The influence of a familiar and sequestered
place is not only soothing; the bruised mind may often
find it restorative. Thus Hedrick, in his studio,
surrounded by his own loved bric-a-brac, began
to feel once more the stir of impulse. Two hours’
reading inspired him. What a French reporter
(in the Count’s bedroom) could do, an American
youth in full possession of his powers except
for a strained knee and other injuries could
do. Yes, and would!
He evolved a new chain of reasoning.
The ledger had been seen in Laura’s room; it
had been heard in her room; it appeared to be kept
in her room. But it was in no single part of the
room. All the parts make a whole. Therefore,
the book was not in the room.
On the other hand, Laura had not left
the room when she took the book from its hiding-place.
This was confusing; therefore he determined to concentrate
logic solely upon what she had done with the ledger
when she finished writing in it. It was dangerous
to assume that she had restored it to the place whence
she obtained it, because he had already proved that
place to be both in the room and out of the room.
No; the question he must keep in was: What did
she do with it?
Laura had not left the room.
But the book had left the room.
Arrived at this inevitable deduction,
he sprang to his feet in a state of repressed excitement
and began to pace the floor like a hound
on the trail. Laura had not left the room, but
the book had left the room: he must keep his
mind upon this point. He uttered a loud exclamation
and struck the zinc table-top a smart blow with his
clenched fist.
Laura had thrown the book out of the window!
In the exaltation of this triumph,
he forgot that it was not yet the hour for a scholar’s
reappearance, and went forth in haste to search the
ground beneath the window a disappointing
quest, for nowhere in the yard was there anything
but withered grass, and the rubbish of other frost-bitten
vegetation. His mother, however, discovered something
else, and, opening the kitchen window, she asked,
with surprise:
“Why, Hedrick, what on earth are you doing here?”
“Me?” inquired Hedrick.
“What are you doing here?”
“Here?” Evidently she puzzled him.
She became emphatic. “I want to know what
you are doing.”
“Just standing here,” he explained in
a meek, grieved way.
“But why aren’t you at school?”
This recalled what he had forgotten,
and he realized the insecurity of his position.
“Oh, yes,” he said “school.
Did you ask me ”
“Didn’t you go to school?”
He began to speak rapidly. “Didn’t
I go to school? Well, where else could
I go? Just because I’m here now doesn’t
mean I didn’t go, does it? Because
a person is in China right now wouldn’t have
to mean he’d never been in South America, would
it?”
“Then what’s the matter?”
“Well, I was going along, and
you know I didn’t feel very well and ”
He paused, with the advent of a happier idea, then
continued briskly: “But that didn’t
stop me, because I thought I ought to go if I dropped,
so I went ahead, but the teacher was sick and they
couldn’t get a substitute. She must have
been pretty sick, she looked so pale ”
“They dismissed the class?”
“And I don’t have to go to-morrow either.”
“I see,” said his mother.
“But if you feel ill, Hedrick, hadn’t
you better come in and lie down?”
“I think it’s kind of
passing off. The fresh air seems to be doing
me good.”
“Be careful of your sore knee,
dear.” She closed the window, and he was
left to continue his operations in safety.
Laura had thrown the ledger out of
the window; that was proved absolutely. Obviously,
she had come down before daylight and retrieved it.
Or, she had not. Proceeding on the assumption
that she had not, he lifted his eyes and searched
the air. Was it possible that the book, though
thrown from the window, had never reached the ground?
The branches of an old and stalwart maple, now almost
divested of leaves, extended in rough symmetry above
him, and one big limb, reaching out toward the house,
came close to Laura’s windows. Triumph
shown again from the shrewd countenance of the sleuth:
Laura must have slid the ledger along a wire into a
hollow branch. However, no wire was to be seen and
the shrewd countenance of the sleuth fell. But
perhaps she had constructed a device of silk threads,
invisible from below, which carried the book into
the tree. Action!
