she had made Denver her home, but
afterward migrated from one middle-west city to another until she came to
Chicago, where she had now lived for nearly three years, occupying the most
expensive suite of rooms at the very exclusive Hotel Voltaire.
Alora fairly worshipped her beautiful mother a=
nd
although Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones was considered essentially cold and
unemotional by those who knew her casually, there was no doubt she prized h=
er
child as her dearest possession and lavished all the tenderness and love of=
which
she was capable upon her.
Retrospectively, Doctor Anstruther considered =
this
historical revue of his fair patient as he sat facing her. It seemed a most
unhappy fate that she should be cut off in the flower of her womanhood, but=
her
case was positively hopeless, and she knew it and had accepted the harsh ve=
rdict
without a murmur. Bravery had always been Tony Seaver's prime characteristi=
c.
To Doctor Anstruther it seemed that she might as well know the truth which =
she
had demanded from his lips.
"This disease is one that accelerates tow=
ard
the end," he said. "Within the past few days we have noted its mo=
re
virulent tendency. All we can do now is to keep you from suffering until--t=
he
end."
"And that will be--when?" she demand=
ed.
"I think I can safely give you a week
but----"
"Then I must act at once," she said,=
as
he hesitated. "I must, first of all, make provision for Alora's future,
and in this I require your help."
"You know you may depend upon me," he
said simply.
"Please telegraph at once to my husband J=
ason
Jones, in New York."
The request startled him, for never before had=
she
mentioned her husband's name in his presence. But he asked, calmly enough: =
"What is his address?"
"Hand me that small memorandum-book,"
pointing to the stand beside him. He obeyed, and as she turned the leaves
slowly she said:
"Doctor Anstruther, you have been my good=
and
faithful friend, and you ought to know and to understand why I am now sendi=
ng
for my husband, from whom I have been estranged for many years. When I first
met Jason Jones he was a true artist and I fell in love with his art rather
than with the man. I was ambitious that he should become a great painter, w=
orld-famous.
He was very poor until he married me, and he had worked industriously to
succeed, but as soon as I introduced him to a life of comfort--I might even=
add,
of luxury--his ambition to work gradually deserted him. With his future
provided for, as he thought, he failed to understand the necessity of devot=
ing
himself to his brush and palette, but preferred a life of ease--of laziness=
, if
you will. So we quarreled. I tried to force him back to his work, but it wa=
s no
use; my money had ruined his career. I therefore lost patience and decided =
to abandon
him, hoping that when he was again thrown upon his own resources he would
earnestly resume his profession and become a master, as I believed him
competent to be. We were not divorced: we merely separated. Finding I had
withdrawn his allowance he was glad to see me go, for my unmerciful scoldin=
gs
had killed any love he may have had for me. But he loved Lory, and her loss=
was
his hardest trial. I may have been as much to blame as he for our lack of
harmony, but I have always acted on my impulses.
"I'll give Jason Jones the credit for not
whimpering," she resumed thoughtfully, after a brief pause, "nor =
has
he ever since appealed to me for money. I don't know how well he has succee=
ded,
for we do not correspond, but I have never heard his name mentioned in the =
art circles
I have frequented. He remained in New York, I believe, and so I chose to ke=
ep
away from New York. A year or two ago, however, I met a man who had known J=
ason
Jones and who gave me his address. Here it is: 1744 East Sixty-seventh stre=
et.
Will you make a copy of it, Doctor?"
He nodded.
"What shall I say in the telegram?" =
he
asked, writing the address in his notebook.
"Tell him I am dying and seek a
reconciliation before I pass away. Beg him to come to me at once."
Dr. Anstruther jotted down the instructions
underneath the address.
"You must understand," she continued,
"that Jason Jones is an honorable man and in many ways a high-minded
gentleman. I have lived with him as his wife and I know that he is well fit=
ted
to care for our child and to rear her properly. I have left my entire fortu=
ne
to Alora, but I have made Jason my sole executor, and he is to have control,
under certain restrictions, of all the income until Alora is eighteen. I th=
ink
he will be glad to accept the responsibility, both on Alora's account and f=
or
the money."
"Doubtless, if he has not been a success =
as
an artist since your separation," remarked the doctor, drily.
"The man I spoke of said Jason was living=
in
quite modest circumstances. He said that although he had succeeded in selli=
ng a
few paintings they had brought rather insignificant sums--which surprised m=
e,
as I know they must have possessed a degree of merit. However, I may be
mistaken in thinking his talent exceptional. Anyhow, my experiment in leavi=
ng
him to his own devices seems not to have resulted as I had hoped, and I now=
am
willing he should handle Alora's income and live comfortably while he is
educating her. She will probably provide for her father when she comes of a=
ge,
but I have not included such a request in my will and I have endeavored, in
case he proves inclined to neglect her, to require the court to appoint ano=
ther
guardian. That is, of course, merely a precaution, for I know his nature is
gentle and kind, and he adores--or at least he used to adore children."=
;
The doctor sat, notebook in hand, musing. The
matter-of-fact, businesslike way in which she referred to her marital relat=
ions
and her assumed unconcern over her own dreadful fate impressed the good man=
as extraordinary.
But he was relieved to know that little Alora, of whom he had grown quite f=
ond,
was to have the guardianship of a parent, and glad that the character of Ja=
son
Jones was above reproach. The man's failure to succeed as an artist, while =
it
might have been a source of chagrin to his art-loving wife, did not lower h=
im
to any extent in Dr. Anstruther's opinion.
"I suppose Alora does not remember her
father?" he presently remarked.
"She was about two years old when we
separated."
"And you say your will is already
drawn?"
"Judge Bernsted, my lawyer, has attended =
to
it. It is now in his possession, properly signed and witnessed."
"If Bernsted drew the will, it is doubtle=
ss
legal and in accordance with your wishes. But who witnessed it?"
"My nurse, Janet."
He glanced at the motionless figure of the
attendant, who had remained so inert at her post by the window that he had
quite forgotten her presence. She was a young woman, perhaps thirty years of
age, and not unprepossessing in appearance, in spite of her modest uniform.=
Janet's one peculiarity was her downcast eyes.
They were good eyes, bright and intelligent, but she kept them veiled by th=
eir
long lashes and drooping lids. Dr. Anstruther attached no significance to t=
his trait,
doubtless a habit of modest reserve acquired in her profession. He had hims=
elf
recommended the woman to Mrs. Jones, having frequently employed her on other
cases and found her deft, skillful and thoroughly reliable. Janet Orme's
signature to the will he regarded as satisfactory, since Judge Bernsted had
accepted it.
A moan from his patient suddenly aroused the
doctor. Her face was beginning to twitch spasmodically with pain. In an ins=
tant
Janet was at her side, hypodermic needle in hand, and the opiate was soon a=
dministered.
"Send the telegram," muttered Mrs.
Jones, still breathing hard; "and, as you go out, Doctor, send Alora to
me. I shall have relief in a few moments."
"To be sure," he said, rising.
"Lory has been begging to see you, and I'll attend to the telegram at
once."
The child crept softly to her mother's bedside,
but once there she impulsively threw her arms about "Mamma Tone's"
neck and embraced her so tightly that the sick woman was obliged to tear the
little arms away. She did this tenderly, though, and holding the trembling
hands in her own kissed both of Lory's cheeks before she said:
"I've news for you, dear."
"Are you better, mamma?" asked Lory.=
"Of course not," was the calm reply.
"You mustn't expect mamma ever to get well, my darling. But that shoul=
dn't
worry you--not too much, you know. One of the queer things about life is th=
at
it has an end, sooner or later, and in mamma's case it comes to an end a li=
ttle
sooner than you and I might wish it to."
"Oh, Mamma Tone!" An agonized cry, w=
ith
the small hands clasped tightly over her throbbing heart. But Tony Seaver d=
id
not flinch.
"The news I have will surprise you, Lory
dear. Your father, who loved you devotedly when you were a baby, but whom y=
ou
have never known till now, is coming here to see us."
Alora's eyes grew big with wonder, but other
thoughts drove even this strange news from her mind.
"I can't let you go, Mamma Tone," she
wailed, sobbing; "I can't let you die and leave me all alone!"
The woman's breast heaved. She was silent a mo=
ment
and then said quietly:
"Even kings and queens, sweetheart, have =
no
command over life and death. When it is too late to help it, we realize we =
have
been born; when it is too late to help it, we realize we must die. But why =
complain,
when it is the fate of all humanity? To be true to our Creator, who directs=
all
things, we must bow to His will without protest. You will love your father,
Lory, because he will love you; and he is a good man, and kindly, so I beli=
eve
he will make your life as happy as I could have done."
"I don't want him; I want you, Mamma--I w=
ant
you!"
The mother sighed wearily and the alert nurse
advanced and said to the child in grave, cold tones:
"You must control yourself, Miss Alora, if
you wish to remain."
The threat quieted the little girl at once.
"I'll be good, Mamma Tone," she
whispered softly. "Talk to me, and tell me what I must do."
So the dying woman talked to her, not of herse=
lf,
but of Alora's father, and of how she would like her child to conduct herse=
lf
while she grew in womanhood. She spoke of her will, and told Lory what it m=
eant
to her and how she had safe-guarded her interests as well as she was able. =
To
this Lory listened intently and, although she still trembled at times, she =
had
Tony Seaver's blood in her veins and could be brave in spite of the terrors
that faced her. Dimly she realized that her mother was suffering through the
knowledge of their inevitable parting, even as Alora was suffering, and felt
she could comfort that beloved mother more by controlling her grief bravely
than by giving way to it in her mother's presence.
Meantime, Dr. Anstruther had returned to his
office and had written and dispatched the following telegram:
"Jason Jones, 1744 East 67th St., New York
City.
"Your wife is dying at the Hotel Voltaire=
and
wishes reconciliation before she passes away. Come quickly, as any delay may
prove dangerous. Notify me by wire when to expect you. Edward Anstruther, M.
D."
He left orders that the answer be delivered to=
him
at his office or residence, as soon as received, but the day and the night
passed without a word from Jason Jones. Dr. Anstruther telephoned the teleg=
raph
office and was assured his message had been delivered to the party in New Y=
ork,
as otherwise they would be notified to that effect.
Knowing Mrs. Jones' dangerous condition, the g= ood doctor was worried, but the following morning brought the delayed answer: <= o:p>
"If necessary for me to come, you must se=
nd
money for expenses."
It was signed "Jason Jones" and its =
tone
and its demand annoyed Dr. Anstruther exceedingly.
"Confound the fellow!" he exclaimed.
"Any decent man would have borrowed the money, or even pawned his watch
and jewelry, to get to a dying wife who calls for him. Either Mrs. Jones is
mistaken in her husband's kindly character or--well, he may have changed si=
nce
last she knew him."
He did not hesitate, however, to go to the off=
ice
and send money by telegraph to Jason Jones, furnishing the required sum from
his own pocket rather than allow Antoinette to see her husband's telegram. =
He even
sent more than was necessary, muttering to himself: "The poor devil may
have some bills to settle before he can get away, and in any event she must=
not
be disappointed because her impecunious husband lacks a few dollars. I fancy
the poor artist will be amazed to find himself suddenly raised from poverty=
to
affluence, for little Lory's income will be enormous and he will have seven
years, at least, to enjoy it unrestrained. I hope," he added thoughtfu=
lly,
as he drove back to his office, "that Mrs. Jones has made no error in =
her
judgment of this man, for it is considerable power to place in anyone's han=
ds
and Alora is such a dear that I want her properly taken care of."
When he made his next visit to his patient he =
said
in answer to her questioning look:
"Mr. Jones will be here to-morrow, I thin=
k.
He will notify me of his arrival and I will be here to meet him. I believe =
it
will be advisable for me to see him first, you know, in order to--eh--eh--to
post him a bit," he added, meaningly.
"Yes," she replied, "I fear it =
will
be something of a shock to Jason. Even though we have practically been
strangers for years, he is sure to be grieved and sympathetic. But do not b=
ore
him with particulars, Doctor. Send him to me as soon as you have prepared h=
im
for the interview."
A man slouched into the lofty foyer of the Hot=
el
Voltaire and paused uncertainly, as if awed by the splendor of the place. A=
boy
in uniform hastened to relieve him of his hand baggage, which consisted of =
a "roll-me-up"
or "carryall" of brown canvas, strapped around the middle, such as
one often sees in traveling on the Continent. It seemed a much used and abu=
sed
affair and painted upon the ends were the dimmed initials: "J. J."=
;
This man was plainly dressed. His clothing was=
of
the cheap, ready-made variety, worn nearly to shabbiness and matched by a g=
ray
flannel shirt with a flowing black tie, knotted at the throat, and a soft g=
ray
hat that was a bit weatherstained. His shoes were shabby and unshined. His =
whole
appearance was out of keeping with the palatial hotel he had entered.
Without relinquishing his baggage to the boy h=
e asked
sharply:
"Is Dr. Anstruther here?"
But now Dr. Anstruther, who had been impatient=
ly
waiting, espied the arrival and after a glance at the initials on the
traveling-roll said in hesitating tones:
"Mr. Jason Jones?"
"Yes. You must be the doctor who telegrap=
hed
me."
"I am Doctor Anstruther."
"All right. Where's my wife?"
There was no especial anxiety in his tones, wh=
ich
were slow and distinct and a trifle sharp. He seemed ill at ease and looked
around the foyer again, as if fearing he had entered the wrong place.
"I will lead you to her presently,"
replied the physician gravely; "but first, sir, I must acquaint you wi=
th
her condition, which is serious. I have engaged a room for you here and if =
you
will please register we will go there together and talk undisturbed." =
"All right," said Jason Jones. He
registered at the desk and then turned and announced: "I'm ready. Go
ahead."
Those present in the foyer cast curious glance=
s at
the stranger as he passed them and followed Dr. Anstruther to the elevator.=
The
boy accompanied them, now carrying the roll of baggage. The grandeur of the=
room
they entered, which was convenient to the suite of Mrs. Jones, seemed to
astonish the artist, although it was as simply furnished as any the great h=
otel
contained. However, he made no remark but removed his hat, seated himself, =
and
looked inquiringly at the physician.
"Mrs. Jones," began Dr. Anstruther,
"is really dying. I cannot say how long she may survive, but it is a
matter of days--perhaps hours. Her greatest anxiety at present is to be
reconciled with you, whom she has not seen or even communicated with for
years."
"Did she say that?"
"Yes."
"And she wants to be reconciled?"
"She does."
"Rather a queer notion, that," remar=
ked
Mr. Jones, musingly.
"Very natural, I think, under the
circumstances," stiffly replied the doctor. "She has every confid=
ence
in you and admires your character exceedingly, although it was her desire t=
hat
you live apart."
The man's stolid countenance relaxed in a grin=
--a
somewhat scornful and unbelieving expression--but he did not speak. He was =
not
a very tall man; he was thin of figure and hardened of muscle; his head was
bald in front, giving him the appearance of a high forehead, and the hair a=
t the
back and around the ears was beginning to gray. His eyes were light blue; h=
is
nose was shapely and his jaws prominent and tightly set in repose. His age =
was
about forty.
"Mrs. Jones," continued the doctor,
"knows that you are due to arrive at this time and is eagerly counting=
the
minutes; not that you are so dear to her," he asserted in retaliation =
for
the sneer upon his hearer's lips, "but because she has important busin=
ess
matters to arrange with you before she passes away."
"Business matters?"
"So she has told me. I believe," he
said, after a brief period of hesitation, during which he considered how be=
st
to handle this peculiar artist, "that I will allow you to see your wif=
e at
once, that you may learn her plans from her own lips."
Indeed, he had already decided that Jason Jones
must have changed materially, and for the worse, since Antoinette Seaver had
known him. Perhaps, when she had talked with the man, she would revise her
opinion of him and make other disposition of her finances and the guardians=
hip of
her child. In that case it would not be well for him to give her husband any
inkling of her present plans. Having reached this conclusion, Dr. Anstruther
rose abruptly and said: "Come with me, please."
Jason Jones made no demur. Without remark he
followed his conductor into the hallway and to the entrance to the suite
occupied by his wife. The governess had been instructed to take Alora out f=
or a
ride; there was no one in the little reception room. Here, however, the doc=
tor halted,
and pointing to the door at the further end of the passage he said:
"That is your wife's sick chamber. Please
enter quietly and remember the danger of exciting Mrs. Jones unduly. Be gen=
tle,
and--considerate."
Jason Jones nodded. A moment he regarded the d=
oor
with curious intentness, savoring of reluctance. Then he slowly advanced,
opened it and went in, closing the door softly behind him.
Dr. Anstruther seated himself in the reception
room. The artist puzzled him greatly, although he prided himself--through l=
ong
professional experience--on being able to read human nature with some accur=
acy.
This summons to his dying-wife ought to seem the most natural thing in the =
world
to Jason Jones, yet the man appeared dazed and even bewildered by the event,
and while he had once lived in luxurious surroundings his later experiences
must have been so wholly different that the splendor of his wife's mode of
living quite embarrassed him. Yes, the contrast was sharp, it must be admit=
ted;
the man had formerly shared Tony Seaver's immense wealth; he had enjoyed the
handsomest studio in New York; and then--back to poverty, to drudgery, to a
struggle for mere food and clothing! Years of hardship were likely to have =
had
a decided effect upon the character of a man who was doubtless weak in the =
beginning;
it would make him hard, and bitter, and----
A shrill scream startled him. It came from the
sick chamber and was echoed by another cry--hoarse and terrified--in a man's
voice.
Dr. Anstruther sprang to his feet and hurried =
into
the patient's bedchamber.
"The woman's dead, Doctor," cried Ja=
son
Jones, standing in the middle of the room. "She's dead!"
The physician hastened to the bedside, where J=
anet
Orme, the nurse, was bending over the still form. Pushing her away, Dr.
Anstruther made a hurried examination.
It was true; the woman was dead. At the very
moment of reunion with the husband from whom she had so long been parted, s=
he
had passed on to another life, leaving reconciliation in abeyance.
Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones lay beneath her l=
ace
covered with features contorted, mouth half open and eyes staring wildly. A
paroxysm of pain had carried her off, the good doctor well knew; the pain, =
and
the excitement of the moment. Very tenderly he bent down and closed the eyes
and pressed the lips together. He smoothed the lines from the cheeks, so th=
at
the face became more natural in appearance. Then, with a sigh--for he had
become fond of this brave, beautiful patient--he turned away to find Jason
Jones and the nurse Janet confronting one another in tense attitudes. The m=
an
stared wonderingly into the nurse's face; Janet, her eyes now unveiled,
returned the stare with an expression that Dr. Anstruther could not fathom.=
They seemed to feel the doctor's observation, =
for
Janet turned her back abruptly, while the man swung around and tiptoed hast=
ily
from the room.
Dr. Anstruther looked at the nurse reflectivel=
y.
"Who was it that screamed? Was it you, or
Mrs. Jones?" he asked.
She hesitated a moment.
"It was I," she replied. "I saw=
her
face and knew that--that the end had come."
It was a lie, and the nurse knew that the shre=
wd
doctor recognized it as a lie. But he made no comment and with a last regre=
tful
look toward the bed he followed Jason Jones out.
Time sears all heart wounds. The scars remain,
perhaps, but as the clock ticks on the ache is stilled and the soreness fin=
ally
passes away.
At first Alora was heart-broken over her mothe=
r's
loss. She lived in a sort of stupor for weeks after the funeral. Her father=
's
presence she accepted without comment or emotion, for it had been arranged =
by
"Mamma Tone." She did not consider, in those first weeks, whether=
she
cared for her newly found father or not. Her mother's statement that he was=
a "good
man" and would love Alora dearly was taken by the child as a matter of
fact, while her mother's injunction to love him and confide in him in her s=
tead
was for the present ignored.
Indeed, during those first weeks Lory had no f=
ault
to find with her new protector, for she saw little of him. Jason Jones reta=
ined
his room at the hotel and allowed Alora and her governess to inhabit the
handsome suite her mother had occupied, although they were much too small f=
or the
big apartments. However, Lory would have felt uncomfortable, just then, in =
any
other place. Her mother's chamber was closed and the curtains drawn, but ev=
ery
night before she retired to her own little room the child would steal in, in
the dark, and feel her way to the empty bed and kiss the pillow on which her
dear mother's head had rested. Miss Gorham, the governess, was aware of the=
se
evening excursions, but offered no objection. Indeed, the woman objected to=
nothing
that did not interfere with her own personal comfort and convenience. Under=
the
eyes of Mrs. Jones she had been prim and dutiful, but there was no one to c=
hide
her now, however neglectful she chose to be, and it was true that during th=
ese
days the little girl required no particular care. Alora resumed her morning
studies with meekness a week after her mother had been laid away, and in th=
e afternoons
she rode or walked with Miss Gorham or received the callers who came to
"console poor Antoinette Seaver Jones' child."
Despite her haughty reserve, Mrs. Antoinette
Seaver Jones had accumulated a wide circle of acquaintances--if not
friends--who sincerely mourned her untimely death and would have been glad =
to befriend
her little girl were such services needed. But it was known that Alora's fa=
ther
had now appeared to guard her welfare and there was "so much money in =
the
Jones family" that no financial aid was required; therefore, these
acquaintances could only call to see Alora and profess their friendship.
The child listened gravely to their stilted
praises of her mother and accepted their platitudes in good faith. It was
indeed comforting to hear so many nice things said of her loved one.
Her father was never present on these occasion=
s.
He was by no means a sociable man. Sometimes he came in for a few minutes, =
in
the morning, and sat down and stared at the girl in a way half curious and =
half
speculative, and said little, and presently went away as quietly as he had
come.
The nurse, Janet Orme, left on the day that Mr=
s.
Jones died, and Alora had almost forgotten the young woman when one afterno=
on
she came to see her. Janet no longer wore her nurse's uniform but was dress=
ed
in ultra-fashionable apparel and to the child's amusement affected the mann=
ers
of a lady. She talked more with Miss Gorham than with the little girl and w=
as
keen to know what arrangements had been made for their future. Miss Gorham
admitted that she had no idea of Mr. Jones' intentions. Of course they could
not remain long in this elaborate suite; a smaller one would be more
satisfactory in every way; but Mr. Jones had not as yet mentioned the subje=
ct.
A few days afterward, during one of their walk=
s,
Alora was surprised to see her father and nurse Janet riding past in a hired
automobile. The two seemed engaged in earnest conversation and neither noti=
ced
Alora or her governess. Miss Gorham snorted rather disdainfully but without=
remark,
and Lory was not especially interested in the matter.
Meantime, letters of administration had been
issued to Jason Jones and the control of his wife's--now Alora's--property
legally placed in his hands. Judge Bernsted attended to all the necessary
details and, while he did not admire the artist and secretly believed he was
unfitted for the task of handling so much money, he loyally insisted that t=
he
dead woman's wishes be obeyed to the letter.
Dr. Anstruther had called on the attorney and =
had
ventured to state his misgivings concerning Jason Jones, pleading that Alora
was likely to suffer through the man's indifference and lack of culture, but
Judge Bernsted declared it was not his duty to criticise character but to s=
ee that
the wishes of his clients were obeyed. In this case doubtless the man's wife
knew him more intimately than anyone else and if she trusted him, aware as =
she
must be of his faults and virtues, it would be presumptuous for anyone to t=
ry
to break her will or otherwise interfere with her carefully planned
arrangements.
But Jason Jones was improving, in a way. He had
bought new clothes and a supply of linen, and although he did not wear them
with the ease of one accustomed to modish dress they certainly improved his
appearance. He was quiet and unassuming; he made no friends and few
acquaintances; he never mentioned himself or his personal history and never
referred to his wife except when forced to do so by some of "her meddl=
ing friends"--well
meaning people who sought his acquaintance to condole with him or perhaps to
attempt to "cultivate" him for Antoinette Seaver Jones' sake. But
these found him so unresponsive that they soon left him alone.
The legal business, even though it progressed
smoothly, required time for consummation, so it was somewhat more than three
months before all the details were complete. Alora, a sad-faced child with =
no
especial interest in life, kept no track of time and plodded along in her m=
orning-studies
and took her afternoon drives or walks in a perfunctory manner that rendered
Miss Gorham's duties light indeed. But all this ended suddenly, and Jason J=
ones
ended it.
He came to the rooms one morning and said to t=
he
governess in his abrupt way: "Pack up."
"What do you mean, sir?" was the
startled query.
"Just what I say. Get the child's things =
and
your own ready to move out of this place by Saturday. Also pack the personal
belongings of Mrs. Jones. Put them in separate trunks and boxes, so I can h=
ave
them stored. Do you understand me?"
"I--I shall need assistance," gasped=
the
bewildered Miss Gorham.
"Then get a maid--or a porter--or both--to
help you."
Alora was present and listened with awakening
interest. A change of any sort would be pleasant, she reflected.
"Where are we going?" she asked, as =
her
father turned away.
It was the one question Miss Gorham wanted to =
ask,
too, but Mr. Jones left the room without reply.
Three days was little enough time to gather up=
and
pack the accumulation of years. The governess knew there were many big trun=
ks
in the storeroom of the hotel belonging to Mrs. Jones, and these she ordered
brought up to the rooms. Then she procured two maids, told them what and ho=
w to
pack, and composedly resumed her reading.
"I am no menial," she told Alora, wi=
th a
lofty air of superiority; "these persons will do their work properly, =
I'm
sure."
On Saturday morning Mr. Jones appeared again. =
"Is everything ready?" he demanded. =
"Ask Susan and Jane," replied Miss
Gorham.
Susan and Jane declared everything was packed,
even to the suit cases and traveling satchels.
"But where are we going?" inquired t=
he
governess.
"You are going wherever you please,"
said Jason Jones. "I do not require your services longer."
"You're going to discharge me?" she
said, startled.
"You are already discharged."
"But who will look after poor Lory? Who w=
ill
attend to her education, and to--to--her comforts?"
"I will. Here is your money. I have paid =
you
a week in advance, in lieu of notice."
"A week? Pooh! I'm hired by the year,&quo=
t;
asserted the woman defiantly.
"Have you a written contract?"
"No; a verbal contract is just as good.&q=
uot;
"It won't hold in law. Take your traps and
go--at once."
The governess looked at him. He was absolutely
calm and determined. Instinctively she knew that any protest would be
unavailing.
Alora regarded the dismissal of her governess =
with
as much unconcern as her father displayed. Miss Gorham had been her compani=
on
for years, but had never won the smallest corner of the girl's heart. Altho=
ugh
she was not aware of the fact, the woman's constant presence and lack of in=
terest
in her had become oppressive. The child's first sensation, on realizing the=
ir
future separation, was one of distinct relief.
When Miss Gorham had gone, seeming to begrudge=
the
terse "good-bye" she gave her pupil, the girl's father quietly sa=
id:
"Come, Alora," and walked away.
She followed him to a waiting taxicab, in which
had been heaped her hand luggage and his own, and they drove away from the
grand hotel where she had lived in luxury for so long, and where so many
indelible memories had been impressed upon her childish mind, with as little
ado as if they had been transient guests.
When the cab drew up at a railway station, Alo=
ra
asked:
"Are we leaving town, then, father?"=
"Yes," he replied; "I am return=
ing
to New York."
She felt a slight sinking of the heart, just t=
hen,
but it was followed by a sense of elation. The old life, in which her adored
mother had played so prominent a part, was being abandoned forever, and thi=
s troubled
her, she knew not why.