He climbed carefully but with many
twinges, finally pausing in a parlous situation not
far from the mysterious window which Laura had opened
the night before. A comprehensive survey of the
tree revealed only the very patent fact that none
of the branches was of sufficient diameter to conceal
the ledger. No silk threads came from the window.
He looked and looked and looked at that window; then
his eye fell a little, halted less than three feet
below the window-ledge, and the search was ended.
The kitchen window which his mother
had opened was directly beneath Laura’s, and
was a very long, narrow window, in the style of the
house, and there was a protecting stone ledge above
it. Upon this ledge lay the book, wrapped in
its oil-skin covering and secured from falling by
a piece of broken iron hooping, stuck in the mortar
of the bricks. It could be seen from nowhere save
an upper window of the house next door, or from the
tree itself, and in either case only when the leaves
had fallen.
Laura had felt very safe. No
one had ever seen the book except that night, early
in August, when, for a better circulation of air,
she had left her door open as she wrote, and Hedrick
had come upon her. He had not spoken of it again;
she perceived that he had forgotten it; and she herself
forgot that the memory of a boy is never to be depended
on; its forgettings are too seldom permanent in the
case of things that ought to stay forgotten.
To get the book one had only to lean from the window.
Hedrick seemed so ill during lunch
that his mother spoke of asking Doctor Sloane to look
at him, if he did not improve before evening.
Hedrick said meekly that perhaps that would be best if
he did not improve. After a futile attempt to
eat, he courteously excused himself from the table a
ceremony which made even Cora fear that his case might
be serious and, going feebly to the library,
stretched himself upon the sofa. His mother put
a rug over him; Hedrick, thanking her touchingly,
closed his eyes; and she went away, leaving him to
slumber.
After a time, Laura came into the
room on an errand, walking noiselessly, and, noticing
that his eyes were open, apologized for waking him.
“Never mind,” he returned,
in the tone of an invalid. “I didn’t
sleep sound. I think there’s something the
matter inside my head: I have such terrible dreams.
I guess maybe it’s better for me to keep awake.
I’m kind of afraid to go to sleep. Would
you mind staying here with me a little while?”
“Certainly I’ll stay,”
she said, and, observing that his cheeks were flushed,
and his eyes unusually bright, she laid a cool hand
on his forehead. “You haven’t any
fever, dear; that’s good. You’ll
be all right to-morrow. Would you like me to read
to you?”
“I believe,” he answered,
plaintively, “reading might kind of disturb
my mind: my brain feels so sort of restless and
queer. I’d rather play some kind of game.”
“Cards?”
“No, not cards exactly.
Something’ I can do lying down. Oh, I know!
You remember the one where we drew pictures and the
others had to guess what they were? Well, I’ve
invented a game like that. You sit down at the
desk over there and take some sheets of paper.
I’ll tell you the rest.”
She obeyed. “What next?”
“Now, I’ll describe some
people and where they live and not tell who they are,
and you see if you can guess their names and addresses.”
“Addresses, too?”
“Yes, because I’m going
to describe the way their houses look. Write
each name on a separate sheet of paper, and the number
of their house below it if you know it, and if you
don’t know it, just the street. If it’s
a woman: put `Miss’ or `Mrs.’ before
their name and if it’s a man write `Esquire’
after it.”
“Is all that necessary for the game?”
“It’s the way I invented it and I think
you might ”
“Oh, all right,” she acquiesced,
good-naturedly. “It shall be according
to your rules.”
“Then afterward, you give me
the sheets of paper with the names and addresses written
on ’em, and we we ”
He hesitated.
“Yes. What do we do then?”
“I’ll tell you when we
come to it.” But when that stage of his
invention was reached, and Laura had placed the inscribed
sheets in his hand, his interest had waned, it appeared.
Also, his condition had improved.
“Let’s quit. I thought
this game would be more exciting,” he said,
sitting up. “I guess,” he added with
too much modesty, “I’m not very good at
inventing games. I b’lieve I’ll go
out to the barn; I think the fresh air ”
“Do you feel well enough to
go out?” she asked. “You do seem to
be all right, though.”