But since Mamma Tone had gone away the old life
had lost its charm and become dull and stupid. Lory was not sure she could =
be
happier elsewhere, but her crushed and dispirited nature responded to the s=
uggestion
of change. It was interesting to have something different to look forward t=
o.
The man beside her was no more congenial than
Gorham had been, but he was her father; he was the guardian selected by her
dead mother, and in obeying his wishes she might find her future life more
grateful than had been the dreadful dreary months since Mamma Tone had left
her.
Somehow, Jason Jones seemed uneasy in the pres=
ence
of his daughter. During the journey to New York he rode most of the time in=
the
smoking compartment, only appearing to take Alora to the diner for her meal=
s. The
child was equally uncomfortable in her father's society and was well please=
d to
be left so much alone.
So, with very little questioning or conversati=
on
on either side, father and daughter came to their destination and Alora fou=
nd
herself deposited in a small suite of rooms on the third floor of a grimy a=
nd dingy
house in East Sixty-seventh Street--one of a long row of similar houses that
were neither residences nor business establishments, but hovered between the
two. There were several little tin signs nailed beside the entrance and Lory
noticed that one of these read: "Jason Jones. Studio. 3rd Floor."=
It
was an old sign, scarcely legible, while others beside it seemed bright and
new, and when the girl had climbed laboriously up the three flights and the
artist had unlocked the door at the head of the stairs, with a key which he
took from his pocket, she found everything about the rooms she entered as o=
ld
and faded as the sign on the door.
The fact that it was beginning to grow dark pr=
evented
Alora from observing all the tawdriness of her new home and what she saw
inspired her more with curiosity than dismay. The little girl had been rear=
ed from
babyhood in an atmosphere of luxury; through environment she had become an
aristocrat from the top of her head to the tips of her toes; this introduct=
ion
to shabbiness was unique, nor could she yet understand that such surroundin=
gs
were familiar to many who battle for existence in a big city. The very fact
that her father's humble flat was "different" made it far more
interesting to the child than new apartments such as she had been accustomed
to. Therefore she had no thought, at this time, of protest. Her own little =
room
contained a small iron bed, one straight chair with a wooden bottom and a b=
roken-legged
dresser over which hung a cracked mirror. The small rag rug was worn
threadbare.
While she stood in the doorway of this room,
solemnly regarding it, her father said over her shoulder:
"You won't need both those big trunks her= e, I'm sure. I'll store them somewhere in the studio. Covered with drapes, they won't be noticed. I can't imagine what that woman packed them with." <= o:p>
"My dresses," replied Alora. "E=
ven
then, I left a lot at the Voltaire, for the maids to sell or give away. Mam=
ma
used to send them to the Salvation Army."
"Two trunks of dresses ought to last for a
good many years," he remarked in a reflective tone.
"Oh, no indeed," said Lory. "Mi=
ss
Gorham was about to engage a dressmaker for me when--when--you said we'd go
away. I'm growing fast, you know, and I was to have a dozen or fifteen summ=
er
frocks made, and a lot of lingerie."
"Then we moved just in time to save that
expense," he declared, setting his stern jaws together. "There's =
been
a terrible waste of money through that woman Gorham. We're well rid of
her."
He turned away to the studio and the child
followed him there. He turned on the electric lights, which were not very
bright, and Alora took a look at the workroom and thought it seemed more
comfortable than the other rooms of the flat.
Her father began dusting and arranging half a
dozen paintings of various sizes, mounted on stretchers. None was finished;
some were scarcely begun. Lory tried to see what they represented. Perhaps =
she had
inherited from her mother a bit of artistic instinct; if so, it was that wh=
ich
prompted her to shrug her small shoulders slightly and then turn away to the
window.
In the dimly lighted street outside a man drov=
e up
with the baggage. Mr. Jones had purchased for himself in Chicago a new trun=
k--a
small and inexpensive one--and there were two big trunks and a suitcase
belonging to Alora. After these had been carried up and placed in the
studio--the only room that would hold them--her father said:
"We will go out now and get some dinner. = You won't need your coat, for the restaurant is just around the corner." <= o:p>
Alora marveled at the restaurant even more tha=
n at
the studio furnishings. It looked a hundred years old and the atmosphere st=
ill retained
the fumes of much ancient cookery. The linen was coarse, the plating worn f=
rom
the forks and spoons through constant use, the dishes thick and clumsy and =
well
nicked. Alora was hungry and she ate what her father ordered for her, altho=
ugh
she decided it did not taste very nice.
When they sat down a man from behind the count=
er
approached them and bending low said in a quiet tone:
"You know, Jones, it's to be a cash deal =
from
now on."
"Of course," replied Alora's father,
with a slight frown. "Also I'll pay you the old account, if you'll make
out the bill."
The man smiled, patted Alora's head--a liberty=
she
indignantly resented--and went back to his desk.
During the meal and, indeed, ever since their
arrival in New York, Jason Jones cast frequent puzzled glances into the fac=
e of
his little daughter, who until now had accepted her changed conditions with=
evident
indifference. But as they ate together in silence her small features grew g=
rave
and thoughtful and her father shrank from meeting the inquiring glances of =
her
big eyes. Yet even now she made no complaint. Neither did she ask questions.
Her look was expectant, however, and that was what embarrassed him.
After the dinner they went back to the dingy
studio, where the man lighted a pipe and sat opposite his small daughter,
puffing uneasily. They were both reserved; there was an indefinable barrier
between them which each was beginning to recognize. Presently Alora asked t=
o go
to bed and he sent her to her room with a nod of relief.
Next morning they had breakfast at the same st=
uffy
little restaurant and afterward Alora unpacked some things from her trunks =
and
put them in the drawers of the broken-legged dresser. It seemed odd to have=
no maid
to wait upon her, but she was glad to have something to do. As she passed to
and from the studio she noticed that her father had resumed work on a pictu=
re
that represented two cows eating a broken pumpkin that lay in a cornfield. =
He
worked slowly and never seemed satisfied with what he did, as if lacking
confidence in his ability. Lory decided he couldn't be blamed for that.
The child plodded drearily along in her new li=
fe
for a full week. Then she began to grow restless, for the place was hateful=
and
repulsive to her. But now an incident occurred that gave her new cause for
wonder.
One day the door opened and a woman walked into
the studio. It was Janet Orme, her mother's former nurse, but what a new and
astonishing Janet it was! Her silken gown was very "fashionable,"
somewhat too modish for good taste, for it was elaborately trimmed and
embroidered. She wore considerable jewelry, including diamonds; her shoes w=
ere elegant
and her hose daintily clocked; her hat must have been a French milliner's
choicest creation. If good clothes could make Janet Orme a lady, there was =
no
question of her social standing, yet even little Alora felt that Janet was =
out
of her element--that she fell short, in some vague way, of being what she w=
as
ambitious to appear.
"So," said the nurse, glancing around
the room with frank disdain, "this is where you hang out, Jason, is
it?"
Alora's father confronted the woman with a
menacing frown.
"What do you mean by coming here?" he
demanded.
"I had two reasons," she answered
carelessly, seating herself in the only easy chair the room contained. &quo=
t;In
the first place, I wanted to see how a rich man lives."
"Well, you see, don't you?" a mutter=
ing
growl.
"I certainly do, and I realize you are qu=
ite
comfortable and ought to be happy here, Jason--you and the millionaire heir=
ess,
your daughter Alora."
As she spoke she turned to glance sharply at t=
he
child, who met her look with disconcerting gravity. Alora's eyes expressed
wonder, tinged with a haughty tolerance of an inferior that struck home to
Janet and made her flush angrily.
"Your sneers," said Jason Jones, sti=
ll
frowning but now speaking with composure, "must indicate that you have
graduated from servitude. I cannot admit that my mode of living is any of y=
our
business, Janet. In these retired but respectable rooms I have worked and b=
een
contented for years, until----"
"Until you came into your money and found=
you
didn't have to worry over your next meal," she interjected. "Well,
that ought to make you still more content. And that reminds me of the second
object of my visit. I want some money."
"So soon?"
"Don't try to crawfish; it was agreed you=
should
give me a check whenever I asked for it. I want it now, and for the full
amount--every single penny of it!"
He stared at her fixedly, seeming fearful and
uncertain how to answer.
"I cannot spare it all today."
"Humbug!" she snapped. "You can=
and
will spare it. I must have the money, or----"
Her significant pause caused him to wriggle in=
his
seat.
"You're a miserly coward," she decla=
red.
"I'm not robbing you; you will have an abundance for your needs. Why do
you quarrel with Dame Fortune? Don't you realize you can pay your rent now =
and
eat three square meals a day, and not have to work and slave for them? You =
can
smoke a good cigar after your dinner, instead of that eternal pipe, and go =
to a
picture show whenever the mood strikes you. Why, man, you're independent for
the first time in your life, and the finances are as sure as shooting for a
good seven years to come."
He glanced uneasily at Alora.
"Owing to my dead wife's generosity,"=
; he
muttered.
Janet laughed.
"Of course," said she; "and, if=
you
play your cards skillfuly, when Alora comes of age she will provide for you=
an
income for the rest of your life. You're in luck. And why? Just because you=
are
Jason Jones and long ago married Antoinette Seaver and her millions and are=
now
reaping your reward! So, for decency's sake, don't grumble about writing me
that check."
All this was frankly said in the presence of A=
lora
Jones, the heiress, of whose person and fortune, her father, Jason Jones, w=
as
now sole guardian. It was not strange that the man seemed annoyed and ill a=
t ease.
His scowl grew darker and his eyes glinted in an ugly way as he replied, af=
ter
a brief pause:
"You seem to have forgotten Alora's
requirements and my duty to her."
"Pooh, a child! But we've allowed liberal=
ly
for her keep, I'm sure. She can't keep servants and three dressmakers, it's
true, but a simple life is best for her. She'll grow up a more sensible and
competent woman by waiting on herself and living; as most girls do. At her =
age
I didn't have shoes or stockings. Alora has been spoiled, and a bit of worl=
dly experience
will do her good."
"She's going to be very rich, when she co=
mes
into her fortune," said Alora's father, "and then----"
"And then she can do as she likes with her
money. Just now her income is too big for her needs, and the best thing you=
can
do for her is to teach her economy--a virtue you seem to possess, whether by
nature or training, in a high degree. But I didn't come here to argue. Give=
me that
check."
He walked over to his little desk, sat down an=
d drew
a check book from his pocket.
Alora, although she had listened intently to t=
he
astonishing conversation, did not quite comprehend what it meant. Janet's h=
arsh
statement bewildered her as much as did her father's subject subservience to
the woman. All she realized was that Janet Orme, her dead mother's nurse,
wanted money--Alora's money--and her father was reluctant to give it to her=
but
dared not refuse. Money was an abstract quantity to the eleven year old chi=
ld;
she had never handled it personally and knew nothing of its value. If her
father owed Janet some of her money, perhaps it was for wages, or services
rendered her mother, and Alora was annoyed that he haggled about it, even
though the woman evidently demanded more than was just. There was plenty of
money, she believed, and it was undignified to argue with a servant.
Jason Jones wrote the check and, rising, hande=
d it
to Janet.
"There," said he, "that squares=
our
account. It is what I agreed to give you, but I did not think you would dem=
and
it so soon. To pay it just now leaves me in an embarrassing position."=
"I don't believe it," she rejoined.
"You're cutting coupons every month or so, and you may thank your star=
s I
don't demand a statement of your income. But I know you, Jason Jones, and y=
ou
can't hoodwink me, try as you may. You hid yourself in this hole and though=
t I
wouldn't know where to find you, but you'll soon learn that you can't escap=
e my
eagle eye. So take your medicine like a man, and thank your lucky stars tha=
t you're
no longer a struggling, starving, unrecognized artist. Good-bye until I call
again."
"You're not to call again!" he objec=
ted.
"Well, we'll see. Just for the present I'=
m in
no mood to quarrel with you, and you'd better not quarrel with me, Jason Jo=
nes.
Good-bye."
She tucked the check into her purse and ambled=
out
of the room after a supercilious nod to Alora, who failed to return the
salutation. Jason Jones stood in his place, still frowning, until Janet's
high-heeled shoes had clattered down the two flights of stairs. Alora went =
to
the window and looking down saw that a handsome automobile stood before the=
house,
with a chauffeur and footman in livery. Janet entered this automobile and w=
as
driven away.
Alora turned to look at her father. He was fil=
ing
his pipe and scowling more darkly than ever.
Once more they moved suddenly, and the second
flitting came about in this way:
Alora stood beside the easel one morning, watc=
hing
her father work on his picture. Not that she was especially interested in h=
im
or the picture, but there was nothing else for her to do. She stood with he=
r slim
legs apart, her hands clasped behind her, staring rather vacantly, when he
looked up and noted her presence.
"Well, what do you think of it?" he
asked rather sharply.
"Of the picture?" said Lory.
"Of course."
"I don't like it," she asserted, with
childish frankness.
"Eh? You don't like it? Why not, girl?&qu=
ot;
"Well," she replied, her eyes narrow=
ing
critically, "that cow's horn isn't on straight--the red cow's left hor=
n.
And it's the same size, all the way up."
He laid down his palette and brush and gazed at
his picture for a long time. The scowl came on his face again. Usually his =
face
was stolid and expressionless, but Alora had begun to observe that whenever
anything irritated or disturbed him he scowled, and the measure of the scow=
l indicated
to what extent he was annoyed. When he scowled at his own unfinished picture
Lory decided he was honest enough to agree with her criticism of it.
Finally the artist took a claspknife from his
pocket, opened the blade and deliberately slashed the picture from top to
bottom, this way and that, until it was a mere mass of shreds. Then he kick=
ed
the stretcher into a corner and brought out another picture, which he place=
d on
the easel.
"Well, how about that?" he asked,
looking hard at it himself.
Alora was somewhat frightened at having caused=
the
destruction of the cow picture. So she hesitated before replying: "I--=
I'd
rather not say."
"How funny!" he said musingly, "=
;but
until now I never realized how stiff and unreal the daub is. Shall I finish=
it,
Alora?"
"I think so, sir," she answered.
Again the knife slashed through the canvas and=
the
remains joined the scrap-heap in the corner.
Jason Jones was not scowling any more. Instead,
there was a hint of a humorous expression on his usually dull features. Only
pausing to light his pipe, he brought out one after another of his canvases=
and
after a critical look destroyed each and every one.
Lory was perplexed at the mad act, for although
her judgment told her they were not worth keeping, she realized that her fa=
ther
must have passed many laborious hours on them. But now that it had dawned on
him how utterly inartistic his work was, in humiliation and disgust he had =
wiped
it out of existence. With this thought in mind, the girl was honestly sorry
him.
But Jason Jones did not seem sorry. When the l=
ast
ruined canvas had been contemptuously flung into the corner he turned to the
child and said to her in a voice so cheerful that it positively startled he=
r:
"Get your hat and let's take a walk. An
artist's studio is no place for us, Lory. Doesn't it seem deadly dull in he=
re?
And outside the sun is shining!"
The rest of the day he behaved much like a hum=
an
being. He took the girl to the park to see the zoo, and bought her popcorn =
and
peanuts--a wild extravagance, for him. Later in the day they went to a pict=
ure show
and finally entered a down-town restaurant, quite different from and altoge=
ther
better than the one where they had always before eaten, and enjoyed a really
good dinner. When they left the restaurant he was still in the restless and
reckless mood that had dominated him and said:
"Suppose we go to a theatre? Won't you li=
ke
that better than you would returning to our poky rooms?"
"Yes, indeed," responded Alora.
They had seats in the gallery, but could see v=
ery
well. Just before the curtain rose Alora noticed a party being seated in on=
e of
the boxes. The lady nearest the rail, dressed in an elaborate evening gown,=
was
Janet Orme. There was another lady with her, conspicuous for blonde hair and
much jewelry, and the two gentlemen who accompanied them kept in the
background, as if not too proud of their company.
Alora glanced at her father's face and saw the
scowl there, for he, too, had noted the box-party. But neither of the two m=
ade
any remark and soon the child was fully absorbed in the play.
As they left the theatre Janet's party was
entering an automobile, laughing and chatting gaily. Both father and daught=
er
silently watched them depart, and then they took a street car and went home=
.
"Get to bed, girl," said Jason Jones,
when they had mounted the stairs. "I'll smoke another pipe, I guess.&q=
uot;
When she came out of her room next morning she
heard her father stirring in the studio. She went to him and was surprised =
to
find him packing his trunk, which he had drawn into the middle of the room.=
"Now that you're up," said he in qui=
te a
cheerful tone, "we'll go to breakfast, and then I'll help you pack your
own duds. Only one trunk, though, girl, for the other must go into storage =
and
you may see it again, some time, and you may not."
"Are we going away?" she inquired,
hoping it might be true.
"We are. We're going a long way, my girl.=
Do
you care?"
"Of course," said she, amazed at the
question, for he had never considered her in the least. "I'm glad. I d=
on't
like your studio."
He laughed, and the laugh shocked her. She cou=
ld
not remember ever to have heard Jason Jones laugh before.
"I don't like the place, either, girl, and
that's why I'm leaving it. For good, this time. I was a fool to return here=
. In
trying to economise, I proved extravagant."
Alora did not reply to that. She was eager to
begin packing and hurried through her breakfast. All the things she might n=
eed
on a journey she put into one trunk. She was not quite sure what she ought =
to
take, and her father was still more ignorant concerning a little girl's
wardrobe, but finally both trunks were packed and locked and then Mr. Jones=
called
a wagon and carted away the extra trunk of Alora's and several boxes of his=
own
to be deposited in a storage warehouse.
She sat in the bare studio and waited for his
return. The monotony of the past weeks, which had grown oppressive, was abo=
ut
to end and for this she was very grateful. For from a life of luxury the ch=
ild
had been dumped into a gloomy studio in the heart of a big, bustling city t=
hat
was all unknown to her and where she had not a single friend or acquaintanc=
e.
Her only companion had been a strange man who happened to be her father but
displayed no affection for her, no spark of interest in her happiness or ev=
en
comforts. For the first time in her life she lacked a maid to dress her and
keep her clothes in order; there was no one to attend to her education, no =
one
to amuse her, no one with whom to counsel in any difficulty. She had been
somewhat afraid of her peculiar father and her natural reserve, derived from
her mother, had deepened in his society. Yesterday and this morning he had
seemed more human, more companionable, yet Alora felt that it was due to a
selfish elation and recognized a gulf between them that might never be brid=
ged.
Her father differed utterly from her mother in breeding, in intelligence, in
sympathy. He was not of the same world; even the child could realize that. =
And
yet, he was her father--all she had left to depend upon, to cling to. She
wondered if he really possessed the good qualities her mother had attribute=
d to
him. If so, when she knew him better, she might learn to like him.
He was gone a long time, it seemed, but as soo=
n as
he returned the remaining baggage was loaded on the wagon and sent away and
then they left the flat and boarded a street car for down town. On lower
Broadway Mr. Jones entered a bank and seemed to transact considerable busin=
ess.
Lory saw him receive several papers and a lot of money. Then they went to a
steamship office near by, where her father purchased tickets.
Afterward they had lunch, and Jason Jones was
still in high spirits and seemed more eager and excited than Alora had ever
before known him.
"We're going across the big water--to
Europe," he told her at luncheon, "so if there is anything you
positively need for the trip, tell me what it is and I'll buy it. No
frivolities, though," qualifying his generosity, "but just stern
necessities. And you must think quick, for our boat leaves at four o'clock =
and
we've no time to waste."
But Alora shook her head. Once she had been ta=
ken
by her mother to London, Paris and Rome, but all her wants had been attende=
d to
and it was so long ago--four or five years--that that voyage was now but a =
dim remembrance.
No one noticed them when they went aboard. The=
re
was no one to see them off or to wish them "bon voyage." It sadde=
ned
the child to hear the fervent good-byes of others, for it emphasized her own
loneliness.
Yes, quite friendless was little Alora. She was
going to a foreign land with no companion but a strange and uncongenial man
whom fate had imposed upon her in the guise of a parent. As they steamed ou=
t to
sea and Alora sat on deck and watched the receding shores of America, she t=
urned
to her father with the first question she had ventured to ask:
"Where are we going? To London?"
"Not now," he replied. "This sh=
ip
is bound for the port of Naples. I didn't pick Naples, you know, but took t=
he
first ship sailing to-day. Having made up my mind to travel, I couldn't
wait," he added, with a chuckle of glee. "You're not particular a=
s to
where we go, are you?"
"No," said Alora.
"That's lucky," he rejoined, "f=
or
it wouldn't have made any difference, anyhow."
It was four years later when on a sunny aftern=
oon
in April a carriage broke down on the Amalfi Road, between Positano and
Sorrento, in Italy. A wheel crumpled up and the driver stopped his horses a=
nd
explained to his passengers in a jumble of mixed Italian and English that he
could go no farther. The passengers, an old gentleman of distinguished appe=
arance
and a young girl as fresh and lovely as a breath of spring, clambered out of
the rickety vehicle and after examining the wheel admitted that their driver
spoke truly. On one side the road was a steep descent to the sea; opposite,=
the
hillside was masked by a trellis thick with grapevines. The road curved aro=
und
the mountain, so there was no other vista.
"Here's a nice fix, Gran'pa Jim!"
exclaimed the girl, with an amused laugh. "Where are we and what's goi=
ng
to become of us?"
"That is somewhat of a complicated proble=
m,
Mary Louise, and I can't guess it offhand, without due reflection,"
replied "Gran'pa Jim," whom others called Colonel Hathaway. "=
;I
imagine, however, that we are about three miles from Positano and five or s=
ix
from Sorrento, and it's a stiff walk, for old legs or young, in either
direction. Besides, there's our luggage, which I am loth to abandon and
disinclined to carry."
The driver interposed.
"Give-a me the moment, Signore--perhaps t=
he
hour--an' I return to Positano for more carriage-wheel--some other. My Cous=
in
L'uigi, he leeve in Positano, an' L'uigi have a-many carriage-wheel in he's
shed. I sure, Signore, I getta the wheel."
"That is a sensible idea," said the =
old
gentleman. "Make haste, my man, and we will wait here."
The driver unhitched his horses from the vehic=
le
and after strapping a blanket on one of them for a saddle mounted it and
departed.
"I take-a the two horse," he explain=
ed,
"for one to ride-a me, an' one for to ride-a the wheel."
They watched him amble away down the road and =
Mary
Louise shook her head and remarked:
"He will never make it in an hour, at tha=
t rate,
Gran'pa Jim, and in two hours the sun will have set and it will be dinner t=
ime.
Already I feel the pangs of hunger."
"Those who travel in Italy," said her
grandfather, "should be prepared to accept any happening in a spirit of
resignation. A moment ago we were jogging merrily along toward a good hotel=
and
a savory dinner, but now----"
"This entire carriage seems ready to fall
apart," declared the girl, standing in the road and viewing the ancient
vehicle critically; "so it's a wonder something didn't break sooner. N=
ow,
if we could get to the other side of that trellis, Gran'pa Jim, we might fi=
nd a
shady spot to rest while our charioteer is searching for a new wheel."=
"There must be a gate, somewhere about,&q=
uot;
he answered, eyeing the vine-clad barrier. "Come, Mary Louise, let us
investigate."
A hundred yards down the road they came to some
rude stone steps and a wicket. The old gentleman lifted the wooden latch and
found the gate unlocked. Followed by Mary Louise, he entered the vineyard a=
nd discovered
a narrow, well-beaten path leading up the hillside.
"Perhaps there is a house near by," =
said
the girl. "Shall we go on, Gran'pa Jim?"
"Why not, my dear? These Italians are
hospitable folk and we may get a cake and a cup of goat's milk to stay our
appetite."
So they climbed the hill, following the little
path, and presently came upon a laborer who was very deliberately but
methodically cultivating the vines with a V-shaped hoe. Seeing the strangers
the man straightened up and, leaning upon his hoe, eyed them with evident s=
uspicion.
"Good afternoon," said the old gentl=
eman
in Italian--one of the few phrases in the language he had mastered.
"Oh, I speak the English, Signore,"
replied the man, doffing his hat. "I am Silvio Allegheri, you must kno=
w,
and I live in America some time."
"Why, this is like meeting an old
friend!" exclaimed Mary Louise, winning the fellow instantly with her
smile. "But why did you leave America, Silvio?"
"Because I have make my fortune there,&qu=
ot;
was the solemn reply. "It is easy to make the fortune in America,
Signorina. I am chef in the restaurant in Sandusky--you know Sandusky?--most
excellent! In a few years I save much money, then I return here an' purchas=
e an
estate. My estate is three miles across the hill, yonder, and there is a ro=
ad
to it which is not much used. However, it is a fine estate, an' I am rent i=
t to
my cousin for five hundred lira a year. Such good business habit I learn in
America."
"Why don't you live on your estate
yourself?" inquired the girl.
"It is not yet the time," answered t=
he
man, with a shake of his head. "I am but fifty-two years alive, and wh=
ile
I am still so young I shall work for others, and save the money my estate
brings me. When I get old and can no longer work for the others, then I wil=
l go
to my estate an' be happy."
"Very sensible," commented the old
gentleman. "And whom do you work for now?"
"The student Americano, Signore; the one =
who
has rented this valuable estate. I am the Signore Student's valet, his
gardener, and at times his chef. I grease his automobile, which is a very s=
mall
chug-chug, but respectable, and I clean his shoes--when I can catch him with
them off. I am valuable to him and for three years he has paid me fair
wages."
"Is this a big estate?" asked Mary
Louise.
"Enormous, Signorina. It comprises three
acres!"
"And where is the house?"
"Just over the hill, yonder, Signore.
"Does the student Americano live here all
alone?"
"With his daughter, who is the Signorina
Alora."
"Oh; there is a daughter, then? And you s=
ay
they are Americans?"
"Surely, Signorina. Who else would pay the
great price for this estate for three years? The land pays nothing back--a =
few
oranges; some grapes, when they are cared for; a handful of almonds and oli=
ves.
And there is a servant besides myself, my niece Leona, who is housemaid and=
assists
the young lady."
"This sounds promising," said Mary
Louise, turning to her grandfather. "Suppose we go up to the house? Are
the people at home, Silvio?--the Signore Student and his daughter?"
The man reflected, leaning on his hoe.
"I think they are both at the mansion,
Signorina, although the student Americano may not yet have returned from
Sorrento. The road to the mansion is beyond the hill, on the other side of =
the
estate, so I am not sure the Signore Student has returned. But you will find
the Signorina Alora there, if you decide to venture on. But perhaps you are=
the
friends of my employer and his daughter?"
"What is his name?" asked Colonel
Hathaway.
"It is Jones. The American saying is Mist=
er
Jason Jones, but here he is only called the Signore Student Americano."=
;
"Why?" asked Mary Louise.
"Because his occupation is reading. He do=
es
nothing else. Always there is a book in his hand and always he is thinking =
of
the things he reads. He does not often speak, even to his daughter; he does=
not
have friends who visit him. If you should call at the mansion, then you wil=
l be
the first people who have done so for three years."
There was something in this report--in the man=
ner
of the man as well as his words--that caused the strangers to hesitate. The
description of "the Student" led them to suspect he was a recluse=
who
might not welcome them cordially, but Mary Louise reflected that there was =
a daughter
and decided that any American girl shut up on this three-acre "estate&=
quot;
for three years would be glad to meet another American girl. So she said
abruptly:
"Come on, Gran'pa Jim. Let's call. It is
possible that Americans will have something better in the larder than cakes=
and
goat's milk."