“Yes, I’m a lot better,
I think.” He limped to the door. “The
fresh air will be the best thing for me.”
She did not notice that he carelessly
retained her contributions to the game, and he reached
his studio with them in his hand. Hedrick had
entered the ’teens and he was a reader:
things in his head might have dismayed a Borgia.
No remotest glimpse entered that head
of the enormity of what he did. To put an end
to his punishing of Cora, and, to render him powerless
against that habitual and natural enemy, Laura had
revealed a horrible incident in his career it
had become a public scandal; he was the sport of fools;
and it might be months before the thing was lived
down. Now he had the means, as he believed, to
even the score with both sisters at a stroke.
To him it was turning a tremendous and properly scathing
joke upon them. He did not hesitate.
That evening, as Richard Lindley sat
at dinner with his mother, Joe Varden temporarily
abandoned his attendance at the table to answer the
front doorbell. Upon his return, he remarked:
“Messenger-boy mus’
been in big hurry. Wouldn’ wait till I git
to door.”
“What was it?” asked Richard.
“Boy with package. Least,
I reckon it were a boy. Call’ back from
the front walk, say he couldn’ wait. Say
he lef’ package in vestibule.”
“What sort of a package?”
“Middle-size kind o’ big package.”
“Why don’t you see what
it is, Richard?” Mrs. Lindley asked of her son.
“Bring it to the table, Joe.”
When it was brought, Richard looked
at the superscription with surprise. The wrapper
was of heavy brown paper, and upon it a sheet of white
notepaper had been pasted, with the address:
“Richard
Lindley, Esq.,
1218 Corliss Street.”
“It’s from Laura Madison,”
he said, staring at this writing. “What
in the world would Laura be sending me?”
“You might possibly learn by
opening it,” suggested his mother. “I’ve
seen men puzzle over the outside of things quite as
often as women. Laura Madison is a nice girl.”
She never volunteered similar praise of Laura Madison’s
sister. Mrs. Lindley had submitted to her son’s
plans concerning Cora, lately confided; but her submission
lacked resignation.
“It’s a book,” said
Richard, even more puzzled, as he took the ledger
from its wrappings. “Two little torn places
at the edge of the covers. Looks as if it had
once had clasps ”
“Perhaps it’s the Madison
family album,” Mrs. Lindley suggested.
“Pictures of Cora since infancy. I imagine
she’s had plenty taken.”
“No.” He opened the
book and glanced at the pages covered in Laura’s
clear, readable hand. “No, it’s about
half full of writing. Laura must have turned
literary.” He read a line or two, frowning
mildly. “My soul! I believe it’s
a novel! She must think I’m a critic to
want me to read it.” Smiling at the idea,
he closed the ledger. “I’ll take
it upstairs to my hang-out after dinner, and see if
Laura’s literary manner has my august approval.
Who in the world would ever have thought she’d
decide to set up for a writer?”
“I imagine she might have something
to write worth reading,” said his mother.
“I’ve always thought she was an interesting-looking
girl.”
“Yes, she is. She dances well, too.”
“Of course,” continued
Mrs. Lindley, thoughtfully, “she seldom says
anything interesting, but that may be because she so
seldom has a chance to say anything at all.”
Richard refused to perceive this allusion.
“Curious that Laura should have sent it to me,”
he said. “She’s never seemed interested
in my opinion about anything. I don’t recall
her ever speaking to me on any subject whatever except
one.”
He returned his attention to his plate,
but his mother did not appear to agree with him that
the topic was exhausted.
“`Except one’?”
she repeated, after waiting for some time.
“Yes,” he replied, in
his habitual preoccupied and casual tone. “Or
perhaps two. Not more than two, I should say and
in a way you’d call that only one, of course.
Bread, Joe.”
“What two, Richard?”
“Cora,” he said, with gentle simplicity,
“and me.”