The hilltop was reached sooner than they expec=
ted,
and in a little vale was the old mansion--a really attractive vine-clad vil=
la
that might have stood a century or so. It was not very big, but there were =
numerous
outbuildings which rendered the size of the house proper unimportant. As Ma=
ry
Louise and her grandfather drew nearer they discovered a charming flower
garden, carefully tended, and were not surprised to find a young girl bendi=
ng
over a rosebush.
The two stood motionless a moment, looking at =
the
girl, and Mary Louise marked the graceful figure and attractive features wi=
th
real delight. The Signorina Alora, as the man had called her, was nearly her
own age--fifteen, Mary Louise judged her to be--and her golden hair and fai=
r complexion
proclaimed her an American. But now the girl's quick ears had detected
presence, and she looked up with a startled expression, half fearful and ha=
lf
shy, and turned as if to fly. But in the next moment she had collected hers=
elf
and advanced with hesitating steps to meet them.
"Pardon our intrusion," said Colonel
Hathaway, raising his hat. "Our carriage broke down on the Amalfi road=
, a
little while ago, and our driver has gone to Positano for a new wheel. Mean=
time
we were exploring our surroundings and stumbled upon the path leading to th=
is
spot. Forgive the trespass, if you will, and allow me to present my grandda=
ughter,
Mary Louise Burrows. I am Colonel James Hathaway, of New York, although we
usually reside at a little town called Dorfield."
The girl's bow was stiff and awkward. She blus=
hed
in an embarrassed way as she replied:
"I am Alora Jones, sir, and am living here
for a time with my father, Jason Jones. We, also, are Americans; at least, =
we
used to be."
"Then doubtless you are yet," respon=
ded
the Colonel, with a smile. "May we pay our respects to your father?&qu=
ot;
"He--he is not home yet," she answer=
ed
more embarrassed than before. "He went to Sorrento for some books, this
morning, and has not yet returned. But perhaps he will be back soon," =
she
added, seeming to ponder the matter. "Will you not come in and--and ha=
ve
some refreshment? In my father's absence I--I am glad to--welcome you."=
;
She glanced shyly at Mary Louise, as if to imp=
lore
her to forgive any seeming lack of hospitality and accept her coldly worded
invitation. No one could look at Mary Louise without gaining confidence and=
the
friendly smile and warm handclasp made Alora feel instantly that here was a
girl who would prove congenial under any circumstances. Really, it would not
take them long to become friends, and poor Alora had no girl friends whatev=
er.
She led them into a cool and comfortable living
room and called to Leona to fetch tea and biscuits.
"We are entirely shut in, here," she
explained. "It seems to me worse than a convent, for there I would see
other girls while here I see no one but the servants--and my father," =
as
an afterthought, "year in and year out."
"It's a pretty place," declared Mary
Louise cheerfully.
"But it's an awfully dreary place, too, a=
nd
sometimes I feel that I'd like to run away--if I knew where to go," sa=
id
Alora frankly.
"You have lived here three years?" a=
sked
Colonel Hathaway.
"Yes. We left New York more than four yea=
rs
ago and traveled a year in different places, always stopping at the little =
towns,
where there is not much to interest one. Then my father found this place and
rented it, and here we've stayed--I can't say 'lived'--ever since. I get al=
ong pretty
well in the daytime, with my flowers and the chickens to tend, but the even=
ings
are horribly lonely. Sometimes I feel that I shall go mad."
Mary Louise marked her wild look and excited
manner and her heart went out in sympathy to the lonely girl. Colonel Hatha=
way,
too, intuitively recognized Alora's plaint as a human cry for help, and did=
not
need to guess the explanation. The man in the vineyard had called her fathe=
r "the
Student" and said he was a reserved man and never was seen without a b=
ook
in his hand. This would mean that he was not companionable and Alora's prot=
est
plainly indicated that her father devoted small time, if any, to the
cultivation of his daughter's society.
"I suppose," remarked the old gentle=
man,
"that Mr. Jones is so immersed in his studies that he forgets his daug=
hter
lacks society am amusement."
Mary Louise caught the slight, scornful smile =
that
for a moment curled Alora's lips. But the girl replied very seriously:
"My father dislikes society. I believe he would be quite content to live in this little cooped-up place forever and s= ee no one but the servants, to whom he seldom speaks. Also, he ignores me, and= I am glad he does. But before my mother died," her voice breaking a litt= le, "I was greatly loved and petted, and I can't get used to the change. I= ought not to say this to strangers, I know, but I am very lonely and unhappy, because--because my father is so different from what my mother was." <= o:p>
Mary Louise was holding her trembling hand now=
and
stroking it sympathetically.
"Tell us about your mother," she said
softly. "Is it long since you lost her?"
"More than four years," returned Alo=
ra.
"I was her constant companion and she taught me to love art and music =
and
such things, for art was her hobby. I did not know my father in those days,=
you
see, for--for-- they did not live together. But in her last illness mamma s=
ent
for him and made him my guardian. My mother said that my father would love =
me, but
she must have misjudged him."
Colonel Hathaway had listened with interest. <= o:p>
"Tell me your mother's name," said h=
e.
"She was Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones,
and--"
"Indeed!" exclaimed the Colonel.
"Why, I knew Antoinette Seaver before she married, and a more beautiful
and cultured woman I never met. Her father, Captain Seaver, was my friend, =
and
I met his daughter several times, both at his mining camp and in the city. =
So you
see, my dear, we must be friends."
Alora's eyes fairly glistened with delight and
Mary Louise was as pleased as she was surprised.
"Of course we're friends!" she cried,
pressing the girl's hand, "and isn't it queer we have come together in
this singular manner? In a foreign country! And just because our carriage-w=
heel
happened to break."
"I thought your mother married an
artist," said Mary Louise's grandfather, reflectively.
"She did. At least, she thought Jason Jon=
es
was an artist," answered Alora with bitter emphasis. "But he was,=
in
fact, a mere dauber. He became discouraged in his attempts to paint and soon
after he took me to New York he destroyed all his work--really, it was
dreadful!--and since then he has never touched a brush."
"That is strange," mused the Colonel.
"I once saw a landscape by Jason Jones that was considered a fine
conception, skillfully executed. That was the opinion of so good a judge as
Captain Seaver himself. Therefore, for some reason the man's genius must ha=
ve
forsaken him."
"I think that is true," agreed Alora,
"for my mother's estimate of art was undoubtedly correct. I have read
somewhere that discouragement sometimes destroys one's talent, though in af=
ter
years, with proper impulse, it may return with added strength. In my father=
's
case," she explained, "he was not able to sell his work--and no
wonder. So now he does nothing at all but read, and even that doesn't seem =
to
amuse him much."
The Colonel had now remembered that Antoinette
Seaver Jones was a woman of great wealth, and therefore her daughter must b=
e an
heiress. What a shame to keep the girl hidden in this out-of-the-way place,
when she should be preparing to assume an important position in the world. =
"May I ask your age, my dear?" he sa=
id.
"I am fifteen, sir," replied Alora. =
"And your father is the guardian of your
fortune?"
"Yes; by my mother's wish."
"I suppose you are receiving proper
instruction?"
"None at all, sir. Since I have been in my
father's care I have had no instruction whatever. That isn't right, is
it?"
"What isn't right?" demanded a gruff
voice, and all three turned to find Jason Jones standing in the doorway.
Colonel Hathaway instantly rose.
"I beg your pardon," said he. "=
I am
Colonel James Hathaway, an American, and this is my granddaughter, Mary Lou=
ise
Burrows. Our carriage met with an accident on the main road below and we
wandered in here while waiting for repairs and chanced to meet your daughte=
r.
You are Mr. Jones, I believe?"
He nodded, still standing in his place and
regarding his visitors with unconcealed suspicion. Under his arm he held
several books.
"Who informed you that I was living
here?" he demanded.
"I was wholly unaware of the fact," =
said
the Colonel, stiffly. "I did not know you were in Italy. I did not know
such an important person existed, strange to say, although I can remember t=
hat
an artist named Jason Jones once married Antoinette Seaver, the daughter of=
my
old friend Captain Robert Seaver."
"Oh, you remember that, do you?"
"This is the first time I have had the
distinguished honor of meeting you, sir, and I trust it will be the last
time."
"That's all right," said Jason Jones,
more cordially. "I can't see that it's any of my affair, either way.&q=
uot;
"We have been making the acquaintance of =
Tony
Seaver's daughter, Miss Alora Jones, in your absence. But we will not intru=
de
farther, Mr. Jones. Come, Mary Louise."
"Oh, don't go!" pleaded Alora, catch= ing Mary Louise's arm. And just then Leona entered with the tea and biscuits. <= o:p>
"Sit down, man," said Jason Jones in=
a
less aggressive tone. "I've no objection to your coming here, under the
circumstances, and you are our first visitors in three years. That's often
enough, but now that you are here, make yourself at home. What's happening =
over
in America? Have you been there lately?"
He laid his books on a table and sat down. But
after that one speech, which he perhaps considered conciliatory, he remained
glum and allowed the others to do the talking.
Colonel Hathaway had stayed because he noted t=
he
leading look in Mary Louise's eyes. He was himself interested in Alora and
indignant over her evident neglect. For her sake he would bear the insolenc=
e of
his host, an insolence he recognized as characteristic of the man.
Alora, in her father's presence, lost her flue=
nt
speech and no longer dared mention personal matters to her guests. Both Mary
Louise and her grandfather tried to lead Alora and Jason Jones to speak of =
themselves--of
their life and future plans--but the man evaded direct answers and the girl=
had
suddenly become silent and reserved.
Finally, however, Mary Louise had an idea.
"We are bound for Sorrento," said sh=
e,
"where we intend to stay a week at the Hotel Vittoria. Will you let Al=
ora
come to us for ever Sunday, as our guest? We will drive here and get her the
day after to-morrow-- that's Saturday, you know--and fetch her home on
Monday."
"No," said Jason Jones.
"Oh, why not, father?" pleaded the g=
irl.
"You've no fit clothes. I don't want you
hanging around Sorrento," he replied.
"It will be a nice change for your daught=
er
and it will give us much pleasure to entertain her," said Mary Louise.=
"It's a capital idea," declared the
Colonel positively, and looking the other man straight in the eye he added:
"I am sure you will withdraw your objections, Mr. Jones."
The man dropped his eyes, frowning. But presen=
tly
he said to Alora:
"Go, if you want to. But keep out of the
town. Don't leave the hotel grounds."
"Why not?" asked his daughter in a
defiant tone.
"It's not safe. I know Sorrento, and these
rascally Italians would be glad to steal you, if they had the chance, and t=
hen
blackmail me a ransom."
Mary Louise laughed.
"What a fine adventure that would be!&quo=
t;
she exclaimed. "But we will promise to guard Alora and keep her from t=
he
clutches of bandits. I didn't know there were any left in Italy."
"To get rid of them you'd have to depopul=
ate
the country," said Jason Jones. "It is no laughing matter, young
woman, and--my daughter is somewhat valuable."
The driver returned with the wheel. It fitted =
the
axle but was some two or three inches larger in diameter than the other rear
wheel and, moreover, it was flat on one side, so that when they started to =
conclude
their journey the motion of the carriage was something startling--a
"rock-a-bye baby ride" Mary Louise called it.
But the wheels turned and the carriage progres=
sed
and when they were well on their way the girl said:
"What do you think of that man, Gran'pa
Jim?"
"Do you mean Alora's father, Jason
Jones?"
"Yes, of course."
"I am surprised at two things," said=
the
old Colonel. "First, it is curious that Tony Seaver, a rarely cultured
woman, should have married such a man, and again it is amazing that she sho=
uld
have confided her daughter and her fortune to his care."
"Do you know," observed Mary Louise,
sliding closer to him and dropping her voice, although there was absolutely=
no
chance of being overheard, "I scent a mystery in that family, Gran'pa
Jim!"
"That seems to be one of your regular
diversions--to scent mysteries," he replied. "And usually, my dea=
r,
the suspicion is unwarranted. The most commonplace people frequently impress
you with the idea that they are other than what they seem, are leading doub=
le
lives, or are endeavoring to conceal some irregularity of conduct. You've a
faculty of reading the natures and characteristics of strangers by studying=
their
eyes, their facial expressions and their oddities of demeanor, which is
interesting psychologically but too often----"
"You are unjust, Gran'pa!" declared =
Mary
Louise indignantly. "Didn't you yourself say there are two curious and
surprising things about this man Jones?"
"Not exactly. I said it was curious and
astonishing that Antoinette Seaver should have trusted so fully a man who
impresses me as a churl. His own child, little Alora, appears to dislike and
even to despise him, and----"
"There!" cried Mary Louise. "I'm
vindicated. Your observations fully justify my remark that there's a myster=
y in
that family. Did you notice the books he brought home and laid upon the
table?"
"No," said Colonel Hathaway, rather
bewildered.
"They were novels by Marie Correlli, H. G.
Wells and O. Henry. A student? Then a student of modern novels, a man who r=
eads
and reads to keep his mind from dwelling on past history. He is a disappoin=
ted artist,
to begin with."
"That is certainly odd," rejoined the
old gentleman, reflectively. "The one picture I ever saw by Jason Jones
was certainly good. I remember that once when I was lunching with Bob
Seaver--that was Antoinette's father, you know--he told me his daughter was
interested in a young artist of exceptional talent, and he took me to a gal=
lery
to show me what this man could do. I am not an art critic, as you are aware=
, my
dear, but this landscape of Jason Jones appealed to me as delightful. Capta=
in
Bob knew art, and so did Antoinette, so it is evident that Jones could pain=
t,
but for some reason became dissatisfied with his work and abandoned it. Per=
haps
his ambition was too lofty for human skill to realize, yet nothing less wou=
ld
content him."
Mary Louise sat silent for a while. Then she
asked:
"Did Jason Jones impress you as a man cap=
able
of a great ambition? Would you guess him an artist who had once accomplished
admirable things?"
"Artists are always peculiar," stated
her grandfather. "They must be temperamental in order to be artists, a=
nd
temperaments differ widely. Had I not known something of Jason Jones' histo=
ry I
might have felt, on making his acquaintance to-day, that he is not an ordin=
ary
man. For, gruff and churlish though he proved, it is undeniable that he has=
selected
a charming and retired spot in which to live----"
"Or to hide," she interrupted.
"Or that, with considerable wealth at his
command, he lives simply and unostentatiously, enjoying nature's choice gif=
ts
and content with the simple life he leads, with only the society of his you=
ng
daughter."
"Whom he neglects and refuses to educate
properly," declared the girl. "What makes you think he is
wealthy?"
"I know that Antoinette made millions, af=
ter
her father died, from the mines. By current report she retired and invested=
her
money wisely, in sound securities, which accords with her excellent business
reputation. Her daughter not being of age--let me see: she must have been b=
ut eleven
when her mother passed away--there would be a guardian appointed for the
heiress, and Alora told us that it was her mother's wish that her father ac=
t as
her guardian. So the conclusion is evident that Mr. Jones has a large incom=
e at
his command."
"All the more reason he should be generou=
s,
but he isn't spending much of it," said Mary Louise.
"No; he is probably living simply in order
that his daughter's fortune may increase during the years of her minority. =
That
is a point in his favor, you must admit."
"Nevertheless," asserted the young g=
irl,
"I think there is something wrong in the Jones family. It isn't due to
Alora; she's a dear little thing, wild and untamed but very lovable, I'm su=
re;
so the fault must lie with her boorish father. Allowing that once he was a =
big
man, something has mysteriously soured him and rendered his life hateful no=
t only
to himself but to all around him."
"Look, Mary Louise; we're getting into Sorrento," said the Colonel. "Here the road leaves the sea and cr= osses the plateau to the town. You'll like Sorrento, I'm sure, for it is one of t= he quaintest places in old Italy--and the hotel is really comfortable." <= o:p>
On Saturday forenoon the Colonel engaged a
carriage--a substantial one, this time--and with Mary Louise drove to Jason
Jones' villa, so that Alora might return with them in time for lunch. They =
did
not see the artist, who was somewhere about the grounds but kept out of vie=
w;
but Alora was ready and waiting, her cheeks flushed and her eyes alight, and
she slipped her foreign little straw satchel in the carriage and then quick=
ly
followed it, as if eager to be off.
"Father is rather disagreeable this
morning," she asserted in a sharp voice, when they were on the highway=
to
Sorrento. "He repented his decision to let me go with you and almost
forbade me. But I rebelled, and----" she paused; "I have found th=
at
when I assert myself I can usually win my way, for father is a coward at
heart."
It pained Mary Louise to hear so unfilial a sp=
eech
from the lips of a young girl. Colonel Hathaway's face showed that he, too,
considered it unmannerly to criticise a parent in the presence of strangers.
But both reflected that Alora's life and environments were unenviable and t=
hat she
had lacked, in these later years at least, the careful training due one in =
her
station in society. So they deftly changed the subject and led the girl to
speak of Italy and its delightful scenery and romantic history. Alora knew
little of the country outside of the Sorrento peninsula, but her appreciati=
on
of nature was artistic and innately true and she talked well and interestin=
gly
of the surrounding country and the quaint and amusing customs of its
inhabitants.
"How long do you expect to remain here?&q=
uot;
asked Mary Louise.
"I've no idea," was the reply.
"Father seems entirely satisfied with our quarters, for he has no ambi=
tion
in life beyond eating three simple meals a day, sleeping from nine at night
until nine in the morning and reading all the romances he is able to procur=
e.
He corresponds with no one save his banker in America and sees no one but t=
he
servants and me. But to me the monotony of our existence is fast becoming
unbearable and I often wonder if I can stand it for three years longer--unt=
il
I'm eighteen. Then I shall be my own mistress and entitled to handle my own=
money,
and you may rest assured I shall make up for lost time."
They let that remark pass, also, but later in =
the
afternoon, when luncheon was over and the two girls were wandering in the l=
ovely
gardens of the Hotel Vittoria, while the Colonel indulged in an afternoon
siesta, Mary Louise led Alora to speak freely of her past life.
"My grandfather says that your mother must
have left you a good deal of money," she remarked.
"Yes; mamma told me it was a large fortune
and that I must guard it wisely and use it generously to help others less
favored," replied Alora thoughtfully.
"And she left it all in your father's
keeping?"
"Not the principal. That is all invested,=
and
thank goodness my father cannot touch it in any way. But the income is paid=
to
him regularly, and he may do as he pleases with it. I am sure mamma expecte=
d I
would have every reasonable wish gratified, and be taught every womanly acc=
omplishment;
but I'm treated as a mere dependent. I'm almost destitute of proper
clothing--really, Mary Louise, this is the best dress I possess!--and I've =
been
obliged to educate myself, making a rather poor job of it, I fear. I read t=
he
best of father's books, when he is done with them, and note carefully the
manner in which the characters express themselves and how they conduct
themselves in society as well as in worldly contact. I do not wish to be wh=
olly
gauche when I come into my kingdom, you see, and the books are my only
salvation. I don't care much for the stories, but some of the good writers =
are
safe guides to follow in the matter of dialogue and deportment. Fortunately,
father's books are all in English. He doesn't understand much Italian, alth=
ough
I have learned to speak the language like a native--like our native servant=
s,
you know."
Mary Louise reflected on this confession.
"I'm afraid, Alora dear, that modern novels are not prone to teach
morality, or to develop a girl's finer intuitions," she said gravely.
"I think you express yourself very well--better than I do, indeed--but=
you
need association with those who can convey to you the right principles of
thought and thus encourage your mental development. Culture and refinement =
seem
to come more from association than from books, although there is an innate
tendency in all well-born people to acquire them spontaneously. But there!
you'll accuse me of preaching and, after all, I think you've done just sple=
ndidly
under rather trying circumstances."
"You don't know how trying they are,"
declared Alora, with a sigh. "Father and I are wholly uncongenial and =
we
fight on the slightest provocation. This morning our trouble was over money=
. I
wanted a little to take with me, for my purse hasn't a lira in it; but, no!=
not
a centisimo would he give up. He insisted that if I was to be your guest you
would pay all my expenses."
"Of course," said Mary Louise. "=
;But
what does he do with all that big income? Is he saving it for you?"
"No, indeed! he's saving it for himself.
Mamma told me, the last time I saw her before she died, that if father was =
good
to me, and kind and loving, I could provide for him in some way after I came
into my money. She said she would leave the manner of it to my judgment. Bu=
t he
isn't kind, or loving, or good, and knows very well that when I'm of age he=
'll
never see another cent of my money. So now he'd hoarding my income for futu=
re
use."
"Isn't it strange that your mother should
have trusted him so fully?" asked Mary Louise.
"Yes, it does seem strange. I remember her
saying that he loved luxury and all the comfort that money will buy, and so=
she
wanted him to have this income to spend, because he was my father and becau=
se
she felt she had ruined his career as an artist by surrounding him with
luxuries during their early married life, and afterward had embittered him =
by depriving
him of them. But the man doesn't know what luxury means, Mary Louise. His
tastes are those of a peasant."
"Yet once your mother loved him, and beli=
eved
in him."
"I--I think she believed in him; I'm quit=
e sure
she did."
"Then his nature must have changed. I can
imagine, Alora, that when your mother first knew him he was hard-working and
ambitious. He was talented, too, and that promised future fame. But when he
married a wealthy woman he lost his ambition, success being no longer
necessary. After a period of ease and comfort in the society of his lovely
wife-- for Gran'pa says your mother was very lovely--he lost both the wife =
and the
luxuries he enjoyed. A big man, Alora, would have developed a new ambition,=
but
it seems your father was not big. His return to poverty after your mother's
desertion made him bitter and reckless; perhaps it dulled his brain, and th=
at
is why he is no longer able to do good work. He was utterly crushed, I imag=
ine,
and hadn't the stamina to recover his former poise. He must have been ten y=
ears
or so in this condition, despairing and disinterested, when the wheel of
fortune turned and he was again in the possession of wealth. He had now the
means to live as he pleased. But those years had so changed him that he
couldn't respond to the new conditions. Doubtless he was glad, in a way, bu=
t he
was now content merely to exist. Doesn't that seem logical, Alora?"
Indeed, Mary Louise was delighted with her
solution of the problem. It was in keeping with her talent for deducing the
truth from meagre facts by logically putting them together and considering =
them
as a whole. It was seldom she erred in these deductions. But Alora seemed
unimpressed and noting her glum look Mary Louise said again: "Doesn't =
all
this seem logical, dear?"
"No," said Alora. "Father isn't=
the
man to be crushed by anything. He's shrewd enough, in his bourgeois way. On=
ce,
long ago--back in New York--a woman made him give her money; it was money, =
you
know; and I have often thought he ran away from America to escape her furth=
er demands."
"Who was the woman?"
"My mother's nurse."
"Oh. Was it her wages she demanded?"=
"Perhaps so. I may have misjudged father =
in
that case. But it seemed to me--I was a mere child then--that it must have =
been
a larger sum than wages would have amounted to. Yet, perhaps not. Anyhow, he
left America right afterward, and when we had wandered a year or so in vari=
ous countries
we settled down here."
"Won't he have to account for all the mon=
ey
he has spent and given away, when you come of age?" inquired Mary Loui=
se.
"No. Mother distinctly told me I was to a=
sk
for no accounting whatever. Her will says he is to handle the income as he =
sees
fit, just as if it were his own, so long as he provides properly for his
daughter and treats her with fatherly consideration. That's the only reason=
he
keeps me with him, guarding my person but neglecting the other injunctions.=
If
he set me adrift, as I'm sure he'd like to do, I could appeal to the court =
and
his income would cease and another guardian be appointed. I believe there is
something of that sort in the will, and that is why he is so afraid of losi=
ng
me. But he gives me no chance to appeal to anyone, although I sometimes thi=
nk I
shall run away and leave him in the lurch. If I could get to Chicago and te=
ll
Judge Bernsted, my mother's lawyer, how I am treated, I believe he could ma=
ke
the court set aside my father's guardianship. But I can't get ten miles away
from here, for lack of money."
"How your dear mother would grieve, if she
knew her plans for your happiness have failed!" exclaimed Mary Louise.=
Alora frowned, and somehow that frown reminded
Mary Louise of the girl's father.
"My mother ought to have known my father
better," she declared sullenly. "I must not criticize her judgmen=
t,
for her memory is my most precious possession and I know she loved me
devotedly. But there is one thing in her history I can never understand.&qu=
ot;
"And that?" questioned Mary Louise
curiously, as Alora paused.
"My mother was an educated woman, well-br=
ed
and refined."
"Yes; Gran'pa Jim told me that."
"Then how could she have married my fathe=
r,
who is not a gentleman and never could have impressed a lady with the notio=
n he
was one?"
Mary Louise hesitated, for to admit this would
send her deductions, so carefully constructed, tumbling in ruins. But Alora
ought to know the man.
"If that is true, dear," said she,
"it is the strangest part of your story; and, of course, we can only g=
uess
the reason, for the only one who could have explained it properly was your
mother."
When Alora had retired to her bedroom that nig=
ht
Mary Louise told to her grandfather, who was her trusted confidant, all that
the unhappy girl had related.
"Of course," she added, "Alora's
explanations dispel my half formed suspicion that there is some mystery abo=
ut
Jason Jones. I now see that you were right, Gran'pa Jim, to laugh at me whe=
n I
suggested such a thing, for in truth the man is easily understood once you
become acquainted with his history. However, I now dislike him more than ev=
er."
"In justice to Jason Jones," remarked
the old Colonel, "we must acquit him of being a hypocrite. He doesn't
attempt to mask his nature and a stranger is bound to see him at his worst.=
Doubtless
Antoinette Seaver understood the man better than we are able to and sixteen
years ago, or so, when he had youth, talent and ambition, his disagreeable =
characteristics
were probably not so marked. As for Alora, she is strongly prejudiced again=
st her
father and we must make due allowance for her bitterness. The feeling proba=
bly
arose through her sudden transfer from the care of a generous and loving mo=
ther
to that of an ungracious father--a parent she had never before known. A chi=
ld
of eleven is likely to form strong affections and passionate dislikes."=
;
"Do you know," said Mary Louise,
"it shocks me, this hatred of her father. It seems so unnatural. I wis=
h we
could bring them to understand one another better, Gran'pa Jim."
"That might prove a difficult task, my
dear," he replied with a smile, gently stroking her hair the while,
"and I do not think we are justified in undertaking it. How many times
during our travels, Mary Louise, has your impulsive and tender heart urged =
you
to assume the burdens of other people? You seem to pick up a trail of sorro=
w or
unhappiness with the eagerness of a bloodhound and I have all I can do to c=
all
you off the scent. One small girl can't regulate the world, you know, and in
this case we are likely to see very little of Alora Jones and her artist
father. We will be nice to them during the few days we are here, but we must
soon move on or we'll never get home for your birthday, as we have
planned."
Mary Louise sighed.
"You're almost always right, Gran'pa
Jim," she admitted; "but in all our European travels I've not met=
so
interesting a person as Alora, and she's an American girl, which draws us s=
till
closer together. I'm going to make her promise that when she's of age and h=
er
own mistress she will let me know, and come to us for a visit. Wouldn't tha=
t be
all right, Gran'pa?"
He assured her it would be quite proper and th=
at
he also admired Alora and was sorry for her.
On Sunday forenoon they went to the cathedral =
and
in the afternoon took a boat to the blue grottoes. In the evening there was=
a
concert in the hotel. All that day the two girls were arm in arm and chatti=
ng together,
developing their mutual liking, while the old Colonel trudged along in their
wake and was generally ignored in the conversation. On Monday they planned =
an
excursion to Capri, "For you won't mind if we don't get you home until
after dinner, will you?" asked Mary Louise.
"Not at all," said Alora. "I wa=
nt
to make the most of this vacation."
"Her father may mind, however,"
suggested the Colonel.
"I don't care whether he does or not,&quo=
t;
retorted the girl, tossing her head. "He has no consideration for me, =
so
why should I consider him?"
"I don't like that attitude, dear," =
said
Mary Louise frankly. "I--I don't wish to be snippy, you know, but you =
should
not forget that he is your father."
"That," replied Alora doggedly, &quo=
t;is
merely my misfortune, and I'm not going to allow it to ruin all my life.&qu=
ot;
On Monday morning they had scarcely finished
breakfast when Jason Jones appeared at the hotel, having driven over from t=
he
villa in his little automobile--a tiny foreign contrivance that reminded on=
e of
a child's cart but could cover the ground with considerable speed. They wer=
e sitting
on the big piazza when Alora's father came striding up to them with a white,
fear-struck face. In his trembling hands he held the morning Naples newspap=
er
and without a word of greeting he said abruptly:
"Have you heard the news?"
Colonel Hathaway rose and bowed.
"Good morning, Mr. Jones," said he.
"I do not read the local newspapers, for my knowledge of Italian is
indifferent."
"So is mine," responded the artist,
"but I know enough of their lingo to make out that Italy has entered t=
his
fool war. She's going to fight the Austrians," he continued, his voice
shaking nervously, "and do you know what that will mean, sir?"
"I can't imagine," replied the Colon=
el
calmly.
"It means that presently we'll have all t=
hat
horde of Germans overrunning Italy. They'll conquer this helpless land as s=
ure
as fate, and we'll all be burned out and tortured and mutilated in the fien=
dish
German way!"
"My dear sir, you are frightened without
warrant," declared Colonel Hathaway. "It will take some time to
conquer Italy, and I cannot imagine the Austrians acting as you suggest.&qu=
ot;
"Back of the Austrians are the Germans, a=
nd
those Prussians are worse than wild American Indians," insisted Jones.
"If they got their clutches on my daughter it would be more horrible t=
han
death and I don't propose to leave her in danger a single minute. I'm going=
to
quit this country. I've come for Alora. We must pack up and catch the first=
ship
from Naples for America."
There was blank silence for a moment.
"I'm not afraid," said Alora, with a
laugh, "but if it means our getting out of this tiresome place and sai=
ling
for home, I'm glad that Italy's gone into the war."
Colonel Hathaway was grave and thoughtful. The
agitation of the artist seemed to increase with every moment.
"When does the next boat for America leave
Naples?" asked Mary Louise.
"Tuesday," said Alora's father.
"We've just time to pack our possessions and leave."
"Time!" cried his daughter, "wh=
y, I
can pack all my possessions in an hour. Go home, sir, and fuss around as mu=
ch
as you like. I'll join you some time this evening."
He gave her a queer look, hesitating.
"We are surely safe enough for the
present," remarked the Colonel. "The first act of war will be to =
send
all the soldiers to the north border. The fighting will be done in the Tren=
tino
for some time to come."
"You don't know these people," said =
Jones,
shifting uneasily from one foot to another. "They're all brigands by
nature and many of them by profession. As soon as the soldiers are sent nor=
th,
all law and order will cease and brigandage will be the order of the day!&q=
uot;
"This is absurd!" exclaimed the Colo=
nel,
testily. "You're not talking sense."
"That's a matter of opinion, sir; but I k=
now
my own business, and I'm going to get out of here."
"Wait a week longer," suggested Mary
Louise. "We are to sail ourselves on the boat that leaves Naples a week
from Tuesday, and it will be nice for Alora and me to travel home
together."
"No; I won't wait. Get your things, Alora,
and come with me at once."
"Have you made reservations on the
boat?" inquired Colonel Hathaway, refusing to be annoyed by the man's
brusque words and rough demeanor.
"I'll do that at once, by telephone. That=
's
one reason I came over. I'll telephone the steamship office while the girl =
is
getting ready."
"I will go with you," said the Colon=
el,
as the artist turned away.
While Jones used the telephone booth of the ho=
tel
Colonel Hathaway conversed with the proprietor, and afterward with the hall
porter, who was better posted and spoke better English.
"This is outrageous!" roared the art=
ist,
furiously bursting from the booth. "To-morrow's boat is abandoned! The
government requires it as a transport. Why? Why? Why?" and he wrung his
hands despairingly.
"I do not know, sir," returned the
Colonel, smiling at his futile passion.
The smile seemed to strike Jones like a blow. =
He
stopped abruptly and stared at the other man for a full minute--intently,
suspiciously. Then he relaxed.
"You're right," said he coldly.
"It's folly to quarrel with fate. I've booked for a week from Tuesday,
Hathaway, and we must stick it out till then. Do you take the same boat?&qu=
ot;
"That is my intention."
"Well, there's no objection. Now I'll go =
get
Alora."
But Alora, hearing of the postponed sailing,
positively refused to return home with him, and Mary Louise, supporting her=
new
friend, urged her to extend her stay with her at the hotel. Strangely enoug=
h,
the more he was opposed the more quiet and composed the artist became. He e=
ven
ceased to tremble and an odd apathy settled over him.
"The hall porter," said the Colonel,
"thinks this is the safest place in Italy. The troops have been on the
border for months and their positions are strongly fortified. There is no
brigandage outside of Sicily, where the Mafia is not yet wholly
suppressed."
Jones grinned rather sheepishly.
"All right, take his word for it," s=
aid he.
"And if you'll be responsible for the girl you may keep her till we're
ready to sail. Perhaps that's the best way, after all." Then, without a
word of good-bye, he entered his little motor car and started down the driv=
eway.
"A strange man," said the Colonel,
looking after him. "I wonder if it really was the war that frightened
him--or something else--or if he was actually frightened at all?"
Alora laughed.
"You can't guess father, try as you
may," she said. "Usually he is cold as ice, but once in awhile he
gets these wild fits, which I find rather amusing. You can't understand tha=
t,
of course, but if you were obliged to live under the same roof with Jason J=
ones
you would welcome his outbursts as relief from the monotony of contemptuous
silence."
Jason Jones urged his little car to its best s=
peed
until he gained his villa. Entering the ground, he was confronted by his
factotum, the Italian, Silvio.
He sprang out and approached the man.
"Is the prisoner safe?" he whispered=
.
"Certainly, Signore."
"Is she still in the grape-house?" <= o:p>
"With the wine presses, Signore."
"And she can't get out?"
"Unless she becomes small, like a rat,
Signore."
Jones glanced around suspiciously, then fixed =
his
gaze on a little outbuilding of stone, with a tiled roof, which stood quite
removed from the others of the group.
"Has she screamed, or cried out?" he
asked the man.
"Not since I put her in, las' night,
Signore."
"Good. You've fed her?"
"The plenty. She eat very well. It's a ni=
ce
lady, Signore."
"She's dangerous. Listen, Silvio: we must
keep her there a week longer."
"If I am jailer a week, I mus' double my
price," he asserted, shrugging his shoulders.
"Nonsense!"
"The lady will offer me more to let her o=
ut.
She say so."
"What! You'd betray me?"
"Not if I have the gold--here, in my
hand--now, Signore."
Jones grew red and then white. He eyed the man
wickedly. He scowled, and Silvio smiled pleasantly. Silvio was big for an
Italian; big and brawny; as his smile faded his face assumed a look of stub=
born
determination.
"So you want the gold now, Silvio?" =
"At once, if it please the Signore. The
gendarmes are ugly if the law is broken. Their jails are not as pleasant as=
the
grape-house. So the gold must be twice the amount we had spoken of,
Signore."
"And you will promise she shall not escap=
e;
that you'll keep her safe until--until I tell you to let her go?"
"That is our bargain, Signore."
Jones sighed regretfully.
"Very well, then, Silvio," he said.
"You're a robber--the son of a brigand--the spawn of a bandit! But come
with me to the house, and you shall have your gold."
* * * * * * * *
Alora stayed all that week with Mary Louise,
hearing nothing of her father and almost forgetting her unhappiness in the
society of her delightful new friend. It was Sunday evening when the Colonel
and Mary Louise drove their guest over to the villa and the two parties did=
not
see one another again until they met on the deck of the steamer in Naples on
the following Tuesday morning.
The Joneses came aboard very quietly just at t=
he
last moment and at the gang-plank Alora's father was confronted by a grimy
Italian boy who handed him a letter. Without pausing to read it, Jones hurr=
ied
below, and he kept his stateroom until the ship was well out in the blue Me=
diterranean,
on its way to Gibraltar and New York. But no one missed him, for Alora and =
Mary
Louise were happy at being reunited and Gran'pa Jim was happy in seeing them
happy.
In one of the middle-west states there is a de=
lightful
little city called Dorfield. It hasn't so many thousand inhabitants, but in=
all
its aspects and its municipal equipment it is indeed a modern city. It has =
factories
and a big farming community to support its streets of neat and progressive
shops, and at the west side of the business district is a residence section
where broad, wooded streets furnish the setting for many cozy homes. Some of
the houses are old and picturesque, and some are new and imposing, but each=
has
its flower-lit garden, its fruit and shade trees and its little garage or b=
arn
tucked away in the back yard.
When you come to Oak Street there is a rambling
frame house on the corner, set well back, where Peter Conant, the lawyer, l=
ives
with his good wife and his niece Irene Macfarlane, who is seventeen. This is
one of the ancient dwellings of Dorfield, for the Conants are "old inh=
abitants."
Right next them stands a more modern and expensive, if less attractive,
mansion, with grounds twice as large and a velvet lawn that puts the Conant=
s'
carelessly-cropped grass to shame. But the two families are neighbors and
friends nevertheless, for in the new house lives Colonel James Hathaway and=
his
granddaughter Mary Louise Burrows. At least, they live there when at home a=
nd,
although they seem persistent ramblers, they are glad to have this refuge to
return to when wearied with traveling and sight-seeing.
One morning in June Mr. Conant was just seating
himself at the breakfast table when a messenger-boy delivered a telegram--a
"night letter" from New York. The lawyer, a short, thick-set man =
of
middle age, with a stern countenance but mild blue eyes, laid aside his mor=
ning
paper and read the telegram with his usual deliberation. Mrs. Conant silent=
ly
poured the coffee, knowing any interference would annoy him. Irene, the nie=
ce,
was a cripple and sat in her wheeled chair at the table, between her uncle =
and
aunt. She was a pleasant-faced, happy little maid, consistently ignoring her
withered limbs and thankful that from her knees up she was normal and that =
her
wheeled chair rendered her fairly independent of assistance in all ordinary
activities. Everyone loved Irene Macfarlane because of her brave and cheery=
acceptance
of her misfortune, and her merry speech and spontaneous laughter rendered h=
er,
as "Aunt Hannah" often declared, "the light of the house.&qu=
ot;
Irene was, moreover, an intimate and highly valued friend of her next door
neighbor, Mary Louise Burrows.
Mr. Peter Conant, sipping his coffee reflectiv=
ely,
read the lengthy telegram a second time. Then he said, somewhat irritably a=
nd
chopping his words into distinct syllables, as was his habit at all times: =
"I wonder why people imagine a lawyer's
duties cover every phase of life? My clients use me as a real-estate agent,=
a
horse trader, a purchasing agent, a father confessor, an automobile expert,=
a
medical adviser, and sometimes--in their simplicity--as a banker!"
"What's wrong now, Peter?" inquired =
Mrs.
Conant with wifely sympathy.
"Colonel Hathaway wants to know--" <= o:p>
"Oh, is Mary Louise coming back?" cr=
ied
Irene eagerly.
He frowned at her.
"What does the Colonel wish to know,
Peter?"
"I object to this unwarrantable
cross-examination," said he. "It is customary to first allow one =
to
state his case."
"Forgive me, Uncle Peter!"
"Take your time," said Aunt Hannah,
composedly buttering the toast. "You will, anyhow, and I'm sure Irene =
and
I have both learned to curb our feminine curiosity."
He glanced at the telegram again.
"Do you know if the Pelton place has been
rented, my dear?"
"The Pelton place? Why, it wasn't rented
yesterday, for I passed by there and saw the rent sign still in the window.=
Mr.
Harlan is the agent."
"I know. And where can we find a female
house-servant, Hannah?"
"Now, see here, Peter; it's all very well=
for
you to keep your own counsel, when there's a professional secret to be guar=
ded,
but if you want any help from me you've got to open your mouth and talk out=
plainly,
so I can answer you in a sensible way."
"You're always sensible, Hannah," he
observed, quite unruffled by her demand. And then he ate a whole slice of t=
oast
and drank his coffee and handed his cup for more before he spoke another wo=
rd.
Irene devoted herself to her breakfast. She kn=
ew
Uncle Peter's ways and that it was useless to attempt to hurry him or force=
him
to explain, until he was quite ready to do so. Aunt Hannah bided her time.
Peter was a thoughtful man, and he was doubtless thinking. His wife was not=
only
a clever helpmate but was noted for her consideration of her erratic spouse=
.
"The Colonel," said Mr. Conant at la=
st,
"has run across a man who wants to make his home in Dorfield. A very
sensible idea. The Colonel met the man in Europe. The man----"
"What's the man's name?" inquired Mr=
s.
Conant.
He referred to the telegram.
"Jones. Jason Jones."
"I never heard of him."
He looked at her reproachfully.
"Why should you, my dear? The Colonel fou=
nd
the man in Europe. We live in Dorfield. The man, it seems, has a
daughter----"
"Oh, goody!" cried Irene.
"Who has become a friend of Mary Louise, =
therefore
the Colonel wires to ask if there is a furnished house to rent at a modest
price and if a competent female servant can be secured for the man and his
daughter. He requests me to wire an answer promptly. That is the gist of th=
e telegram,
although the Colonel, in his usual extravagant way, has paid for more words
than were required to express his meaning."
"And what are you going to do about it?&q=
uot;
demanded Mrs. Conant.
"I am endeavoring to gain information fro=
m my
wife."
"Very well. What does he mean by 'a modest
price'? The Pelton place is expensive. The rent is sixty dollars a month, w=
hile
a comfortable house like that of the Widow Harrington rents for fifteen
dollars, with good, solid furniture."
"Is Mrs. Harrington's house for rent?&quo=
t;
he asked.
"Yes. She'll go to live with her married
daughter as soon as she can find a tenant. The poor creature needs the mone=
y,
and her house is just around the corner from here and her back yard backs u=
p to
the Colonel's back yard. Now, the Pelton place is two blocks from here, and=
the
Peltons don't need the money, because they're already too rich and aristocr=
atic
to live in Dorfield any longer."
"H-m-m!" murmured Mr. Conant. "=
It
occurs to me that a friend of Colonel Hathaway might desire a more luxurious
home than that of the Widow Harrington."
"Doesn't the telegram say 'a modest
price'?"
"It does. I'll quote both places and let =
the
man Jones take his choice. And how about the female servant, Hannah?" =
"Leave that to me; I can hire plenty. But=
if
Mr. Jason Jones takes the Pelton place he will want one kind of a servant, =
and
if he takes Mrs. Harrington's house he'll want a different sort."
He gazed at her admiringly and passed his cup
again, saying:
"You've a logical mind, my dear. Had you =
been
a man you might have become a fairly good lawyer."
"No, Peter; not another drop. You've two =
cups
already."
"Are you sure, Hannah?"
"Absolutely positive!"
"Then," said he, rising with a sigh,
"I'll go to the office."
To Mr. Conant's disappointment, to Mrs. Conant=
's
delight, to Irene's satisfaction and the astonishment of all, Mr. Jason Jon=
es
selected Mrs. Harrington's modest house and ordered it rented and prepared =
for
his arrival on the following Thursday. This was conveyed in a second telegr=
am
from Colonel Hathaway, who requested the lawyer to inform old Uncle Eben and
Aunt Sally, the Colonel's own faithful colored servants and caretakers, tha=
t he
and Mary Louise would return home on the same day.
"You see," said Aunt Hannah,
triumphantly, "I sized the Joneses up pretty well. It isn't necessary =
for
a man to be rich to be a friend of the dear Colonel, for he considers a man,
rather than a man's pocketbook."
"Yet a man who can afford to travel abroa=
d,
with his daughter," began Mr. Conant, argumentatively, "should ce=
rtainly
be able and willing----"
"What do you know about him, Peter? Perha=
ps
he has spent his ready money in Europe and is now obliged to economize. Unl=
ess
that is the case, why does he come to a sleepy little town like Dorfield, w=
hich
is almost forgotten by the big world, to settle down?"
=
"Why,
he's the Colonel's friend," retorted the lawyer, stiffly.
"And Mary Louise is his daughter's
friend," said Irene. "That accounts for it, of course, and they
couldn't have picked a prettier place. Dorfield may be sleepy, and quiet, a=
nd
half forgotten by the rest of the big world, but it's simply delightful as a
residence. Didn't Colonel Hathaway choose it for a home? And the Colonel co=
uld
afford to live at the Waldorf-Astoria, if he wanted to."
"I know why you are pleased, Irene,"
remarked Aunt Hannah, smiling upon her niece. "You're going to have
another girl friend."
"She won't be as nice as Mary Louise,
though," was the reply. "There's no girl in the world as sweet and
lovely as Mary Louise!"
"Or one that innocently gets into more
trouble," declared Mr. Conant.
"That," said Aunt Hannah, "is
because she can't let other people's troubles alone."
Mr. Conant, who was Colonel Hathaway's lawyer =
and
confidential agent, was at the train to meet his important client on his re=
turn
to Dorfield. The first to alight from the coach was the Colonel, who greeted
his lawyer with a cordial handclasp. Mary Louise kissed Peter Conant upon h=
is
impassive cheek and presented him to a pretty young girl who clung to her a=
rm
smiling, yet half bewildered by her arrival in a strange town. There seemed=
no
one else with the party and Mr. Conant glanced over the crowd of passengers=
and
said:
"Mr. Jones did not accompany you, then?&q=
uot;
"Why, yes; I suppose he's here," ans=
wered
the Colonel carelessly. "I believe he traveled another car."
"I don't see him anywhere," added Ma=
ry
Louise. "I wonder if anyone reminded him that this is the place to get
off?"
"Never mind," said Alora; "if
father can't keep track of himself, let him go on to another station. I can=
't
lose him for long, that's certain."
"There he is, up ahead," announced M=
ara
Louise. "He's quarreling with his porter about something."
"To save the tip," suggested Alora,
scornfully.
Mary Louise rushed to greet an old colorful man
with snow-white hair, who was picking up their hand baggage.
"Oh, Uncle Eben, I'm so glad to see
again!" she exclaimed. "And how's Aunt Sallie? And is my pony wel=
l?
And are the goldfish still alive? And----"
"Bress yo' soul, Ma'y Weeze!" said t=
he
delighted old servant, "ev'body's well an' joyful to see you-all back
ag'in."
The Colonel shook Uncle Eben's hands--both of
them--in a kindly but dignified manner. "I suppose the automobile is s=
till
running, Uncle?"
"Not jes' dis yere minnit, Kun'l," w=
ith
a glad chuckle, "but dat car's gwine ter run jes' as soon as we-all gi=
ts
aboahd. What yo' think I's be'n doin' all winter, Kun'l, in dat lonesomeness
house, 'cept keepin' dat car greased up?"
"Did you grease it in the house, then,
Uncle?" asked Mary Louise gravely, but with twinkling eyes.
Old Eben chuckled again, for this was a happy =
hour
for him, but while he chuckled he led them to where the automobile stood
waiting. Behind the others slowly followed Jason Jones, carrying his own
luggage and eyeing every detail of his surroundings in the manner of a
countryman paying his first visit to town. He was inwardly sizing up Dorfie=
ld
as a place of residence. When Jones got into the car the Colonel briefly in=
troduced
him to the lawyer.
"This is Mr. Jones, Mr. Conant."
He looked at the lawyer and gave a slight nod,=
and
Mr. Conant's bow was very stiff and formal. Already he had, with fair accur=
acy,
grasped the relationship of the man to the others. Alora Jones seemed a fine
girl-- the right sort--and Mary Louise was evidently fond of her. The Colon=
el barely
tolerated the man Jones, whom he did not like, for the daughter's sake. The
girl herself lacked in respect for her father, and this unfilial attitude
seemed condoned by both Mary Louise and the Colonel, which was evidence that
there was something wrong about Jason Jones. With such a cue for guidance, =
Mr.
Conant decided he had no use for Jason Jones, either.
Uncle Eben first drove the car to the Widow
Harrington's cottage, where Mrs. Conant awaited the new tenants to introduce
them to their servant and to assure them that everything was prepared for t=
heir
convenience. Then they drove to Colonel Hathaway's home, where Irene was at=
the
gate in her wheeled chair, a bunch of her choicest roses in her hand, ready=
to
welcome her friend Mary Louise and to be kissed and hugged with girlish
enthusiasm.
It was a happy homecoming, indeed, for Mary
Louise. And Colonel Hathaway breathed a deep sigh of relief as he entered h=
is
own portals.
"From now on," he said to his
granddaughter that evening, "I am under no obligation to assist that
impossible person, Jones, or to even associate with him. For your sake, my
darling, I have suffered the infliction of his presence with fortitude, even
going to the extent of locating him in our beloved town of Dorfield, that y=
ou
and Alora might enjoy one another's society. But from this time forward Jas=
on
Jones is to be a distant acquaintance rather than a companion. Congratulate=
me,
Mary Louise!"
"I do, Gran'pa Jim," she replied sob=
erly,
"and I thank you, too. It has been a trial for both of us, but we've b=
een
really helpful to poor Alora. I want to try to bring a little happiness into
her life and encourage her to become as sweet and lovable a girl as she has=
the
nature to be, and this could never have been accomplished had we allowed he=
r to
drift in the sole companionship of her disagreeable father."
Alora formed an immediate friendship for cripp=
led
Irene Macfarlane, first based on sympathy and afterward on genuine admirati=
on.
That one condemned to pass her entire life in a wicker wheel-chair should b=
e so
bright and cheerful, with no word of protest or even a reference to her own
misfortune, was deemed wonderful by Alora, and she soon found that Irene ha=
d an
excuse or explanation for every seeming annoyance her friends suffered and
delighted to console them. At the same time she allowed no one to console h=
er,
because she declared she needed no consolation.
Such a disposition invited confidence, and soon
Irene knew more of Alora's past history, including her trials and tribulati=
ons,
than even Mary Louise had yet learned, and was shocked and grieved at the
girl's vengeful defiance of her father, due to his neglect and coldness as =
well
as to his contemptible selfishness. But Irene had an excuse ready even for =
the
artist.
"Poor Mr. Jones!" she said one day, =
when
the three girls were together and had been discussing Alora's troubles;
"think what a trial must have been to him to be saddled with the care =
of a
child he had not seen since babyhood and had no especial interest in. As for
affection between them, it could not sprout nor grow because there was no
mutual understanding to germinate it. Your father's life, my dear, had been=
wrecked
by his separation from your mother and the money meant little to him at that
period of his life when you were left to his care. But did he refuse the
obligation so inconsiderately thrust upon him? No. Although a man of reserv=
ed
nature--almost a recluse--self absorbed and shrinking from association othe=
rs,
he accepted the care of an eleven year old child and, without being able to
change his disposition to suit her requirements, has guarded her health and
safety ever since."
"So that he can use my money," added=
Alora,
with a shrug.
"But you admit that he doesn't squander m=
oney
on himself."
"I don't know what he does with it. If he
wants books, he buys them; he bought a rickety automobile in Italy and never
took me to ride in it; but his extravagance seems to end there. I've read s=
ome
letters that he left around, showing that he is investing thousands in his =
own
name-- what for, I can't guess, as he is too miserly ever to have a use for=
it."
"Well, he may be intending to endow some
deserving charity," suggested Irene. "And, as for his not loving =
you,
Alora, I fancy you have never tried to win your father's love."
"No one could love that man."
"You have never been able to get beneath =
his
reserve. You came to him from a luxurious life, a petted and pampered child,
and his simple tastes and unemotional nature repelled you from the first. I=
s it
not so?"
"I'm not sure, Irene. I needed sympathy a=
nd
affection. Had my father been different, had he shown love for me, or even
fatherly consideration, I would have responded eagerly. But he ignored me.
There has never been any companionship between us. He has guarded my person=
al safety
because I was of financial value to him. Once, when I contracted a fever, he
was really worried, and hired a skillful doctor and a trained nurse; but he
never entered my sickroom. When I was well, he reproached me for costing hi=
m so
much money. I told him it was my money, and he was costing me more than I c=
ould
ever cost him. I reminded him he would have been a beggar, but for my incom=
e,
and that shut him up at once."
"There's the whole trouble," declared
Irene. "Constant friction and a lack of consideration for one another.
Such remarks could not have made him more gracious toward you, Alora, and y=
ou
did not appreciate his care in furnishing you with the means of recovery.&q=
uot;
"Had I died," said the girl, "my
fortune would have gone to a bunch of third-cousins whom I have never seen.
That would have stopped father's right to the income, you see."
Irene sighed and Mary Louise smiled. It was al=
most
impossible to defend Mr. Jones consistently, with Alora present to accuse h=
im.
The artist at first took little interest in his
new home. The cottage was small and not very cheerful, but it was cheap, and
all that Jason Jones seemed to care for was a place to stay that was not
expensive. He continued his reading and had a book in his hand from morning
till night. He seldom left the cottage except for a trip to the public libr=
ary
or to a book-store, and never spoke to anyone unless it was necessary.
Their maid was Jane Gladys O'Donnel, stout and
good-natured, an indifferent cook and rather untidy. She was twenty years o=
ld
and the eldest of a large and impoverished family. Her mother was a laundre=
ss--
"took in washin'"--and her earnings, with the wages of Jane Glady=
s, must
suffice to feed many hungry mouths. That was why Mrs. Conant had hired Jane
Gladys. Aunt Hannah knew the girl was not very competent, but she was cheap=
, so
Mr. Jones accepted her without protest. Alora had lived so long abroad that=
she
did not know what a competent American housemaid is.
One forenoon--they had now been a month at
Dorfield--Mr. Jones was seated on the little front porch, reading as usual,
when a queer buzzing in the air overhead aroused his attention.
"What's that?" he called sharply, and
Jane Gladys, who was dusting in the little room behind him, replied:
"That, sor, is only Steve Kane's flyin'
machine."
"A what?"
"A flyin'-machine, sor. Kane has a facthry
fer makin' the crazy things in the town yonder--over by the South Side.&quo=
t;
"Indeed!" He got up and went into the
yard to watch the far-away speck in the sky that was humming so persistentl=
y.
"Why, there's another! There are two of them," he exclaimed, as i=
f to
himself.
"There might be a dozen, sor, 'cause ther=
e's
a school for airy--airy-- airy-flyin' over by Kane's facthry, where they
teaches the folks to fly that buy the machines."
He stood a long time, watching the sky. When t=
he
last aeroplane had disappeared he resumed his reading. But the next day he
watched for the machines again, abandoning his book to follow the course of=
the
flyers.
"Where did you say that factory is
located?" he asked Jane Gladys.
"Over by the gas works, sor, be the South
Side. Ye takes the Ellem street car, at the four corners. On a Sunday there=
be
crowds a-watchin' the air-divils."
He started to read again, but gave it up and
glanced nervously up and down the little porch. Jane Gladys noted this with
surprise, for he was usually quiet and unobservant, "like th' toad in =
th'
garden, what squats under a bush all day an' fergits he's alive till a fly
lights on his nose," as she expressed it to the family at home.
After lunch Mr. Jones went to town and after
making inquiries took the car to the aviation works and field. He watched t=
he
construction of flying machines in the factory and saw one or two pupils ta=
ke
short flights in the air. And Jason Jones was so interested that he was lat=
e to
dinner that evening.
Next day he was at the aviation field again, a=
nd
from that time he haunted the place, silent and composed but watching every
detail of manufacture and listening to the experts as they instructed the
pupils. These were not many--three altogether--although Stephen Kane's aero=
plane
was now admitted to be one of the safest and most reliable ever invented. A=
nd
one day one of the instructors, noticing the silent man who had watched so
long, invited him to take a flight, thinking perhaps to frighten him; but J=
ason
Jones promptly accepted the invitation and with perfect composure endured t=
he
strange experience and returned to ground with heightened color but no other
evidence of excitement. Could Alora have seen him that day she would have
acquitted him of cowardice.
But Alora knew nothing of her father's odd fan=
cy
for some time after he became interested in aeroplanes. She was not often at
home during the day, frequently taking lunch with Mary Louise or Irene and
passing much of her time in their company. She had no interest whatever in =
her father's
movements and Jane Gladys didn't think to mention the matter to her, for
"flyin'-machines" had ceased to be a novelty in Dorfield and the
sound of their buzzing through the air was heard many times a day. But in
turning over a pile of her father's books one day in his absence, Alora fou=
nd
several treatises on aviation and was almost startled to find that Jason Jo=
nes
cared for any reading aside from light novels.
She had been hunting, at the time, for a novel=
to
read herself, so turning from the aviation literature to a shelf of fiction=
she
began searching for an interesting title. Presently, as she drew out one of=
her
father's books, it opened by accident at a place where a letter had been tu=
cked
in--a letter written on soiled and coarse paper of a foreign make. It was
addressed: "Sig. Jaysn Jones, at the Steamer Hercules to sail for New
York, U.S.A." Opening it, she found it signed: "Silvio
Alleghero."
That was their man-servant in Italy, so with a
smile of anticipated amusement she read the letter. It was brief, indeed, b=
ut
the girl's expression soon changed to a puzzled look, for the scrawl said: =
"Honored Signore: At your command I have =
this
morning, three hours after your departure for Naples, allowed the prisoner =
to
escape."
"How funny!" she exclaimed, knitting=
her
brows. "I can't remember any prisoner at the villa. Perhaps it was the
cat. It would be just like Silvio to consider the release of a cat a import=
ant
event."
She replaced the letter in the book and after
selecting another novel forgot Silvio's epistle entirely.
Another time, when Alora happened to be at home
for their noon-day luncheon and her father did not appear, Jane Gladys quie=
tly
remarked in answer to her query that "th' ol' man was prob'ly over to =
the flyin'-machine
works."
"Does he go there often?" she asked =
in
surprise.
"Why, he mostly lives there," assert=
ed
the maid.
Alora laughed, and afterward told Mary Louise,=
as
a bit of humorous gossip, that the man who had heretofore failed to find any
interest in life had at last succumbed to the fascination of the aeroplane.=
"Well, I'm glad of it," said Mary
Louise. "I've often wondered, Lory, how your father could be so infatu=
ated
with novel-reading, absorbing stories of human interest, if they have any
interest at all, with such avidity, while the real people all around him fa=
iled
to interest him at all. I have thought perhaps he read to keep his mind
from--from other things that it would make him unhappy to dwell upon."=
"I have thought so, too," replied Al=
ora,
musingly. "And this queer fancy of his for a new and unusual invention=
may
serve the same purpose. But I, too, am glad he has found a diversion that w=
ill
keep him away from home. That barn of a cottage will become more homelike w=
ithout
his eternal presence."
Peter Conant, the lawyer, had paid little heed=
to
Jason Jones since the latter's arrival in Dorfield. He had heard his wife a=
nd
Irene gossip about the girl and her father and state that Alora was an heir=
ess
and Mr. Jones merely the guardian of her fortune until she came of age, but=
his
legal mind decided that the girl's "fortune" must be a modest one=
, since
they lived so economically and dressed so plainly. Colonel Hathaway, who mi=
ght
have undeceived him in this regard, seldom spoke to the lawyer of anything =
but
his own affairs and had forborne to mention Mr. Jones and his personal affa=
irs
in any way.
Therefore Mr. Conant was somewhat surprised wh=
en
one morning Jason Jones called at his office and asked for an interview. The
lawyer was busy that day, and attaching little importance to his caller he =
demanded
brusquely:
"Well, sir, what can I do for you?" =
The man seated himself and glanced around the =
room
before replying. The big desk, littered with papers, the cabinet files and
stiff chairs seemed to meet his approval. In the outer office a girl was bu=
sily
clicking a typewriter.
"You are Colonel Hathaway's lawyer, I
believe?" said Jones.
"I have that honor, sir."
"That's why I came to you. The Colonel is=
a
prosperous man and has judgment. I want your advice about investing some
money."
Peter Conant regarded him with a speculative g=
aze.
The thought flashed through his mind that if Jones had any money to invest =
he
might better buy himself a new necktie and have his shoes repaired, or even
invest in a new dress for his daughter, who needed it. But he merely said i=
n his
peculiar way of chopping each word off short as he uttered it:
"How much have you to invest?"
"Not a great deal at this moment, but I a=
m I
constantly receiving dividends and interest on my daughter's securities and=
so,
if I am going to live in Dorfield, I shall need a lawyer to advise me how t=
o reinvest
the money, as well as how to make out the papers properly. I don't want to =
make
any mistakes and get robbed--even by my lawyer. But I'll pay you a fair pri=
ce.
Perhaps I should explain that while the income is derived from my daughter's
property the investments are to be made in my name."
"Why so?"
"The income belongs to me, by my dead wif=
e's
will, as long as Alora is alive and in my keeping. When the girl is eighteen
she will manage her own affairs, and I'll be quit of her--and out of any
further income, as well. So I'm investing now to secure my future."
"I see. How old is your daughter at this
time?"
"Fifteen."
"So you've three years more to grab the
income."
"Exactly."
"How much money do you wish to invest
to-day?"
"Twelve thousand dollars."
Peter Conant sat up straight in his chair.
"And you say this is but part of the
income?"
"The estate is valued at nearly two milli=
on
dollars."
The lawyer gave a low whistle of amazement. Be=
side
this enormous sum, even Colonel Hathaway's holdings shrank into insignifica=
nce.
"You surprise me," he said. "I
imagine, then, that you can afford to live somewhat better than you do.&quo=
t;
"That is none of your business."
"True. Good day, Mr. Jones."
"Eh?"
"I won't accept you as a client."
"Why not, sir?"
"Thank you for asking. In the first place=
, I
don't like you," said Peter Conant. "Nor do I approve of your
treating your daughter--a great heiress--as you do, and hoarding all her
enormous income for your personal use. You're not toting fair. It is an unj=
ust
arrangement and I'll have nothing to do with it."
Jason Jones sat still and stared at him.
"Good day, sir!" repeated the lawyer,
curtly.
The man did not move. Peter turned to his pape=
rs.
"See here," the artist presently remarked; "let's come to an understanding. I don't like you, either. You're insulting. But you're honest, and I think I could trust you." <= o:p>
"I'm not especially honest," retorted
the lawyer, "but I'm particular. I don't need clients, and I don't wan=
t a
client I'm ashamed of."
Still the man did not offer to go. Instead, he
reflected for awhile in his stolid, unemotional way, while Peter Conant fro=
wned
and examined the papers on his desk.
"I believe you'll see the thing in a
different light if you read my wife's will," said Jones. "I've
brought a copy of it with me, thinking it might help you to understand my
affairs."
"Is it an attested copy?" asked the
lawyer, turning around again.
"Yes."
"Let me see it."
Mr. Conant decided to read the will, with the =
idea
that he might find in it some way to assist Alora. When he had finished the
document he was disappointed. Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, a woman clever
enough to make a fortune, had been foolish enough to give her former husban=
d autocratic
power over her money during her daughter's minority. Had the man been a
gentleman, the folly would have been mitigated, but Jason Jones, in Mr.
Conant's opinion, was a selfish, miserly, conscienceless rascal. Enjoying a
yearly income that was a small fortune in itself, he had neglected to educa=
te
his daughter properly, to clothe her as befitted her station in life or to =
show
her ordinary fatherly consideration. Affection and kindness seemed foreign =
to
the man's nature. He handed the will back and said:
"You have taken an unfair advantage of the
confidence reposed in you by your dead wife, who doubtless loved her child.
Legally your actions cannot be assailed, but morally they should ostracize =
you
from decent society. As I said before, I do not want your business. I'll ha=
ve nothing
to do with you."
Jones remained unruffled.
"I'm a stranger in the city," he
remarked. "Perhaps you will recommend me to some good lawyer."
"No. There are a score of lawyers in town.
Make your own choice."
The man rose and put on his hat.
"I said you were honest, and I was
right," he calmly remarked. "I'll say now that you are a fool, and
I'm right in that, also," and with these words he walked away.
That was his only protest to the humiliating
rebuff. He showed no anger. He did not seem annoyed. He simply rode down in=
the
elevator, examined the directory, and selected another lawyer in the same b=
uilding.
Mary Louise decided that Alora Jones improved =
on
acquaintance. There were many admirable traits in her character that had la=
in
dormant until developed by association with two girls of her own age who we=
re themselves
gentle and considerate. It is true that Alora at times was still headstrong=
and
willful and unable to bridle her tongue when irritated, but neither Mary Lo=
uise
nor Irene ever reproved her by word or look, so that she grew ashamed of her
outbursts and when at home her father aroused her to anger she fled to her =
girl
friends and sought in their companionship the antidote to her vexation. The=
two
friends had decided it was unwise to comment on Alora's unhappy family
relations and soon she discovered this and refrained from burdening them wi=
th
her home quarrels.
No one could witness Irene's patient resignati=
on
to misfortune without admiring her character and being touched by her brave=
ry
and gentleness, and association with this crippled girl was softening Alora=
's
hard and defiant nature wonderfully. Had the association continued it might
have redeemed the prospective heiress from many of the faults she had acqui=
red
through years of neglect and rebellion against fate, but the close triumvir=
ate
of girl friends was suddenly dissolved, early in July, by no less a person =
than
Will Morrison--a wealthy and kindly natured gentleman who was a friend of b=
oth the
Conants and Colonel Hathaway.
Will Morrison had purchased a yacht; it was
anchored in the breakwater near the Chicago Yacht Club, and its owner inten=
ded
making a summer trip through the Great Lakes and cordially invited the Cona=
nts
and Irene, and Mary Louise and Colonel Hathaway to accompany his party.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Conant at that time was il=
l.
She had contracted a lingering but mild form of spring fever that would keep
her in bed for weeks, and Irene, who was devoted to her aunt, would not lea=
ve
her to the mercies of a nurse. Mary Louise wanted to go, though, for the Mo=
rrisons
were delightful people and any yacht they purchased would be sure to be safe
and comfortable.
Since the Conants could not go, Mary Louise
suggested to her grandfather that they ask Will Morrison to invite Alora Jo=
nes,
and the Colonel approved the idea because he thought it would do Alora much=
good
to mingle with refined people such as were sure to form the yacht party. So,
when he answered Mr. Morrison's letter, he told him something of Alora and
asked permission to fetch her along.
"I'm not at all sure," he said to Ma=
ry
Louise, "that Mr. Jones will permit Alora to go with us."
"Nor am I," the girl replied; "=
but
perhaps Alora can coax him to consent. It might be a good idea for you to a=
sk
him, too, Gran'pa Jim."
"My dear!" he remonstrated, "do=
you
think I ought to hazard that man's sneers and insults, even to favor your
friend Alora?"
"No; I do not, Gran'pa Jim," she
laughingly rejoined. "That was a foolish suggestion, and I withdraw it=
. If
Alora fails, I'll speak to him myself. I'm not afraid of Jason Jones, and he
doesn't growl at me as he does at poor Lory."
They did not mention the proposal to Alora unt=
il
the Colonel had received a telegram from Will Morrison saying: "By all
means invite Miss Jones to join us. Knew her mother, once, and will be glad=
to
have her with us."
Alora was delighted at the prospect of a yacht=
ing
trip and decided at once that she would go, especially as Colonel Hathaway =
said
she would be Mary Louise's guest on the trip to Chicago and no money would =
be needed
for expenses. So she attacked her father in a somewhat original manner.
Mr. Jones had conceived a passion for flying a=
nd
had just purchased an aeroplane. He was to begin his lessons at once and wa=
s so
thoroughly immersed in his strange fancy that he paid little heed to anythi=
ng else.
His books were neglected. His former quiet life--amounting almost to physic=
al
inertion--had given place to a nervous and all-consuming desire to master t=
he
rather strenuous art of aviation. Alora was quite unaware of this
transformation, for as usual Jason Jones kept his own counsel and followed =
his
inclinations without conference with anyone. The girl knew that her father
haunted the aviation field, but anything that kept him amused away from home
was gratefully approved by her.
Usually the two breakfasted together in silenc=
e.
Lately Mr. Jones had hurried through with the meal so as to get away, and he
did not return for lunch. So on this important morning Alora said casually:=
"I'm going away for three or four
weeks."
"Where to?" he asked sharply, sudden=
ly
rousing from his abstraction.
"I'm going on a yachting trip with Mary
Louise and Colonel Hathaway. We're to be the guests of a Mr. Morrison and h=
is
wife, who own the yacht."
"Morrison? Morrison?" he repeated
suspiciously. Then, as if relieved: "I don't know any Morrisons."=
"Nor do I. They are old friends of the
Hathaways and the Conants, however."
"Well, you can't go. It's nonsense."=
"Why?"
"Yachts are dangerous. I don't want you
drowned."
"I'd be as safe on a yacht as I would be =
in
this house," she declared. "Do you think I intend to take any cha=
nces
with my life? Please remember that when I'm eighteen I shall have a fortune=
and
be able to lead an independent life--a pleasant life--a life in sharp contr=
ast
to this one. Therefore, I'm going to live to enjoy my money."
He gave her a shrewd look of approval. The
argument seemed to appeal to him. It quieted, to an extent, his fears for h=
er
safety.
"Anyhow," said Alora bluntly, "=
I'm
going, and I dare you to stop me."
He was silent a while, considering the
proposition. Just now he would be busy at the aviation field and in Colonel
Hathaway's charge the girl was likely to be quite safe. He was inclined to =
relax
his vigilance over his precious daughter, on this occasion.
"How long do the Hathaways expect to be
away?" he inquired.
"Mary Louise says we will surely be home
three weeks from the day we leave."
"Surely?"
"Without fail."
"H-m-m. It's a risk. Something might delay
you. Do you know what would happen if you left me for sixty days or more?&q=
uot;
"Of course I do. That will of my mother's
states that if at any time my devoted father develops any neglect of me, or
lack of interest in his darling daughter, such as allowing me to become
separated from him for longer than sixty days at one time, the court has the
privilege, at its option, of deposing him as administrator of my estate and
appointing another guardian. The other guardian, however, is to be paid a s=
alary
and the income, in that case, is to accrue to the benefit of my estate.&quo=
t;
"How did you learn all that?" he
demanded.
"You left a copy of the will lying around,
and I read it and made a copy of it for myself. I now know my mother's will=
by
heart. She suggests that if we must live together, 'in loving companionship=
,'
you will probably have me educated by tutors, at home, and her objection to=
girls'
schools--I wonder why?--was the principal reason she inserted the clause th=
at
we must never be separated. It would prevent you from sending me away to
school. But as for the tutors, I haven't yet made their acquaintance."=
"Tutors cost money," he said in a su=
rly
tone.
"I realize that; and while there is an
abundance of money, the will states that it is to be entirely in your contr=
ol.
But we've quarreled on that subject too many times already, without your
loosening your grip on the dollars. To get back to our subject, I assure yo=
u I
shall not be gone longer than twenty-one days, and the trip won't cost you =
a single
penny."
"When did you propose going?"
"We take the noon train on Monday for
Chicago."
He got his hat and left the house without anot=
her
word, leaving Alora exultant. She hurried over to tell Mary Louise the good
news.
"Did he really consent?" asked Mary
Louise.
"Well, he didn't forbid it," said the
girl, "and that's the same thing."
The train was late getting into Chicago that
Monday night. Colonel Hathaway took Mary Louise and Alora to the Blackingto=
n,
but the hotel was so crowded that the girls could not get adjoining rooms.
However, they secured rooms just across the hall from one another and the C=
olonel's
room was but two doors removed from that of his granddaughter, so the three
were not greatly separated.
"Never mind, dear," said Mary Louise=
, as
she kissed her friend good night; "to-morrow we go aboard the yacht, a=
nd
that will be our home for a long time."
"What time will you breakfast?" asked
Alora.
"Well, we're up late, and Gran'pa Jim lik=
es
to sleep mornings. Can you fast until half-past eight, Alora?"
"Yes, indeed," with a laugh. "I=
'm
used to somewhat early hours, so I shall probably be dressed by seven. But =
I'll
find plenty to amuse me until you are up, and I'll knock on your door at
eight-thirty."
But in the morning Alora failed to knock on Ma=
ry
Louise's door, as she had promised. The Colonel was ready for breakfast, ha=
ving
enjoyed a good night's rest, and Mary Louise said to him:
"Alora probably slept later than she expe=
cted
to. Shall I risk wakening her, Gran'pa Jim?"
"I think so," he replied. "She =
has
slept long enough, for a young girl."
Mary Louise ran across the hall and knocked at=
the
door of 216. She knocked again, for there was no answer. She did not dare c=
all
out, for fear of disturbing other guests of the hotel. The Colonel now came=
and
rapped upon the panels, but without any better result.
"I think she must have left her room and =
is
perhaps in the parlor, or in the hotel lobby," he said.
A chambermaid was passing through the hall and
overheard the remark.
"The party in 216 has been up a long time,
sir," she asserted. "I found the door ajar at six o'clock, and so=
I
went in and made up the room."
"Poor Alora!" exclaimed Mary Louise
laughingly; "she was too excited to sleep, and, as you say, we shall
probably find her somewhere about the hotel, enjoying the sights."
But they could not find the girl anywhere in t=
he
hotel. After a long and careful search for her, Colonel Hathaway left word =
at
the desk that if his room or Mary Louise's room was called, to report that =
they
would be found in the breakfast room.
The old gentleman was distinctly annoyed as th=
ey
sat down to breakfast.
"The foolish girl is wandering about the
streets, somewhere," he complained, "and it was unmannerly to lea=
ve
the hotel without consulting me, since she is our guest and in my care.&quo=
t;
Mary Louise's sweet face wore a troubled
expression.
"It is not like Alora, Gran'pa Jim,"=
she
asserted in defense of her friend. "Usually I have found her quite
considerate." Then, after a pause: "I--I hope nothing has happene=
d to
her."
"Don't worry," he replied. "She=
's a
wide-awake girl and has a tongue in her head, so she can't get lost. Why, M=
ary
Louise, Alora knows the city well, for she used to live in Chicago with her
mother."
"Until she was eleven. That was four years
ago. But I did not think of her getting lost. The automobiles, you know, ar=
e so
thick----"
"Yes, dear; and there's the lake, and the
railroad crossings, and the street cars; but the chances are against our li=
ttle
friend's being drowned or run over, especially so early in the day, when th=
ere
isn't much traffic. Again I ask you not to worry."
But Mary Louise couldn't help worrying. They
lingered over the breakfast, but Alora did not join them. Then they waited =
around
the hotel until nearly noon, without receiving a word from her. Finally Col=
onel
Hathaway, too, became nervous. He telephoned the central police station to
inquire if a young girl of Alora's description had met with an accident. Th=
ere
was no record of such an accident, but in half an hour a detective came to =
the
hotel and asked for the Colonel.
"Tell me all the particulars of the young
lady's disappearance, please," he requested.
When he had received this information he said:=
"Let us go to her room."
The key to No. 216 had not been turned in at t=
he
office, but was missing. With a pass-key they unlocked the door of Alora's =
room
and found her suit case open, her toilet articles lying upon the dresser and
her nightrobe neatly folded ready for packing. Her hat was missing, however,
and the little jacket she wore with her tailored suit.
The detective touched nothing but examined the
room and its contents with professional care.
"Let us call the chambermaid who made up =
the
room," he suggested.
The woman was easily found and when she appear=
ed
the detective asked:
"Did you fold this nightrobe, or did you =
find
it already folded?"
"Why, it was lyin' careless-like over the
foot of the bed," said she, "so I folded it up."
"Why didn't you hang it in the closet?&qu=
ot;
"The clerk had notified me the room would=
be
vacated to-day. So I knew that when the young lady came back she'd want to =
pack
it in her grip."
"And at what time did you find the door
ajar?"
"At six-ten, sir. I come on duty at
six."
"You did not see Miss Jones?"
"No, sir--if that were the lady's name.&q=
uot;
"You found no one prowling about the
halls?"
"Didn't see a soul, sir."
"Thank you; that's all."
When she had gone the detective said to the
Colonel in a reassuring tone:
"I wouldn't worry, sir, although I'll adm=
it
this prolonged absence of Miss Jones is puzzling. But perhaps she has gone =
to
call on an old friend and will presently return and apologize. I remember h=
er
mother-- a remarkable woman, sir--who used to live at the Voltaire. She had=
a lot
of friends in Chicago, did Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, so it's likely her
daughter is looking some of them up."
"I wish you would do all you can to locate
her," pleaded Colonel Hathaway. "The young girl was placed in my =
care
by her father and I feel personally responsible for her safety."
"She's safe enough, sir. No sign of a
struggle in her room; no report of an accident in the city. Went out of her=
own
volition and will probably come back the same way, when she's ready. I'm go=
ing
back to the office now, but I'll instruct our men to keep a good lookout fo=
r Miss
Jones. If we hear anything, I'll let you know at once. In the meantime, if =
the
girl happens to turn up, you must telephone me of the fact."
He handed the Colonel his card and went away. =
"This is dreadful, Gran'pa Jim!" exc=
laim
Mary Louise. "That man can't help us a bit. What do you think we ought=
to
do?"
"Why, we've done all in our power, alread=
y,
it seems to me," he answered. "The police will keep a good lookout
for Alora."
"I've no confidence in that detective.&qu=
ot;
"Why not, my dear? He seemed quite courte=
ous
and gentlemanly."
"But he isn't especially interested. He
didn't probe far enough into the case. He never asked why the key to Alora's
door was missing, yet the maid found the door ajar--half open," said M=
ary
Louise. "Would she take the key and leave the door open?"
"Why--no; that is strange, Mary Louise.&q=
uot;
"The detective didn't inquire at the offi=
ce
whether the night clerk had seen Alora pass through and go out. But I inqui=
red,
Gran'pa, and the night clerk goes off duty at six o'clock, when the relief
clerk comes on, but neither saw any girl at all leave the office. No one wa=
s in
the hotel lobby, at that hour."
"That is strange, too! How could Alora get
out, otherwise?"
"I can't guess. Gran'pa, I'm going to
telegraph Josie O'Gorman, and ask her advice," said Mary Louise.
"Do. It's a good idea, Josie might put us=
on
the right track," approved the Colonel.
So Mary Louise went to the telegraph office in=
the
hotel lobby and sent the following message:
"Josie O'Gorman, 1225 F Street, Washingto=
n,
D. C.
"A girl friend has mysteriously disappear=
ed
from the Blackington, where we are stopping. What shall I do? Mary Louise
Burrows."
Two hours later she received this answer:
"Miss Mary Louise Burrows, Hotel Blacking=
ton,
Chicago.
"Notify police at once. Keep cool. I'm
coming. Josie O'Gorman."
Mary Louise felt tremendously relieved when she
read this. Josie was a girl of her own age, but she was the daughter of one=
of
the most celebrated secret service men in the employ of the United States g=
overnment,
and John O'Gorman had trained Josie from babyhood in all the occult details=
of
his artful profession. It was his ambition that some day this daughter would
become a famous female detective, but he refused to allow her to assume
professional duties until she had become thoroughly qualified to excel. He =
did
not wish her to be ordinary, but extraordinary, and Josie's talents, so far,
had seemed to justify his expectations. Mary Louise knew Josie very well and
admired and loved her, for in her amateur way Josie had once helped to solv=
e a
stubborn mystery that threatened the happiness of both the old Colonel and =
his granddaughter,
and through this experience the two girls had become friends. Josie O'Gorman
was devoted to Mary Louise, who knew she could rely on Josie's judgment in =
this
emergency but had scarcely expected her to come all the way from Washington=
to
Chicago to render her personal assistance.
In appearance the young girl--who was destined=
some
day to become a great detective--was not especially prepossessing. She was
short of form and inclined to be stout--"chubby," she called hers=
elf.
She had red hair, a freckled face and a turned-up nose. But her eyes, round=
and
blue and innocent in expression as those of a baby, dominated her features =
and
to an extent redeemed their plainness.
Mary Louise hurried to the Colonel.
"Gran'pa Jim," she cried excitedly,
"Josie is coming!"
"That is very good of her," replied =
the
Colonel, highly pleased. "Josie is very resourceful and while she may =
not
be able to trace Alora she will at least do all in her power, and perhaps h=
er
clever little brain will be able to fathom the mystery of the girl's
disappearance."
"She tells us to notify the police, but we
did that at once. I don't know of anything else we can do, Gran'pa, until J=
osie
comes."
Colonel Hathaway communicated with the police
office several times that day and found the officials courteous but
calm--prolific of assurances, but not especially concerned. This was but on=
e of
a number of peculiar cases that daily claimed their attention.
"I should hire a private detective, were =
not
Josie coming," he told Mary Louise; "but of course it is possible=
we
shall hear of Alora, directly or indirectly, before morning."
But they did not hear, and both passed a
miserable, wakeful, anxious night.
"There is no use in our consulting Alora'a
father, for the present," remarked the old gentleman, next morning.
"The news would only worry him. You remember how very particular he wa=
s in
charging me to guard his daughter's safety."
"Yes, and I know why," replied Mary
Louise. "Alora has told me that if she is lost, strayed or stolen for
sixty days, her father might be relieved of his guardianship and lose the
income he enjoys. Now, I wonder, Gran'pa Jim, if Alora has purposely lost
herself, with mischievous intent, so as to get rid of her father, whom she
abhors?"
The Colonel considered this thoughtfully.
"I think not," he decided. "The
girl is impulsive and at times reckless, and doubtless she would like to be
free from her father's guardianship; but I am sure she is too fond of you, =
and
has too much respect for me, to run away from us without a word. Besides, s=
he
has no money."
"Really," said Mary Louise desponden=
tly,
"it is the strangest thing I ever knew."
Josie O'Gorman arrived at the hotel at six o'c=
lock
in the afternoon, having caught the fast train from Washington the evening
before. She came in as unconcernedly as if she had lived at the hotel and
merely been out to attend a matinee and greeted the Colonel with a bright s=
mile
and Mary Louise with a kiss.
"My, but I'm hungry!" were her first
words. "I hope you haven't dined yet?"
"Oh, Josie," began Mary Louise, on t=
he
verge of tears, "this dreadful----"
"I know, dear; but we must eat. And let's=
not
talk or think of the trouble till our stomachs are in a comfortable conditi=
on.
Which way is the dining room?"
Neither the Colonel nor Mary had eaten much si=
nce
Alora's disappearance, but they took Josie in to dinner, realizing it would=
be impossible
to get her to talk seriously or to listen to them until she was quite ready=
to
do so. And during the meal Josie chattered away like a magpie on all sorts =
of
subjects except that which weighed most heavily on their minds, and the lit=
tle
thing was so bright and entertaining that they were encouraged to dine more
heartily than they otherwise would have done.
But afterward, when they had adjourned to a su=
ite
that had now been given them, and which included a cosy little sitting room,
and after the Colonel had been ordered to light his cigar, which always
composed his nerves, the O'Gorman girl suddenly turned serious and from the=
depths
of an easy chair, with her hands clasped behind her red head, she said:
"Now to business. Begin at the beginning =
and
tell me all there is to tell."
"Haven't I written you something about Al=
ora,
Josie?" asked Mary Louise.
"Never mind whether you have or haven't.
Imagine I've forgotten it. I want every detail of the girl's history."=
So Mary Louise told it, with a few comments fr=
om
her grandfather. She began with their first meeting with Alora and her
eccentric father in Italy, and related not only all the details of their
acquaintance but such facts as Alora had confided to her of her mother's de=
ath
and her subsequent unhappy relations with her father and guardian. Alora ha=
d often
talked freely to Mary Louise, venting in her presence much bitterness and
resentment over her cruel fate--as she deemed it. So, knowing Josie's desir=
e to
obtain the most seemingly trifling detail of a case, Mary Louise told the s=
tory
as connectedly and comprehensively as possible, avoiding all personal comme=
nt
so as to leave Josie's mind free from prejudice.
During the recital Josie sat very still, with
closed eyes, reclining lazily in her chair and refraining from any
interruption.
"Now, Colonel," she said, "tell=
me
all that Mary Louise has forgotten to mention."
"She has told you more than I knew
myself," he declared. "Of course we informed the police of our
friend's disappearance and they sent a detective here who went into the aff=
air
very carefully. Yet, so far----"
"I know," said Josie, nodding. "=
;I
called at the police station before I came here, on leaving the train. The
detective is Al Howard, and he's a nice fellow but rather stupid. You mustn=
't
expect any results from that source. To be sure, the department might stumb=
le
on a clew, but the chances are they wouldn't recognize it, even then."=
"I'm certainly surprised to hear that!&qu=
ot;
said the Colonel.
"Because you are ignorant of police metho=
ds.
They mean well, but have so much to handle, in a big city like this, that t=
hey
exist in a state of perpetual bewilderment."
"But what are we to do?" pleaded Mary
Louise. "Tell us, Josie!"
"How do I know?" asked the girl, wit=
h a
smile. "I'm just Josie O'Gorman, a student detective, who makes as many
blunders--alas!--as a full-fledged 'tec.' But I thought I'd be able to help=
, or
I wouldn't have come. I've a personal interest in this case, Mary Louise,
because it's your case and I love you. So let's get to work. Have you a pho=
tograph
of Alora Jones?"
"No," was the reply.
"Then give me a word picture of her."=
;
Both Mary Louise and the Colonel tried to do,
this, and Josie seemed satisfied.
"Now, then," she said, rising,
"let's go to her room. I hope it hasn't been disturbed since she left
it."
"The police have taken the key and forbid=
den
anyone to enter the room."
"Quite proper. But we'll go there, just t=
he
same."
The room was but a few steps away, in the same
corridor, and when they arrived there Josie drew a bunch of slender keys fr=
om
her purse and unlocked the door with no difficulty. Having entered, she tur=
ned
on the electric lights and cast a curious glance around.
"Let's read Alora's room," said she,
while her companions stood listening. "To begin with, we see her
night-dress nicely folded and her toilet articles arranged in neat order on=
the
dresser. Chambermaid did that, for Alora is not neat. Proving that her stuff
was just strewn around and the orderly maid put things straight. Which lead=
s to
the supposition that Alora was led away rather suddenly."
"Oh, do you think so?"
"She left the door ajar, but took the key.
Intended, of course, to lock her room, but was so agitated by what she saw =
or
heard that she forgot and just walked away."
"But no one saw her leave the hotel,"
observed Mary Louise.
"Then she didn't pass through the office,=
but
through the less used Ladies' Entrance at the side."
"That was not unlocked, they told me, unt=
il
after seven o'clock."
"Then she left by the servants'
entrance."
"The servants'!"
"Quite likely. You'll say she didn't know
anything about it, or where it was; but the fact remains that Alora left the
hotel. I'd like to see that chambermaid. I believe you told me she comes on
duty at six o'clock in the morning. All right. I'll catch her at six a. m. =
to-morrow."
"The detective interviewed her," sta=
ted
Colonel.
"I know, and she answered all his questio=
ns.
My questions will be different. If Alora used the servants' entrance, she w=
ent
out with a servant or with someone who knew the ways of the hotel
intimately."
"I don't see that," objected Mary
Louise.
"Nor do I, but there lies our trail. Alora
didn't pass out through the office, nor did she make her exit through the l=
ess
public Ladies' Entrance. There are only two other ways to get out of here:
through the baggage door and by the servants' entrance at the rear, which l=
ets
into an alley. The head porter will know whether Alora went out the baggage=
door,
but as it's usually very high--on a level with the platform of a baggage-wa=
gon--I
don't believe she jumped it. That leaves the servants' entrance as the prob=
able
exit for our missing one, and as she was a perfect stranger to the arrangem=
ents
of this hotel, she couldn't have gone that way unless someone guided her. So
our course is clear, Mary Louise. Find out who enticed Alora from the hotel=
and
it won't be difficult to trace her and discover what has become of her.&quo=
t;
"Enticed, Josie?"
"Had force been used, she would have scre=
amed
and attracted attention. Let us say she was decoyed."
"You think, then, that Alora was
kidnapped?"
"Let us reason. The girl couldn't have ha=
d an
enemy in Chicago, according to her history, for she was only eleven when she
left here and no one hates an eleven year old child. Having no enemy, she h=
as doubtless
escaped personal harm. But Alora is an heiress, and a lot of people in Chic=
ago
know that. You suggest kidnapping. Well, perhaps that's the solution: held =
for
ransom."
"That would be the first idea of Jason Jo=
nes!"
exclaimed Mary Louise. "He has always seemed afraid of such a thing.&q=
uot;
"In that case, however, I do not believe =
her
father would pay a ransom," declared Colonel Hathaway.
"Oh, indeed he would!" asserted Mary
Louise, emphatically; "we mustn't forget that if Alora isn't found and
restored to him within a given time he will lose all her income for the next
three years."
Josie looked at her friend admiringly. Then she
laughed.
"You're a better detective than any of
us," she remarked. "What I've been groping for is the object of t=
he
abduction, and you've hit the nail squarely on the head. Now we're getting =
down
to brass tacks, so to speak. The whole thing is explained by the one
word--'blackmail.' Girl disappears; papa is threatened with the lose of tho=
usands.
Very well, Papa! pay up. Relinquish a part of the income and you may keep t=
he rest.
Refuse, and you lose it all. Ergo, papa pays."
"That certainly seems a logical
conclusion," admitted the Colonel.
"Then," said Josie, thoughtfully,
"we must decide whether to put it up to Mr. Jones, and let him pay, or=
to
go on with the search."
"We'll go on!" exclaimed Mary Louise.
"We may be wrong, and poor Alora may be in danger, or suffering. We mu=
st
rescue her as soon as possible."
"The girl was in my care," said the
Colonel, "and I feel responsible for her safety. Moreover blackmail is=
a
crime against society, and the plot should be foiled even were we not
interested in the victim of it. I am anxious to find Alora before her fathe=
r is
approached."
"Then," Josie decided, "we will
leave no stone unturned in our efforts to locate and recover her. If we have
diagnosed the case correctly, we have to deal with a shrewd and unprinciple=
d,
if not clever person. Cleverness, too, we may encounter, and then our task =
will
be doubly hard."
"Poor, dear Alora!" sighed Mary Loui=
se.
"It's a shame she should suffer because some cruel person wants her
father's money. The fortune her mother left her has been a misfortune to her
daughter, instead of a blessing."
"Money," said Josie sententiously,
"is a dangerous thing. Its possession, or the lack of it, leads to
four-fifths of the world's crimes. The other one-fifth is charged to hatred=
and
jealousy. But-- dear me!--here I am philosophizing, when I ought to be
thinking."
"Then think, Josie, and think to some
purpose," pleaded Mary Louise.
"If our hastily constructed theory is
correct," remarked John O'Gorman's daughter, "Papa Jones will soon
hear from Alora's abductor, with a financial proposition."
"I hope we shall find her before then,&qu=
ot;
returned the Colonel earnestly. "We ought not to delay an instant, with
that idea in view. Indeed, our theory may be quite wrong and Alora be in
desperate need of immediate assistance."
"Correct, sir," agreed Josie. "=
But
we won't abandon our theory until we evolve a better one and in following t=
his
lead we must first discover who in Chicago is aware of the terms of the wil=
l of
Antoinette Seaver Jones. Also who is familiar enough with Papa Jones' love =
of
money to believe he can be successfully blackmailed. What information can
either of you give me along those lines?"
"Alora has talked to Irene a good deal ab=
out
that dreadful will," replied Mary Louise, "Irene has repeated man=
y of
her statements to me. Also Alora has frankly spoken to me, at times, and her
queer history has interested us all. But I cannot remember that any such pe=
rson
as you describe is in any way mixed up with the story. Judge Bernsted drew =
up
the will for Alora's mother. He was her lawyer, and she trusted him fully.&=
quot;
"She was justified," declared Josie.
"I know of Judge Bernsted, by reputation. He died a year ago."
"Then," continued Mary Louise,
reflectively, "there was Mrs. Jones' doctor, who was very kind to Alora
and who also enjoyed her mother's confidence. His name was Anstruther--Dr.
Anstruther."
"He is a prominent physician in
Chicago," declared Josie, who seemed to know every important person of
every locality, for this had been part of her education. "It is imposs=
ible
that Dr. Anstruther could have any knowledge of this plot. Moreover, it doe=
sn't
seem to me like a man's plot. I don't believe Alora would have accompanied a
strange man, under any circumstances, for she's knocked around the world en=
ough
to have learned prudence. The crime is feminine. What woman knew of this wi=
ll, and
was an intimate friend of Mrs. Jones, or of Mr. Jones?"
"Really," said Mary Louise, "I
don't know."
"Nor you, Colonel?"
"I do not recollect hearing of any woman
connected with the Jones history--except Alora's former governess, a Miss G=
orham,
who was discharged by Mr. Jones at the time he took his daughter from Chica=
go to
New York."
"That isn't such a bad clew!" Josie
quickly returned, sitting up straight and staring reflectively at the old
gentleman. "Miss Gorham, eh? Now, how long had she been Alora's
governess?"
"For some years, I believe." It was =
Mary
Louise who answered this question.
"Then she doubtless knew the family secre=
ts.
Was Alora fond of her?"
"I think not. She has told me that at the
time they separated she was glad to be rid of the woman."
"Then the woman may be the kind that would
resort to blackmail. Discharged from a good place, where she had drawn pay =
for
years, she would be angry. Brooded during the last four years on her imagin=
ed wrongs
and figured out a neat revenge. Had sized up Papa Jones and knew he clung to
money with a desperate grip and would pay some rather than lose all. Couldn=
't
get another job; was poor; had no money to chase up Jones, but figured he w=
ould
some time return to Chicago and give her an opportunity play her game.
Discovered that Alora had arrived at this hotel, and----See here! What would
prevent the former governess, now in reduced circumstances, from being empl=
oyed
as a servant in this very hotel? Perhaps as a night chambermaid. May have s=
een Alora
enter her room and recognized her former pupil. During the long night she
figured and planned how to take advantage of the fortunate circumstances. E=
arly
in the morning, before she left here, went to Alora and in some way induced=
the
girl to go out with her. Alora would accompany her old governess without
suspicion. So--there's the whole story, in a nutshell, rather cleverly figu=
red
out."
"Oh, Josie, it must be true!" cried =
Mary
Louise, who had eagerly followed this plausible reasoning.
"And it may not," laughed Josie.
"It's just a theory, and good detectives distrust theories, which often
befog clever brains. Still, the deduction sounds mighty logical. I'm going =
to
my room, now, to give the suggestion some serious thought. I'll try to tear=
it
to pieces, or at least to pick holes in it. When I came away Daddy said to =
me: 'Josie,
beware that imagination of yours. If it asserts itself, sit on it.' Daddy w=
as
glad to have me tackle the case, and try to help you, for these little affa=
irs
give me practice; but he hates to have me make a flat failure. So, for dear=
old
Daddy's sake, I'm not going to let any good-looking theory lead me astray. =
Good
night. You'd both better go to bed, for I can see you had little sleep last
night. But your strain must now relax, for you've pushed the responsibility
onto my poor little shoulders and now it's up to me to worry."
Josie O'Gorman loved mysteries for their own s=
ake.
She loved them because they required solutions, and to solve a mystery is n=
ot
only interesting but requires a definite amount of talent. Since she was a =
wee
thing perched on her father's knee, Officer O'Gorman had flooded her ears w=
ith
the problems he daily encountered, had turned the problems inside out and
canvassed them from every possible viewpoint, questioning the child if this=
, or
that, was most probable. By this odd method he not only enjoyed the society=
of
his beloved daughter but argued himself, through shrewd reasoning, into a l=
ucid
explanation of many puzzling cases. To his pleased surprise, as little Josie
grew older she began to answer his questions, taking a part in his professi=
onal
arguments with himself, and from that time her training as a detective bega=
n.
John O'Gorman had never been quite sure whether
his fatherly adoration unduly influenced him or whether Josie was indeed an
exceptionally talented girl; so, having firmly determined to train her to
become a girl detective, he had so far held her in leash, permitting her to=
investigate
various private cases but refusing to place her in professional work--such =
as
the secret service--until she had gained experience and acquired confidence=
in
herself. Confidence was the one thing Josie lacked most. She took her mista=
kes
too much to heart.
The girl was full of enthusiasm, however, and =
now
meant to untangle the mystery of Alora Jones if it were possible to do so, =
both
to please Mary Louise and to enjoy the satisfaction of success. After saying
good night to her friends, and before going to her own room, the girl wande=
red
about the big hotel making casual inquiries and obtaining more or less usef=
ul
information. Afterward, she sat in her room and arranged in her mind the
complete history of Alora, so far as she was informed of it, and made notes=
of
all facts which seemed to bear on the present problem.
Next morning she inquired for the housekeeper =
and
found that lady seated in her little office on the third floor of the hotel=
.
"I'm trying to trace one of the servants =
who
left you Monday night, or early Tuesday morning," she said, after
informing the woman that she was engaged in tracing the missing girl, Alora
Jones. "I am not sure what name you knew her by, but her real name was
Gorham."
"No one has left us this week," retu= rned the housekeeper, who seemed disposed to converse freely with her visitor. <= o:p>
"Are you sure of that?"
"Why, I'm positive. We treat our help well
and they seldom leave us. I'm sure no woman employed in this hotel, down to=
the
lowest kitchen scullion, has resigned or been discharged during the last few
days."
"And there is no one still in your service
named Gorham?"
"No one. It's an unusual name and I should
have remembered it."
"Do any of the guests ever use the servan=
ts'
entrance?"
"Certainly not. It is reserved exclusively
for the employees. Some of our guests have private maids, who occasionally =
use
the rear entrances, and Mrs. Tolliver's trained nurses are allowed to pass =
out
that way, too; but----"
She stopped abruptly, as if some new thought h=
ad
occurred to her.
"What is it?" asked Josie, who was
watching her face.
"Why, I have just recollected that Mrs.
Tolliver's night nurse did not show up Tuesday evening, for some reason, and
they were obliged to telephone for another."
"Who is Mrs. Tolliver?"
"One of our permanent guests, who is suff=
ering
just now from a severe attack of rheumatism. She employs two trained nurses=
, a
day nurse and a night nurse."
"And the night nurse left her post Tuesday
morning and did not return in the evening, as she was expected to do?"=
"That's it, miss. Mrs. Tolliver was great=
ly
annoyed, but fortunately she was able to secure another nurse at once."=
;
"What was the nurse's name--the one who
abandoned her job without notice?"
"Let me see. It wasn't Gorham. I'll call
Alice, my assistant; I feel quite sure that she will know."
Alice promptly answered the bell and on being
questioned said:
"The nurse was Mrs. Orme. She'd been with
Mrs. Tolliver ever since she was took sick, and was the best nurse she's
had."
"Why did she leave?" asked Josie.
"I don't know, miss, I'm sure. She were a
quiet body, never sayin' much to no one. But quite ladylike, she were, an' =
most
of us liked her."
"Can you describe her?"
"Well, she isn't tall--not so very tall, =
you
know--an' she's got a good form an' good manners. I take it she's about
thirty-five, an' handsome for her age. Good eyes, but mostly looks down an'
don't show 'em. Very neat an' tidy. Brown hair. She wore gray clothes, you
know--the reg'lar nurse's uniform."
"Do you know where Mrs. Orme lives?"=
"No, miss; haven't the faintest idea.&quo=
t;
"Who is Mrs. Tolliver's doctor?"
"The house physician, Dr. Pease. His offi=
ce
is No. 633, in this hotel."
"Thank you, Alice."
Josie hunted up Mary Louise.
"Have you ever heard that a trained nurse
named Mrs. Orme is in any way connected with Alora's history?" she ask=
ed.
"No; I'm pretty sure Alora has never
mentioned such a person. What about her, Josie?
"I think Alora went away with her. Have y=
ou
any description of Miss Gorham, the governess?"
"Not especially," said Mary Louise, =
trying
to remember. "Alora has sometimes referred to her as 'Old Skinny,' but
that doesn't mean anything."
"It means she isn't Mrs. Orme, anyhow,&qu=
ot;
answered Josie, in a disappointed tone.
Mary Louise considered this in her usual caref=
ul
way. She would like to help Josie, if she could.
"Who do you suppose this Mrs. Orme could
be?" she presently asked.
"Some one whom Alora knew years ago, when=
her
mother was alive. Of course her name may not have been Orme, then, and she =
may
not have been a trained nurse. That's why I was inclined to connect her with
Gorham."
"Wait a minute, Josie! A nurse, do you sa=
y?
Why, I remember something about a nurse, no--Alora's mother's nurse. When we
were in Italy, where I first knew Alora, she told me that her father, at one
time when they lived in New York, had been forced to give money to a woman,=
and
Alora believed he had left America to escape this person's further demands.=
When
I asked who the woman was, she said it was her mother's nurse; but I'm pret=
ty
sure she didn't mention her name."
Josie's freckled face now wore a broad smile. =
"How simple any enigma proves when you ha=
ve
the key," she remarked, with an air of relief. "The mystery is
solved, my dear! It's all as easy as A. B. C."
"In that case," said Mary Louise, mo=
re
mystified than ever, "kindly oblige me with the key."
"With pleasure. You haven't given me much
time to forge a chain, so I'll add each link as it occurs to me. Mrs. Jones,
during her last illness, had a nurse; a good nurse, too, in whom she had
confidence. When Mrs. Jones sent for her husband, from whom she had been
estranged, the nurse was aware of the action. When the husband came--Alora'=
s father--without
doubt the nurse remained in the sick room during the interview. Husband and
wife quarreled, instead of making up--this guess is justified by the man's
disagreeable disposition--and Mrs. Jones hastily wrote a codicil to her will
and gave it into the nurse's keeping, with instructions to deliver it to her
lawyer. Then the poor lady over-excited, lay back and died, and the man Jas=
on
Jones--realized that his lack of diplomacy had euchred him out of a big inc=
ome
for seven years. But he put up a job with the nurse who held his fate in her
hands in the shape of scrap of paper. If she'd give him that codicil--no! t=
hat
isn't right--if she'd keep it to herself and not let anyone know of its
existence, Mr. Jones proposed to give her a share of the money. She conside=
red
this easier than working and the bargain was struck. Isn't that a logical c=
hain
of events, so far, Mary Louise?"
"But what a terrible thing to do,
Josie!"
"Yes, human nature in its worst aspect
selfishness, greed, unscrupulousness--and still human nature. Well, the wom=
an
followed him to New York and got some of the money, as Alora said; but the
nurse wanted more, and was likely to bleed the man more liberally than he l=
iked;
so, being afraid of her, he ran away to Europe. Nurse spent her money, coul=
dn't
find Jason Jones to get more, and so returned to Chicago and practiced her
profession again. Any dummy could figure that out."
"I cannot see," responded Mary Louis=
e,
"how that accounts for Alora's disappearance."
"Why, of course the woman knew all about =
the
terms of the will. She was nursing a Mrs. Tolliver in this hotel when she
discovered Alora's arrival. How she discovered it doesn't matter. In the
morning, when the day nurse arrived to take her place, she left Mrs. Tolliv=
er
and went directly to Alora's room. The girl instantly recognized her and wo=
uld probably
have a warm place in her heart for her mother's old nurse. Decided to walk =
part
of the way home with her so they could talk over old times--you and the Col=
onel
being still asleep--but was enticed to the nurse's house and promptly locke=
d up
and held as a weapon to force old Jones to pay up. This completes the chain=
. A
woman who would enter into such an ugly deal with Jason Jones as I have
described would not hesitate to capture Alora, especially as it proved an e=
asy
thing to do."
Mary Louise drew a long breath. "If I cou=
ld
believe that theory, Josie," she said, "it would relieve me of mu=
ch
worry, for I'd know Alora is safe. But--what was it your father said about =
your
imagination?"
Josie laughed. "This isn't wholly
imagination, you goose, for it's based on a knowledge of human nature, as I=
've
hinted. Also it's a scientific matching of the pieces in the puzzle. Why, M=
ary
Louise, in this deduction we have all the necessary elements of the usual
crime. A woman--always look for a woman in a mystery, my dear--money, the c=
ause
of four-fifths of all crimes, and a guilty man who is afraid of being force=
d to
disgorge his ill-gotten gains. Then we will add an innocent girl who suffers
through the machinations of others. Some of my conclusions may not be exact=
ly
correct, but in the main the story is absolutely logical."
"That's what you said last night, Josie, =
when
you thought the governess, Gorham, had abducted Alora."
"True, but I have later information which
doesn't entirely upset the theory but changes the actors in the drama. I do=
n't
say that further investigations may not alter this present plot in some of =
its
details, but the main facts are too lucid and undeniable to get far away fr=
om. I'm
now going to interview the house physician and get Mrs. Orme's address.&quo=
t;
When she had gone, Mary Louise went to Gran'pa=
Jim
with the tale of Josie's latest discoveries and Colonel Hathaway was so
impressed by the theory that he decided to telegraph Peter Conant to catch =
the
noon train and come straight to Chicago.
"The complications suggested by Josie will
require a lawyer's advice," he said, "and Mr. Conant knows law and
can advise us how to handle the case when we have discovered where Alora is
confined."
Meanwhile Josie went to the doctor's office and
after waiting some time, was finally admitted to his private room.
"I came to ask for the address of a train=
ed
nurse--a Mrs. Orme--whom you recommended to Mrs. Tolliver," she began,=
her
innocent eyes regarding the physician gravely.
Dr. Pease frowned.
"I cannot recommend her again," said=
he.
"Although she's a good nurse, she is unreliable, and left my patient
without notice when she was badly needed."
"I merely want to find her," declared
Josie. "I'm a stranger in town and I've a letter of introduction to Mr=
s.
Orme."
"I don't know her address. I got the woman
through Dr. Anstruther."
"Oh. May I telephone Dr. Anstruther,
then?"
"I've no objection. There's a telephone in
the outer office. But you're not likely to catch him much before noon. Dr.
Anstruther is a very busy man."
Josie went to her own room to telephone. She
telephoned Dr. Anstruther's office at intervals all the morning, but did not
succeed in getting him until nearly two o'clock. Then he answered that he d=
id not
know Mrs. Orme's address, having always secured her services through the
Sisters' Hospital.
Josie tried the Sisters' Hospital and learned =
that
Mrs. Orme lived in an apartment at 524 Morgan Avenue. She took a taxicab and
drove there, determining to obtain an interview with the woman by posing as=
a
nurse who desired assistance in securing employment. But disappointment con=
fronted
her. Mrs. Orme had moved from the apartment ten days ago and her present
address was unknown.
"She has taken considerable pains to cover
her traces," said Josie to Mary Louise, when she returned from her fut=
ile
trip.
"I hope you're not discouraged, dear,&quo=
t;
returned Mary Louise anxiously. "The local detectives have done nothin=
g at
all, so you are our only hope, Josie."
The embryo detective smiled sweetly.
"I'm not here on a pleasure trip," s=
he
said, "although I enjoy travel and good hotel fodder as well as anyone.
This is business, but so far I'm just feeling my way and getting a start. Y=
ou
can't open a mystery as you do a book, Mary Louise; it has to be pried open.
The very fact that this Mrs. Orme has so carefully concealed her hiding-pla=
ce
is assurance that she's the guilty party who abducted Alora. Being positive=
of
that, it only remains to find her--not an impossibility, by any means--and =
then
we shall have no difficulty in liberating her prisoner."
"But to find her; can you do that,
Josie?"
"Certainly, with a little help from the
police, which they will gladly furnish. They know I'm Daddy's daughter, for=
I
have already introduced myself to them, and while they may be slow to take =
the
initiative they are always quite willing to aid in an affair of this sort. =
Now,
it stands to reason, Mary Louise, that the nurse didn't use the streets to =
promenade
with. Alora. That would have been dangerous to her plans. There are so few
people abroad in Chicago at six o'clock in the morning that those who met t=
he
two would have noted and remembered them. For the same reason Mrs. Orme did=
not
take a street car, or the elevated. Therefore, she took a cab, and the cabm=
an
who drove them will know Mrs. Orme's address."
"But who was the cabman?" asked Mary
Louise.
"That," said Josie, "is to be my
next discovery."
The excitement of being once more in a big city
rendered Alora Jones wakeful on that eventful Tuesday morning following her
arrival in Chicago. At daybreak she rose and peered trough the window into a
gray and unimpressive side street; then, disinclined to return to bed, she =
slowly
began dressing.
Presently a sharp knock sounded upon her door.
Somewhat surprised, she opened it far enough to see a middle-aged woman att=
ired
in nurse's uniform standing in the dim hallway.
"Miss Jones? Miss Alora Jones?"
questioned the woman in a soft voice.
"Yes; what is it?"
"I've a message for you. May I come in?&q=
uot;
Alora, fearful that Mary Louise or the Colonel
might have been taken suddenly ill, threw wide the door and allowed the wom=
an
to enter. As the nurse closed the door behind her Alora switched on the
electric light and then, facing her visitor, for the first time recognized =
her and
gave a little cry of surprise.
"Janet!"
"Yes; I am Janet Orme, your mother's
nurse."
"But I thought you abandoned nursing after
you made my father give you all that money," an accent of scorn in her
tone.
"I did, for a time," was the quiet
answer. "'All that money' was not a great sum; it was not as much as y=
our
father owed me, so I soon took up my old profession again."
The woman's voice and attitude were meek and
deprecating, yet Alora's face expressed distrust. She remembered Janet's ja=
unty
insolence at her father's studio and how she had dressed, extravagantly and
attended theatre parties and fashionable restaurants, scattering recklessly=
the
money she had exacted from Jason Jones. Janet, with an upward sweep of her =
half
veiled eyes, read the girl's face clearly, but she continued in the same
subdued tones:
"However, it is not of myself I came here=
to
speak, but on behalf of your mother's old friend, Doctor Anstruther." =
"Oh; did he send you here?"
"Yes. I am his nurse, just now. He has al=
ways
used me on his important cases, and now I am attending the most important c=
ase
of all--his own."
"Is Dr. Anstruther ill, then?" asked
Alora.
"He is dying. His health broke weeks ago,= as you may have heard, and gradually he has grown worse. This morning he is sinking rapidly; we have no hope that he will last through the day." <= o:p>
"Oh, I'm sorry for that!" exclaimed
Alora, who remembered the kindly old doctor with real affection. He had been
not only her mother's physician but her valued friend.
"He learned, quite by accident, of your
arrival here last evening," Janet went on, "and so he begged me to
see you and implore you to come to his bedside. I advised him not to disturb
you until morning, but the poor man is very restless and so I came here at =
this
unusual hour. It seems he is anxious to tell you some secret which your dead
mother confided to his keeping and, realizing his hours are numbered, he ur=
ges you
to lose no time in going to him. That is the message entrusted to me."=
There was no emotion in her utterance; the sto=
ry
was told calmly, as by one fulfilling a mission but indifferent as to its
success. Alora did not hesitate.
"How far is it?" she quickly asked. =
"A fifteen minute ride."
The girl glanced at her watch. It was not quite
six o'clock. Mary Louise and the Colonel would not appear for breakfast for=
a
good two hours yet and after breakfast they were all to go to the yacht. Th=
e hour
was opportune, affording her time to visit poor Doctor Anstruther and return
before her friends were up. Had Alora paused to give Janet's story more
consideration she might have seen the inconsistencies in the nurse's
statements, but her only thoughts were to learn her mother's secret and to =
show
her sincere consideration for her kindly old friend.
Hastily completing her attire she added her hat
and jacket and then said:
"I am ready, Janet."
"I hope we shall find him still alive,&qu=
ot;
remarked the nurse, a cleverly assumed anxiety in her tone, as she took the=
key
from inside the door and fitted it to the outer side of the lock.
Alora passed out, scarcely aware that Janet had
pretended to lock the door. Halfway down the hall the woman handed her the =
key.
"Come this way, please," she said;
"it is nearer to the carriage which is waiting for us."
At the rear of the building they descended the
stairs and passed through an anteroom fitted with lockers for the use of the
employees of the hotel. No one happened to be in the anteroom at that moment
and they gained the alley without encountering a single person. Janet quick=
ly
led the girl through the alley and soon they came to a closed automobile wh=
ich
evidently awaited them. Janet opened the door for Alora and followed the gi=
rl
inside the car, which started at once and sped along the quiet streets.
"You will find Doctor Anstruther very
feeble," said the nurse, "for he has suffered greatly. But I am s=
ure
it will give him pleasure to see you again. I hope he will recognize you. I
scarcely recognized you, myself, you have changed so much since last we saw=
you
at the Voltaire. Your resemblance to your mother is quite marked,
however."
And so, during the ride, she kept up a flow of
desultory conversation, intended to distract Alora's attention from the sec=
tion
of the city through which they were passing. She spoke of Dr. Anstruther,
mostly, and answered such questions as Alora put to her in a calm, unemotio=
nal manner
well calculated to allay suspicion. The woman kept her eyes veiled by her
lashes, as of yore, but her face seemed to have aged and grown harder in its
lines. There was no hint now of her former gay life in New York; she had
resumed the humble tones and manners peculiar to her profession, such as Al=
ora
remembered were characteristic of her at the time she nursed her mother.
"This is the place," said Janet, as =
the
cab came to a stop. "Let us move softly, as noise disturbs my
patient."
Alora had paid no attention to the direction t=
hey
had driven but on leaving the car she found herself facing a three-storied
brick flat building of not very prepossessing appearance. Then were several
vacant lots on either side of this building, giving it a lonely appearance,=
and
in the lower windows were pasted placards: "To Let."
"Oh; does Doctor Anstruther live here?&qu=
ot;
asked Alora, somewhat astonished.
Without seeming to have heard the question Jan=
et
mounted the steps and opened the front door with a latch-key. Alora followed
her inside and up two dingy flights to the third floor. Once she started to
protest, for the deadly silence of the place impressed her with a vague for=
eboding
that something was amiss, but Janet silenced her with a warning finger on h=
er
lips and on reaching the upper landing herself avoided making a noise as she
cautiously unlocked the door. She stood listening a moment and then entered=
and
nodded to the girl to follow.
They were in a short, dark passage which separ=
ated
the landing from the rooms of the flat. Janet closed the outer door, startl=
ing
her companion with the sharp "click" it made, and quickly opened
another door which led into a shabby living room at the front of the buildi=
ng.
Standing just within this room, Alora glanced around with the first real se=
nsation
of suspicion she had yet experienced. Janet raised her lids for a sweeping =
view
of the girl's face and then with a light laugh began to remove her own cloak
and cap, which she hung in a closet.
"Come, child, make yourself at home,"
she said in a mocking, triumphant voice, as she seated herself in a chair
facing the bewildered girl. "I may as well inform you that this is to =
be
your home for some time to come--until Jason Jones decides to rescue you. Y=
ou
won't object, I hope? Don't get nervous and you'll find your quarters very
comfortable, if retired."
Alora, understanding now, first shuddered, then
grew tense and cast a hurried glance at the hall door behind her.
"Have you lied to me, Janet?" she
demanded.
"Yes."
"And this is a trap? Doctor Anstruther is=
not
sick? He did not send for me? He is not here?"
"You have guessed correctly, Alora."=
The girl wheeled and in a quick run reached the
door to the landing. It was fast locked.
"Help!" she cried, and stopped to
listen; "help! help!"
"Come in and take off your things,"
called Janet, undisturbed by the outcry. "This building hasn't a soul =
in
it but ourselves, and you may yell for help until you are hoarse without be=
ing
heard. But don't be frightened. I'm not going to hurt you. In fact, I'd lik=
e to
make your confinement as cheerful as possible. Can't you understand the tru=
th--
that I am simply holding your person in order to force Jason Jones to pay t=
he
money he owes me?"
Alora stood by the door, irresolute, wondering
what to do. It occurred to her that she was not much afraid of Janet Orme. =
She
had been trapped in order to bleed her father of money; it was all her fath=
er's
fault-- his fault and Janet's.
"Suppose you help me get our breakfast,&q=
uot;
suggested the nurse, coolly. "It will take your mind off your trouble =
and
keep you from brooding. I admit I'm hungry, and I'm sure you'll feel better=
for
a cup of coffee."
She passed into another room, as she spoke, and
Alora, realizing the hall door could not be forced by her puny strength,
advanced into the living room. There were three other doorways opening from
this apartment. She could hear Janet rattling dishes and pans, so the way s=
he
had gone led into the kitchen. The other two doors she found gave entrance =
to
small bedrooms, neither having egress other than through the living room. T=
he
furniture in all the rooms was cheap and tawdry but fairly comfortable.
Alora sat down and tried to collect her though=
ts.
Janet got the breakfast unaided and then came to summon her. Alora quietly
walked into the kitchen and sat down at a little table spread for two. Ther=
e was
a dish of crisp bacon, some toast and coffee. Alora silently ate and drank,
determined to maintain her strength. Having finished her meal she sat back =
and
asked:
"Do you mind explaining what all this
means?"
"No, indeed; I'm glad to explain,"
replied the woman, raising her eyelids an instant to flash a glance of appr=
oval
at her prisoner. "I have already said that I was obliged to annoy you =
in
order to reach your father. The dear father is an elusive person, you know,=
and
is determined to avoid paying the money he owes me. I haven't been able to =
locate
him, lately, but I have located you, and you are mighty precious to him bec=
ause
if he loses you he loses the income from your fortune. Therefore it is my
intention to hold you here until Jason Jones either pays my demands or allo=
ws
the probate court to deprive him of his guardianship. The proposition is re=
ally
very simple, as you see."
"Still," said Alora, "I do not
quite understand. How did you know of my value to my father?"
"I witnessed your mother's will," was
the reply.
Alora remembered that this was true.
"But why does my father still owe you mon=
ey? You
were paid for nursing my mother. And, if your demands are merely blackmail,=
why
does not my father defy you?"
"I'll tell you," answered. Janet.
"It is a bit of ancient history, but it may interest you. Your mother
renounced your father when you were scarcely a year old. I met Jason Jones =
soon
afterward, and believing,--as your own deluded mother did--that he would be=
come
a great artist, I gambled with him on his career. In other words, I support=
ed Jason
Jones with all my earnings as a nurse for a period of six years and in retu=
rn
he signed an agreement which states that one-half of all the money he recei=
ved
in the future, from whatever source, must be paid to me in return for my
investment. Doubtless we both thought, at the time, that any money he got w=
ould
come from the sale of his pictures; neither could have dreamed that your mo=
ther
would call him to her on her death-bed and present sent him with your income
until you came of age--seven years' control of a fortune, with no other
obligation than to look after a child and keep her with him. But the agreem=
ent
between us covered even that astonishing event. Imagine, if you can, Jason
Jones' amazement when he entered your mother's sick chamber to find me--his=
partner--acting
as her nurse. He was also annoyed, for he realized I knew the terms of the =
will
and would demand my share of his income. Can you blame me? He hadn't made g=
ood
as an artist and this was my only chance to get back some of the hard earned
savings I had advanced him. But Jason Jones isn't square, Alora; he's mean =
and
shifty, as perhaps you have discovered. He gave me some money at first, whe=
n I
followed him to New York, as you know; but after that the coward ran away. =
That
provoked me and made me determined to run him down. I traced him to Europe =
and
followed him there, but he evaded me for a full year, until my money was go=
ne
and I was forced to return to America. For nearly three years longer I work=
ed
as a nurse and hoarded my earnings. Then, through your father's banker in N=
ew
York I managed to learn his address. The banker didn't tell me, but I did a
little spy work and in the bank's mail I found a letter in Jason Jones'
handwriting postmarked 'Positano, Italy.' That was all the clew I needed an=
d I
went to Italy and soon located my man. I faced him in his own villa--I beli=
eve
you were away at the time--and when he found he was caught he cringed and b=
egged
for mercy and promised to give me all that belonged to me. He said he had a=
lot
of gold in his possession and he would pay me partly in gold and partly in
drafts on his New York banker. Then he left the room to get the gold and
returned with a husky Italian servant who seized and bound me and threw me =
into
a stone house used to store grapes, where I was kept a prisoner for nearly =
ten
days and treated like a dog.
"Finally the Italian released me, asserti=
ng
that Jason Jones was on his way to America. I followed as soon as I could g=
et
passage in a ship, but your clever father had left New York before I arrived
there and I could not discover where he had hidden himself. Once more he had
beaten me."
Her voice was hard and angry. Alora was tempte=
d to
believe the story, for many of its details she knew were true. She remember=
ed,
for one thing, that queer letter from Silvio which she had discovered tucke=
d inside
one of her father's books. It stated that, according to orders, the Italian=
had
"released the prisoner." So the prisoner had been Janet, and Alora
could well understand her determination to secure revenge.
"It seems to me," she said, "th=
at you
should have taken your contract with my father to a lawyer, and brought sui=
t to
recover the money due you. Surely that would have been the easiest way to
collect it."
Janet's face grew red; her lashes dropped still
further over the eyes; but she answered after an instant's pause:
"I do not wish the world to know what a f=
ool
I was to support an imitation artist for six long years. A lawsuit means
publicity, and I have a little pride left, I assure you. Besides,"
collecting her thoughts as she spoke, "I cannot see the wisdom of divi=
ding
my share with a lawyer when I can bring your father to terms myself. I know=
I have
executed a bold stroke in seizing you and making you my prisoner, but it's a
stroke that's bound to win. It was conceived last night, on the spur of the
moment. Lately I have been nursing in Chicago, where I am better known than=
in
New York and can get better wages. Since my return from Italy I've been sav=
ing
to renew the search for Jason Jones. While nursing a Mrs. Tolliver at the H=
otel
Blackington, fortune suddenly smiled on me. I chanced to examine the hotel
register last night and found you were registered with Colonel Hathaway's
party. Your room number was marked opposite your name, so I had you properl=
y located.
During the night, while on duty in Mrs. Tolliver's room, I had ample time to
figure out a plan of action. I knew you were fond of old Doctor Anstruther =
and
so used his name for a lure. I had already rented this flat; not with the i=
dea
of using it for a prison, but because it was cheap and so isolated that I c=
ould
sleep during the daytime without being disturbed. I believe that's all that=
I
need explain to you. Our little adventure of this morning you will now be a=
ble
to understand perfectly. Also you will understand the fact that you must re=
main
a prisoner until my purpose is accomplished. I'm sorry for you, but it can'=
t be
helped. Won't you have another cup of coffee, Alora?"
Alora had no answer ready. Janet's story did n=
ot
satisfy her; she felt that somewhere there was a flaw in it; but she decide=
d to
bide her time.
Alora, being in the main a sensible girl, stro=
ve
to make the best of her unpleasant predicament. She longed to notify Mary
Louise that she was safe and well and in answer to her pleadings Janet agre=
ed
she might write a letter to that effect, with no hint that she was imprison=
ed
or where she could be found, and the nurse would mail it for her. So Alora =
wrote
the letter and showed it to Janet, who could find no fault with its wording=
and
promised to mail it when she went out to market, which she did every mornin=
g,
carefully locking her prisoner in. It is perhaps needless to state that the
letter never reached Mary Louise because the nurse destroyed it instead of
keeping her agreement to mail it. Letters can be traced, and Janet did not =
wish
to be traced just then.
The days dragged by with little excitement. Al=
ora
sought many means of escape but found none practical. Once, while Janet was
unlocking the hall door to go to market, the girl made a sudden dash to get=
by
her and so secure her freedom; but the woman caught her arm and swung her b=
ack
so powerfully that Alora fell against the opposite wall, bruised and half
stunned. She was no match for Janet in strength.
"I'm sorry," said Janet complacently,
"but you brought it on yourself. I'm not brutal, but I won't be balked.
Please remember, my girl, that to me this is a very important enterprise and
I've no intention of allowing you to defeat my plans."
Usually the woman was not unpleasant in her
treatment of Alora, but conversed with her frankly and cheerfully, as if
striving to relieve her loneliness.
"Have you written to my father about
me?" the girl asked one day.
"Not yet," was the reply. "I do=
n't
even know where Jason Jones may be found, for you haven't given me his addr=
ess.
But there's no hurry. You have been missing only a week, so far. Jason Jones
has doubtless been notified of your disappearance and is beginning to worry=
. Of
course he will imagine I am responsible for this misfortune and his alarm w=
ill grow
with the days that pass. Finally, when his state of mind becomes desperate,=
you
will give me his address and he will hear from me. I shall have no trouble,=
at
that crisis, in bringing my dishonest partner to terms."
"I can't see the object of waiting so
long," protested Alora. "How long do you intend to keep me
here?"
"I think you should remain missing about
fifty days, during which time they will search for you in vain. Your father=
's
search for you will include a search for me, and I've figured on that and d=
efy
him to find me. The Sisters' Hospital, the only address known to the physic=
ians
who employ me, believe I've gone to some small Indiana town on a case, but I
neglected to give them the name of the town. So there's a blind lead that w=
ill
keep my pursuers busy without their getting anywhere. It's easy to hide in a
big city. Here you are very safe, Alora, mid discovery is impossible."=
Janet had abandoned her nurse's costume from t=
he
first day of the girl's imprisonment. When she went out, which was only to a
near-by market and grocery, she wore an unobtrusive dress.
Every day seemed more dreary to Alora than the
last. She soon became very restless under her enforced confinement and her
nerves, as well as her general health, began to give way. She had been
accustomed to out-of-door exercise, and these rooms were close and
"stuffy" because Janet would not allow the windows open.
For twelve days and nights poor Alora constant=
ly
planned an escape, only to abandon every idea she conceived as foolish and
impractical. She looked forward to fifty days of this life with horror and
believed she would go mad if forced to endure her confinement so long.
"If I had any money of my own," Alora
said to Janet Orme on the morning of the twelfth day of imprisonment, "=
;I
would gladly pay it to free."
Janet flashed a quick glance at her. "Do =
you
mean that?" she asked with ill-suppressed eagerness.
"I do, indeed," declared the girl,
moaning dismally; "but I never have a cent to call my own."
Janet sat still, for some time, thinking.
"I, too, wish you were free," she
admitted, resuming the conversation, "for my position as jailer oblige=
s me
to share your confinement, and it's wearing on me, as it is on you. But you
have unconsciously given me a thought--an idea that seems likely to lead to=
a
compromise between us. I'm going to consider it seriously, and if it still
looks good to me I'll make you a proposition."
Saying this, she retired to her bedroom and cl=
osed
the door after her, leaving Alora in a fit of nervous trembling through
half-formed hopes that she might gain her release.
It was nearly an hour before Janet returned. W=
hen
she came from her room she stood before the girl for a time and seemed to s=
tudy
her face. Alora was anxious and did not endeavor to conceal the fact. In her
hand the woman held a paper, which she presently laid upon the center-table=
.
"I have decided to make you a
proposition," she said, turning to seat herself near the table. "=
If
it interests you, all right; if it doesn't, you may of course reject it. My
offer is this: If you will tell me where to find your father and will promi=
se
not to mention me to him or to warn him of my intentions, and if you will s=
ign
this paper which I have prepared, I will allow you to return to your friends
to-day. You are not especially fond of Jason Jones, I believe?"
"Not especially, although he is my
father," returned Alora, eyeing the woman expectantly.
"Then you can have no objection to my for=
cing
him to disgorge my share of his income, which you would not get in any even=
t. I
don't know how much of an allowance he makes you, but----"
"I don't get any allowance," said Al=
ora,
"In fact, he gives me nothing."
"Then my demands on your father will not
affect your interests. Are you willing to give me his address, and promise =
not
to warn him?"
"Under the circumstances, yes."
"Very well. I accept your plighted word--=
your
word of honor. Now sign this paper and you may go."
She took the paper from the table and handed i=
t to
Alora, who read as follows:
"For value received, in services faithful=
ly
rendered and which I hereby freely and without coercion acknowledge, I here=
by
promise and agree to pay to Janet Orme Jones on the day that I attain my
majority the sum of Fifty Thousand Dollars, which sum is to be paid from my
estate without recourse, equivocation or attempt to repudiate the said
obligation, inasmuch as I willingly admit the said sum to be justly due the
said Janet Orme Jones. "(Signed:)................."
Alora read the paper twice, with, growing
indignation. Then she glanced up at her jailer and muttered questioningly:
"Jones? Janet Orme Jones?"
"A family name, my dear. The Joneses are =
so
thick and so unimportant that generally I do not use the name, but this is a
legal document. I hope you won't try to claim relationship," she added
with a light laugh.
"I'm not going to promise you so enormous=
a
sum as fifty thousand dollars, even to secure my liberty," said Alora.
"It's out of all reason--it's--it's--outrageous!"
"Very well," returned Janet, coolly;
"that's your own affair. This is merely a compromise proposition,
suggested by yourself, as I told you. Let us say no more about it."
Alora was greatly disheartened. After allowing=
her
hopes to run so high the disappointment was now doubly keen. Her defiance
melted away with the thought of all the weary days of imprisonment she must
endure until Janet was ready to act.
"I--I might agree to give you five thousa=
nd
dollars," she ventured.
"Nonsense. I'm not gunning for small game,
Alora. Did you but realize it, I am quite considerate in exacting only fifty
thousand. Your estate is worth two millions. Your income is something like
eighty thousand a year, and this payment would leave you thirty thousand to=
use
the first year after you come into your fortune. I don't believe you could
spend thirty thousand in a year, when you are eighteen years of age." =
Alora turned away and going to the front windo=
w,
looked through its stained and unwashed panes into the gloomy street below.=
The
sight emphasized her isolation from the world. Her imprisonment was becomin=
g unbearable.
After all, she reflected, in reckless mood, what did so small a share of her
prospective fortune weigh against her present comfort--and health--and happ=
iness?
Janet was stealthily watching her.
"Should you decide to sign the paper,&quo=
t;
said the nurse, "you must make up your mind not to raise a row when
pay-day comes. The money will come out of your income, and instead of inves=
ting
it in more bonds, you will have invested it in your liberty. You won't be
inconvenienced in the slightest degree. On the other hand, this money will =
mean
everything to me--a modest competence for my old age and relief from the
drudgery of working. I've had a hard life, my girl, for nursing is mere sla=
very
to the whims of sick people. Consider, also, that for six years Jason Jones
squandered all my savings in trying to paint pictures that were not worth t=
he
canvas he ruined. If I had that money now I wouldn't need to descend to this
disgraceful mode of recouping my bank account; but, under the circumstances,
don't you think I am justly entitled to some of the Jones money?"
"You're going to get a lot from my
father."
"True; but that is for his indebtedness,
while this amount is for your freedom. A scrape of the pen and you secure
liberty, fresh air and the privilege of rejoining your friends, who are
probably getting anxious about you. If you are the sensible girl I take you=
to
be, you won't hesitate."
Alora knew the woman was pleading her own case,
but the arguments appealed to her. She was weak and nervous and her longing=
for
liberty outweighed her natural judgment.
"I suppose I'm a fool, but----"
Slowly she approached the table where the writ= ten promissory note still lay. Janet had placed a pen and inkstand beside it. <= o:p>
"I wish, Josie," said Mary Louise
dolefully, "you'd let me help in this search for Alora."
"I'd be glad to, dear, if I could think o=
f a
single thing you can do," replied her friend. "Just now I'm on the
most tedious task imaginable-- visiting the army of cab-drivers--horse and
taxi--here in Chicago and trying to find the one who carried a woman and a =
girl
away from the Blackington at six o'clock that eventful Tuesday morning.&quo=
t;
"Have you met with any success, at all?&q=
uot;
asked Mary Louise.
"That question proves you're not fitted f=
or
detective work," Josie laughingly asserted. "A moment's reflection
would assure you that when I found my man my search would be ended. Ergo, no
success has yet attended my efforts. I've interviewed a couple of hundreds,
however, and that leaves only a few hundreds left to question."
"But the whole thing drags terribly!"
complained Mary Louise. "Days are passing, and who knows what may be h=
appening
to poor Alora while you are hanging around the cab-stands?"
Josie's face grew grave. In sober tones she sa=
id:
"I'm just as anxious as you are, Mary Lou=
ise.
But this case is really puzzling, because Chicago is such a big city that
criminals may securely hide themselves here for months--even for years--wit=
hout
being discovered. Mrs. Orme was clever enough to leave few traces behind he=
r; as
far as clews are concerned she might have evaporated into thin air, taking
Alora with her--except for this matter of the cabman. That's why I am pinni=
ng
my faith to this search, knowing all the time, nevertheless, that Mrs. Orme=
may
have provided for even that contingency and rendered the discovery of the
cabman impossible. To do that, however, she would have to use a private
equipage, involving a confederate, and I believe she preferred to take chan=
ces
with a hired cab."
"What are the police doing?" inquired
Mary Louise nervously.
"Nothing. They were soon discouraged and =
lost
interest in the matter when I took hold of the case. But I don't intend to =
get
discouraged. I hate to be 'stumped,' as you know, and it seems to me, after
careful consideration, that success may follow the discovery of the cab-dri=
ver.
I've not been neglecting other trails, I assure you. I've obtained a pretty
fair record of the history of nurse Orme. She has the habit of drudging in =
sick
rooms until she accumulates enough capital to lead a gay life for a month or
so, after which she resumes nursing in order to replenish her purse. She's a
good nurse and a wild spendthrift, but aside from the peculiarity mentioned
there's nothing in her career of especial interest. The woman is pretty well
known both in New York and Chicago, for she squanders in the first city and
saves in the other, but of her early history there is no information availa=
ble.
In her wildest moods she has never done anything to warrant her arrest, yet=
the
police have kept a suspicious eye on her for years."
"Poor Alora!" wailed Mary Louise,
miserably; "I wish I could do something for her."
"You did a lot for her when you put me on=
her
trail," declared Josie, with conviction. "I've a hunch I shall wi=
n.
I've wired Daddy O'Gorman all about the case, but he says he can't advise m=
e.
In other words, he's watching to see whether I make good or cave in, and I =
just
dare not fail. So keep your courage, Mary Louise, and muster all the confid=
ence
you are able to repose in me. I may not know all the tricks of the sleuths,=
but
I know some of them. And now I'm off to interview more cabmen."
Mary Louise sighed as her friend left her. She=
was
indeed very unhappy and restless during those days of tedious waiting. Peter
Conant had come to Chicago on the Colonel's demand, but Mary Louise couldn't
see how he was able to help them one bit.
"Of course," the lawyer had said in =
his
terse, choppy manner, "whoever abducted the girl is, criminally liable=
. We
can put the party in jail."
"When we get her," suggested Mary Lo=
uise
impatiently. "The party is Mrs. Orme; we have established that fact
without a doubt; and, if we could get her, we'd also get Alora."
"Just so," Peter replied; "and,
between the O'Gorman girl and the police, we ought to capture the woman soo=
n. I
have a degree of confidence in Josie O'Gorman and somewhat more confidence =
in
the police."
"Do you think we should notify Jason
Jones?" inquired Colonel Hathaway.
"I have considered that, sir, in all its
phases, and knowing the man's peculiar characteristics I believe such a cou=
rse
is not as yet desirable. Jones is so enthralled by his latest craze over
aviation that he would be no fit adviser and could render no practical assi=
stance
in the search for his daughter. On the other hand, his association would be
annoying, for he would merely accuse you of neglect in permitting Alora to =
be
stolen while in your care. I have seen a copy of his wife's will and know t=
hat
the girl's loss may cost him his guardianship and the perquisites that pert=
ain
to it. In that case he will probably sue you for the loss of the money,
claiming Alora's abduction was due to your carelessness."
"He could not win such an absurd suit,
however," declared the Colonel.
"Still, he might be awarded damages,"
asserted the lawyer. "Juries are uncertain; the law is somewhat elasti=
c;
judges are peculiar."
"Don't worry, Gran'pa Jim," said Mary
Louise soothingly, as she sat on the arm of his chair and rubbed the wrinkl=
es
from his forehead; "there must be such a thing as justice, even in
law."
"Law is justice," stated Mr. Conant,
resenting the insinuation, "but justice is sometimes recognized by hum=
ans
in one form, and sometimes in another. I do not say that Jason Jones could
collect damages on such complaint, but he assuredly would have a case."=
;
Mr. Conant had desired to return home after the
first conference with his client, but he admitted that his wife was recover=
ing
from her indisposition and a kindly neighbor was assisting Irene in the car=
e of
her, so he yielded to his client's urgent request to remain. Colonel Hathaw=
ay
was more alarmed by Alora's disappearance than he allowed Mary Louise to gu=
ess,
and he wanted Mr. Conant to spur the police to renewed effort. In addition =
to
this the Colonel and his lawyer usually spent the best part of each day
pursuing investigations on their own account, with the result that Mary Lou=
ise
was left to mope alone in the hotel rooms.
The young girl was fond of Alora and secretly
terrified over her mysterious disappearance. She tried to embroider, as she=
sat
alone and waited for something to happen, but her nerveless fingers would n=
ot hold
the needle. She bought some novels but could not keep her mind on the stori=
es.
Hour by hour she gazed from the window into the crowded street below, searc=
hing
each form and face for some resemblance to Alora. She had all the newspapers
sent to her room, that she might scan the advertisements and
"personals" for a clew, and this led her to following the news of=
the
Great War, in which she found a partial distraction from her worries. And o=
ne
morning, after her grandfather and the lawyer had left her, she was glancin=
g over
the columns of the Tribune when an item caught her eye that drew from her a=
cry
of astonishment. The item read as follows:
"The Grand Prize at the exhibition of
American paintings being held in the Art Institute was yesterday awarded by=
the
jury to the remarkable landscape entitled 'Poppies and Pepper Trees' by the
California artist, Jason Jones. This picture has not only won praise from
eminent critics but has delighted the thousands of visitors who have flocke=
d to
the exhibition, so the award is a popular one. The Associated Artists are t=
endering
a banquet to-night to Jason Jones at the Congress Hotel, where he is stayin=
g.
The future of this clever artist promises well and will be followed with
interest by all admirers of his skillful technique and marvelous
coloring."
Mary Louise read this twice, trying to underst=
and
what it meant. Then she read it a third time.
"How strangely we have all been deceived =
in
Alora's father!" she murmured. "I remember that Gran'pa Jim once
claimed that any man so eccentric might well possess talent, but even Mr.
Jones' own daughter did not believe he was a true artist. And Alora never
guessed he was still continuing to paint--alone and in secret--or that he h=
ad
regained his former powers and was creating a masterpiece. We have all been=
sadly
wrong in our judgment of Jason Jones. Only his dead wife knew he was capabl=
e of
great things."
She dropped the paper, still somewhat bewilder=
ed
by the remarkable discovery.
"And he is here in Chicago, too!" she
mused, continuing her train of thought, "and we all thought he was
stupidly learning to fly in Dorfield. Oh, now I understand why he allowed A=
lora
to go with us. He wanted to exhibit his picture--the picture whose very
existence he had so carefully guarded--and knew that with all of us out of =
the
way, afloat upon the Great Lakes, he could come here without our knowledge =
and
enter the picture in the exhibition. It may be he doubted its success--he is
diffident in some ways--and thought if it failed none of us at home would b=
e the
wiser; but I'm sure that now he has won he will brag and bluster and be very
conceited and disagreeable over his triumph. That is the man's nature--to be
cowed by failure and bombastic over success. It's singular, come to think it
over, how one who has the soul to create a wonderful painting can be so cru=
de
and uncultured, so morose and--and--cruel."
Suddenly she decided to go and look at the
picture. The trip would help to relieve her loneliness and she was eager to=
see
what Jason Jones had really accomplished. The Institute was not far from her
hotel; she could walk the distance in a few minutes; so she put on her hat =
and
set out for the exhibition.
On her way, disbelief assailed her. "I do=
n't
see how the man did it!" she mentally declared. "I wonder if that
item is just a huge joke, because the picture was so bad that the reporter
tried to be ironical."
But when she entered the exhibition and found a
small crowd gathered around one picture--it was still early in the day--she
dismissed at once that doubtful supposition.
"That is the Jason Jones picture," s=
aid
an attendant, answering her question and nodding toward the admiring group;
"that's the prizewinner--over there."
Mary Louise edged her way through the crowd un=
til
the great picture was in full view; and then she drew a long breath, awestr=
uck,
delighted, filled with a sense of all-pervading wonder.
"It's a tremendous thing!" whispered= a man beside her to his companion. "There's nothing in the exhibit to compare with it. And how it breathes the very spirit of California!" <= o:p>
"California?" thought Mary Louise. Of
course; those yellow poppies and lacy pepper trees with their deep red berr=
ies
were typical of no other place. And the newspaper had called Jason Jones a
California artist. When had he been in California, she wondered. Alora had
never mentioned visiting the Pacific Coast.
Yet, sometime, surely, her father must have li= ved there. Was it while Alora was a small child, and after her mother had cast = him off? He could have made sketches then, and preserved them for future use. <= o:p>
As she stood there marveling at the superb gen=
ius
required to produce such a masterpiece of art, a strange notion crept
stealthily into her mind. Promptly she drove it out; but it presently retur=
ned;
it would not be denied; finally, it mastered her.
"Anyhow," she reflected, setting her
teeth together, "I'll beard the wolf in his den. If my intuition has
played me false, at worst the man can only sneer at me and I've always
weathered his scornful moods. But if I am right----"
The suggestion was too immense to consider cal=
mly.
With quick, nervous steps she hastened to the Congress Hotel and sent up her
card to Jason Jones. On it she had written in pencil: "I shall wait for
you in the parlor. Please come to me."
"Before you sign this promissory note,&qu=
ot;
remarked Janet Orme, as Alora reluctantly seated herself at the table,
"you must perform the other part of your agreement and give me the pre=
sent
address of your father, Jason Jones."
"He lives in Dorfield," said Alora. =
"Write his street number--here, on this
separate sheet."
The girl complied.
"Is it a private house, or is it a
studio?"
"A cottage. Father doesn't paint any
more."
"That is very sensible of him," decl=
ared
the nurse; "yet I wonder how he can resist painting. He has always had=
a
passion for the thing and in the old days was never happy without a brush in
his hand. He had an idea he could do something worth while, but that was me=
re
delusion, for he never turned out anything decent or that would sell in the
market. Therefore the money he spent for paints, brushes and canvas--money =
I worked
hard to earn--was absolutely wasted. Does your father keep any servants?&qu=
ot;
"One maid, an Irish girl born in the
town."
"Still economical, I see. Well, that's all
the information I require. You have given your word of honor not to notify =
him
that I have discovered his whereabouts. Is it not so?"
"Yes," said Alora.
"Now sign the note."
Alora, pen in hand, hesitated while she slowly
read the paper again. She hated to give fifty thousand dollars to this sche=
ming
woman, even though the loss of such a sum would not seriously impair her
fortune. But what could she do?
"Sign it, girl!" exclaimed Janet,
impatiently.
Alora searched the note for a loophole that wo=
uld
enable her afterward to repudiate it. She knew nothing of legal phrases, yet
the wording seemed cleverly constructed to defeat any attempt to resist
payment.
"Sign!" cried the woman. With pen
hovering over the place where she had been told to write her name, Alora st=
ill
hesitated and seeing this the nurse's face grew dark with anger. A sudden
"click" sounded from the hall door, but neither heard it.
"Sign!" she repeated, half rising wi=
th a
threatening gesture.
"No, don't sign, please," said a cle=
ar
voice, and a short, stumpy girl with red hair and freckled face calmly ente=
red
the room and stood smilingly before them.
Janet uttered an exclamation of surprise and annoyance and sank back in her chair, glaring at the intruder. Alora stared= in speechless amazement at the smiling girl, whom she had never seen before. <= o:p>
"How did you get in here?" demanded
Janet angrily.
"Why, I just unlocked the door and walked
in," was the reply, delivered in a cheery and somewhat triumphant voic=
e.
"This is a private apartment."
"Indeed! I thought it was a prison,"
said the girl. "I imagined you, Mrs. Orme, to be a jailer, and this yo=
ung
person--who is Miss Alora Jones, I believe--I supposed to be your prisoner.
Perhaps I'm wrong, but I guess I'm right."
The nurse paled. The look she flashed from her
half-veiled eyes was a dangerous look. She knew, in the instant, that the
stranger had come to liberate Alora, but the next instant she reflected that
all was not lost, for she had already decided to release her prisoner witho=
ut compulsion.
It was important to her plans, however, that she obtain the promissory note;
so, instantly controlling herself, she lightly touched Alora's arm and said=
in
her usual soft voice:
"Sign your name, my dear, and then we will
talk with this person."
Alora did not move to obey, for she had caught=
a
signal from the red-headed girl.
"I object to your signing that paper,&quo=
t;
protested the stranger, seating herself in a vacant chair. "I haven't =
the
faintest idea what it is you're about to sign, but if I were you I wouldn't=
do
it."
"It is the price of my liberty,"
explained Alora.
"Well, this is a free country and liberty
doesn't cost anything. I've a carriage waiting outside, and I will drive you
back to the Colonel and Mary Louise free of charge. You won't even have to
whack up on the cab hire."
The nurse slowly rose and faced the girl.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"No one of importance," was the answ=
er.
"I'm just Josie O'Gorman, the daughter of John O'Gorman, of Washington,
who is a lieutenant in the government's secret service."
"Then you're a detective!"
"The aforesaid John O'Gorman declares I'm
not. He says I must learn a lot before I become a real detective, so at pre=
sent
I'm just practicing. Mary Louise is my friend, you know," she continue=
d,
now addressing Alora, "and you are a friend of Mary Louise; so, when y=
ou mysteriously
disappeared, she telegraphed me and I came on to hunt you up. That wasn't an
easy job for an amateur detective, I assure you, and it cost me a lot of ti=
me
and some worry, but glory be! I've now got you located and Mrs. Orme's jig =
is
up."
The nurse moved softly to the door that led in=
to
the passage and locked it, putting the key into her pocket.
"Now," said she, with another flash =
of
those curious eyes, "I have two prisoners."
Josie laughed.
"I could almost have sworn you'd try that
trick," she remarked. "It was on the cards and you couldn't resist
it. Permit me to say, Mrs. Orme, that you're a rather clever woman, and I
admire cleverness even when it's misdirected. But my Daddy has taught me, in
his painstaking way, not to be caught napping. A good soldier provides for a
retreat as well as an advance. I've been on your trail for a long time and =
only
this morning succeeded in winning the confidence of the cabman who drove yo=
u here.
Wasn't sure, of course, that you were still here, until I saw Alora's face =
at
the window a while ago. Then I knew I'd caught you. The cab is a closed one=
and
holds four inside, so I invited three policeman to accompany me. One is at =
the
back of this house, one at the front door and the third is just outside her=
e on
the landing. Probably he can hear us talking. He's a big man, that third
policeman, and if I raise my voice to cry out he could easily batter down t=
he
door you have locked and come to my rescue. Now will you be good, Mrs.
Orme?"
The nurse realized her defeat. She deliberately
took the note from the table and tore it up.
"You have really foiled me, my girl,"
she said philosophically, "although if you knew all you would not blam=
e me
for what I have done."
"You've decided not to dig any money out =
of
Alora, then?"
"It wouldn't matter to her, but I have
abandoned the idea. However, I shall insist on making Jason Jones pay me
liberally for my disappointment. Now take the girl and go. Get your things =
on,
Alora."
Josie regarded her thoughtfully.
"I had intended to arrest you, Mrs.
Orme," she remarked; "but, honestly, I can't see what good it wou=
ld
do, while it would cause Mary Louise and the dear Colonel a heap of trouble=
in
prosecuting you. So, unless Miss Jones objects----"
"All I want it to get away from here, to =
be
out of her clutches," asserted Alora.
"Then let us go. The woman deserves
punishment, but doubtless she'll get her just deserts in other ways. Get yo=
ur
things on, my dear; the cab and the policemen are waiting."
Janet Orme unlocked the door to the passage. T=
hen
she stood motionless, with drooping eyelids, while the two girls passed out.
Alora, greatly unnerved and still fearful, clung to the arm of her rescuer.=
When they had gained the street and were about=
to
enter the closed automobile she asked: "Where are the three
policemen?"
"Invisible," returned Josie, very
cheerfully. "I had to invent that story, my dear, and the Recording An=
gel
is said to forgive detectives for lying."
She followed Alora into the car and closed the
door.
"Drive to the Blackington, please," =
she
called to the driver.
And, as they whirled away, she leaned from the
window and waved a parting signal to Mrs. Orme, who stood in the upper wind=
ow,
her face contorted and scowling with chagrin at the discovery that she had =
been
outwitted by a mere girl.
The Colonel and Peter Conant had just entered =
the
drawing room of the suite at the hotel and found Mary Louise absent. This w=
as
unusual and unaccountable and they were wondering what could have become of=
the
girl when the door suddenly burst open and Josie's clear voice cried triump=
hantly:
"I've got her! I've captured the missing
heiress at last!"
Both men, astonished, rose to their feet as Al=
ora
entered and with a burst of tears threw her arms around the old Colonel's n=
eck.
For a few moments the tableau was dramatic, all being speechless with joy at
the reunion. Colonel Hathaway patted Alora's head and comforted the sobbing=
girl
as tenderly as if she had been his own grandchild--or Mary Louise.
Josie perched herself lightly on the center-ta=
ble
and swinging her legs complacently back and forth explained her discovery i=
n a
stream of chatter, for she was justly elated by her success.
"And to think," she concluded,
"that I never missed a clew! That it was really the nurse, Mrs. Orme--=
Mrs.
Jones' old nurse--who stole Alora, according to our suspicions, and that her
object was just what I thought, to get money from that miser Jason Jones! D=
addy
will be pleased with this triumph; I'm pleased; Mary Louise will be pleased=
, and--By
the way, where is Mary Louise?"
"I don't know," confessed the Colone=
l,
who had just placed Alora, now more self-possessed, in a chair. "I was
beginning to worry about her when you came in. She seldom leaves these room=
s,
except for a few moments, and even then she tells me, or leaves word, where=
she
is going. I spoke to the clerk, when I returned, and he said she had left t=
he
hotel early this morning, and it's now four o'clock."
Josie's smile faded and her face became grave.=
"Now, who," she said, "could ha=
ve
an object in stealing Mary Louise? Complications threaten us in this matter=
and
the first thing we must do is----"
"Oh, Alora!" exclaimed Mary Louise, =
who
had softly opened the door and caught sight of her friend. Next moment the =
two
girls were locked in an embrace and Josie, a shade of disappointment strugg=
ling
with her sunny smile, remarked coolly:
"Very well; that beats the champion female
detective out of another job. But I might have known Mary Louise wouldn't g=
et
herself stolen; no such adventure ever happens to her."
Mary Louise turned to the speaker with an earn=
est
look on her sweet face.
"An adventure has happened to me, Josie,
and--and--I hardly know how to break the news."
She held Alora at arms' length and looked grav=
ely
into her friend's face. Alora noted the serious expression and said quickly=
:
"What is it? Bad news for me?"
"I--I think not," replied Mary Louis=
e,
hesitatingly; "but it's--it's wonderful news, and I hardly know how to
break it to you."
"The best way," remarked Josie, much
interested, "is to let it out in a gush. 'Wonderful' stuff never causes
anyone to faint."
"Alora," said Mary Louise solemnly,
"your father is here."
"Where?"
"He is just outside, in the corridor.&quo=
t;
"Why doesn't he come in?" asked the
Colonel.
"He needn't have worried about me," =
said
Alora, in sullen tone, "but I suppose it was the danger of losing his
money that----"
"No," interrupted Mary Louise; "=
;you
mistake me. Jason Jones, the great artist--a splendid, cultured man
and----"
A sharp rap at the door made her pause. Answer=
ing
the Colonel's summons a bellboy entered.
"For Mr. Conant, sir," he said, offe=
ring
a telegram.
The lawyer tore open the envelope as the boy w=
ent
out and after a glance at it exclaimed in shocked surprise: "Great
heavens!"
Then he passed the message to Colonel Hathaway,
who in turn read it and passed it to Josie O'Gorman. Blank silence followed,
while Mary Louise and Alora eyed the others expectantly.
"Who did you say is outside in the
corridor?" demanded Josie in a puzzled tone.
"Alora's father," replied Mary Louis=
e.
"Jason Jones?"
"Jason Jones," repeated Mary Louise
gravely.
"Well, then, listen to this telegram. It =
was
sent to Mr. Peter Conant from Dorfield and says: 'Jason Jones killed by fal=
ling
from an aeroplane at ten o'clock this morning. Notify his daughter.'" =
Alora drew a quick breath and clasped her hands
over her heart. Uncongenial as the two had been, Jason Jones was her
father--her only remaining parent--and the suddenness of his death shocked =
and
horrified the girl. Indeed, all present were horrified, yet Mary Louise see=
med
to bear the news more composedly than the others--as if it were a minor inc=
ident
in a great drama. She slipped an arm around her girl friend's waist and said
soothingly:
"Never mind, dear. It is dreadful, I know.
What an awful way to die! And yet--and yet, Alora--it may be all for the
best."
Josie slid down from the table. Her active bra=
in
was the first to catch a glimmering of what Mary Louise meant.
"Shall I call that man in?" she asked
excitedly, "the man whom you say is Alora's father?"
"No," answered Mary Louise. "Le=
t me
go for him, please. I--I must tell him this strange news myself. Try to qui=
et
yourself, Alora, and--and be prepared. I'm going to introduce to you--Jason
Jones."
She uttered the last sentence slowly and with =
an
earnestness that bewildered all her hearers--except, perhaps, Josie O'Gorma=
n.
And then she left the room.
The little group scarcely moved or spoke.
It seemed an age to them, yet it was only a few
moments, when Mary Louise came back, leading by the hand a tall, handsome
gentleman who bore in every feature, in every movement, the mark of good bi=
rth,
culture, and refinement, and in a voice that trembled with, nervous excitem=
ent
the girl announced:
"This is Jason Jones--a California
artist--the man who married Antoinette Seaver. He is Alora's father. And the
other--the other----"
"Why, the other was a fraud, of course,&q=
uot;
exclaimed Josie.
I am quite sure it is unnecessary to relate in
detail the scene that followed Mary Louise's introduction or the excited
inquiries and explanations which naturally ensued. To those present the sce=
ne
was intensely dramatic and never to be forgotten, but such a meeting between
father and daughter is considered too sacred to be described here.
Mary Louise's intuition had not played her fal=
se.
She had found at the Congress Hotel another Jason Jones, far different from=
the
one she had known, and a few questions elicited the fact that he was indeed=
the
father of Alora. So, as briefly as she could, she told him how another man =
had
usurped his place and seized all of Alora's income, at the same time willfu=
lly
depriving the girl of such comforts and accomplishments as one in her posit=
ion
should enjoy.
"And to think," she added indignantl=
y,
"that he is not Jason Jones at all!"
"I believe you are mistaken there,"
replied the artist thoughtfully. "Jason is a family name, derived from=
one
of our most eminent ancestors, and in my generation it is also borne, I have
learned, by one of my second cousins, a Jason Jones who is also a painter a=
nd aspires
to fame as an artist. I have never met the man, but his indifferently execu=
ted
canvases, offered for sale under our common name, formerly caused me
considerable annoyance and perhaps interfered with my career. But of late I
have not heard of this Jason Jones, for soon after my separation from my wi=
fe I
went to Southern California and located in a little bungalow hidden in a wi=
ld
canyon of the Santa Monica mountains. There I have secluded myself for year=
s,
determined to do some really good work before I returned East to prove my
ability. Some time after Antoinette died I saw a notice to that effect in a=
newspaper,
but there were no comments and I did not know that she had made me guardian=
of
our child. That was like Antoinette," he continued, in gentler tones;
"she was invariably generous and considerate of my shortcomings, even
after we realized we were not fitted to live together. Her renunciation of =
me
seemed harsh, at first, for I could not understand her ambitions, but in fa=
ct
she drove me to success. I have won the Grand Prize, after all these years =
of
patient labor, and from now on my future is assured."
"Have you never longed for your child?&qu=
ot;
asked Mary Louise reproachfully.
"I have, indeed. In imagination I have
followed Alora's growth and development year by year, and one of my most
cherished anticipations when coming here was to seek out my daughter and ma=
ke
myself known to her. I knew she had been well provided for in worldly goods=
and
I hoped to find her happy and content. If my picture received favorable com=
ment
at the exhibition I intended to seek Alora. I did not expect to win the Gra=
nd
Prize."
* * * * * * * *
It was this newly discovered Jason Jones and h=
is
daughter--who already loved him and shyly clung to this responsive and
congenial parent--who went to Dorfield with the Colonel and Mary Louise and
Peter Conant and Josie O'Gorman to attend the obsequies of the other less
fortunate Jason Jones. Mrs. Orme was there, too; Mrs. Janet Orme Jones; for=
she
admitted she was the dead man's wife and told them, in a chastened but still
defiant mood, how the substitution of her husband for the other artist had =
come
about.
"Many years ago, when I was nursing in a =
New
York hospital," she said, "a man was brought in with both arms
broken, having been accidentally knocked down by a street-car. I was appoin=
ted
to nurse him and learned from him that he was Jason Jones, a poor artist who
was, however, just about to win recognition. He showed me a newspaper clipp=
ing
that highly praised a painting then being exhibited at the Metropolitan Mus=
eum
of Art, which was signed Jason Jones. I know now that it wasn't his picture=
at
all, but the work of his cousin, but at the time the clipping deceived me. =
"I was ambitious to become something more
than a nurse. I thought that to be the wife of a famous artist would bring =
me
wealth and a position in society, so I married Jason Jones--without love--a=
nd
he married me-- also without love--in order to get my wages. He won where I
lost, for during several years I foolishly supported him with my savings,
always expecting him to become famous. At first he attributed his failures =
to his
broken arms, although they had healed perfectly, and I ignorantly accepted =
the
excuse. It was only after years of waiting for the man to prove his ability=
that I finally woke to the truth--that he had no talent--and I then left hi=
m to
his own devices. In Chicago I sought to forget my unfortunate past and found
regular employment there in my profession.
"It was while nursing Mrs. Jones that I
overheard her give to Doctor Anstruther the supposed address of her husband,
which had been furnished her by a casual acquaintance, and tell him to wire
Jason Jones to come to her at once. I well knew a mistake had been made and=
that
she had given the doctor my own husband's address--the address of an entire=
ly
different Jason Jones. My first impulse was to undeceive her, but that would
involve humiliating explanations, so I hesitated and finally decided to rem=
ain
silent. When the doctor had gone to telegraph and the die was cast, I refle=
cted
that my husband, whom I knew to be sunk in poverty, would ignore the reques=
t to
come to Chicago to be reconciled to his dying wife. My Jason wouldn't care
whether I lived or died and wouldn't have spent a cent to be reconciled with
me. For of course he would think it was I who asked for him, since he would=
know
nothing of Antoinette Seaver Jones or that she was the wife of his distant
relative, the other Jason Jones.
"He did, indeed, answer Doctor Anstruther=
by
saying he would not come unless his expenses were advanced, so the good doc=
tor
launched the future deception by sending him ample funds. I knew of this ac=
tion
and wondered what I ought to do. There would be a terrible mix-up when my h=
usband
appeared, and I realized how disappointed the sick woman would be. Knowing =
her condition
to be dangerous, I feared the shock would kill her, which it really did, for
still I kept silent. I told myself that I had not aided in the deception in=
any
way, that it was a trick of fate, and I could not be blamed. I thought that
when Doctor Anstruther met my husband there would be explanations and the t=
ruth
would come out, but somehow that did not happen. Jason Jones walked into
Antoinette Seaver Jones' room expecting to find me dying, and saw a strange
woman in the bed and his wife--in good health--standing before him. He let =
out
an oath in his surprise and my patient, who had raised up in bed to stare at
him, uttered a low moan and fell back on her pillow, dead. I saw the tragedy
and involuntarily screamed, and Jason Jones saw she was dead and cried out =
in
fear. I had just time to recover my wits and whisper to him to keep his mou=
th
shut and I would make him rich when Doctor Anstruther hurried into the room=
.
"The whole thing was unpremeditated up to
that time, but now I assisted fate, for I had witnessed Mrs. Jones' will and
knew well its contents. No one seemed to know there were two artists named
Jason Jones and everyone accepted my husband as Alora's father and the one
entitled to her guardianship and to profit by the terms of the will.
"An hour after Mrs. Jones died I secured a
secret interview with my husband, who until then had been thoroughly
bewildered, and explained to him that the mistake in identity would, if he =
took
prompt advantage of it, give him the control of an enormous income for seven
years-- until the child reached the age of eighteen. He was fearful, at fir=
st, that
the other Jason Jones would appear and prosecute him for swindling, but as =
the
husband of Antoinette Seaver had not been heard from in years, even by his =
own
wife, I induced him to accept the risk. It was I who virtually put that inc=
ome
into my husband's hands, and in return he agreed to supply me with whatever
money I demanded, up to a half of his receipts. But he proved that there is=
not
always honor among thieves, for after he had been made legal executor of the
estate and his fears had somewhat subsided he endeavored to keep all the mo=
ney for
himself and begrudged me the one or two instalments I forced him to give me.
Strangely enough, this formerly poverty-stricken artist now developed a lov=
e of
accumulation--a miserly love for the money itself, and hated to spend any o=
f it
even on himself or on the girl to whom he owed his good fortune. The coward
actually ran away and hid himself in Europe, and I, having spent all the mo=
ney
he had given me, with the idea I had an inexhaustible fund to draw upon, was
forced to turn nurse again.
"After three years I had saved enough to
follow him to Europe, where I located him at a lonely villa in Italy. Its v=
ery
loneliness was my undoing, for he made a husky servant lock me up in an
outhouse and there I was held a prisoner until Jason had again escaped to
America. He thought he could hide better in the United States and that I wo=
uldn't
have the money to follow him there, but I had fortunately saved enough for =
my
return passage. By the time I got home, however, he had completely disappea=
red
and all my efforts failed to locate him. So I returned to Chicago and again
resumed my profession.
"You will say I might have denounced him =
as
an impostor and made the police hunt him up, but that would have ruined my
chances of ever getting another penny of the money and might have involved =
me personally.
Jason knew that, and it made him bold to defy me. I silently bided my time,
believing that fate would one day put the man in my power.
"You know how I happened to find Alora in
Chicago and how I lured her to my home and kept her there a prisoner."=
It was found that the dead man had made large
investments in his own name, and as he had left no will Janet declared that
this property now belonged to her, as his widow. Lawyer Conant, however,
assured her that as the money had never been legally her husband's, but was
secured by him under false pretenses, all the investments and securities pu=
rchased
with it must be transferred to the real Jason Jones, to whom they now belon=
ged.
The court would attend to that matter.
"And it serves you right, madam," ad=
ded
Peter Conant, "for concocting the plot to swindle Alora's father out of
the money his dead wife intended him to have. You are not properly punished,
for you should be sent to jail, but your disappointment will prove a slight
punishment, at least."
"So far as I knew," answered Janet,
defending her crime, "Alora's father was either dead or hidden in some
corner of the world where he could never be found. To my knowledge there wa=
s no
such person existent, so the substitution of my husband for him did him no
injury and merely kept the income out of the clutches of paid executors. Ha=
d the
right man appeared, at any time during these four years, to claim his child=
and
the money, he might easily have secured them by proving his identity. So the
fault was his as much as mine."
Jason Jones had personally listened to the wom=
an's
confession, which filled him with wonder. While severely condemning her
unscrupulous methods he refused to prosecute her, although Mr. Conant urged=
him
to do so, and even carried his generosity to the extent of presenting her w=
ith
one of her dead husband's small investments, obtaining from her in return t=
he
promise to lead an honest and respectable life.
It had been the artist's intention to return to
his California bungalow, but after the probate court had acknowledged him a=
nd transferred
to him the guardianship of his daughter, he decided to devote the coming ye=
ars
to Alora and endeavor to recompense her with fatherly devotion for the
privations and unhappiness she had formerly endured.
Alora did not wish to be separated from Mary
Louise, so her father purchased the handsome residence of Senator Huling, w=
hich
was situated directly opposite to that of Colonel Hathaway in Dorfield, and=
succeeded
in making it a real home for his daughter.
Josie O'Gorman went back to Washington well
pleased with her success, although she said with a little grimace of feigned
regret:
"I did pretty well, for an amateur, for I
tackled a tough case and won out; but, after all, it was Mary Louise who so=
lved
the mystery and restored Alora to her honest-for-true father."