Part 42

He tried to be calm. He reminded himself that he was a relentless human bloodhound, never to be eluded, and that no matter where the criminals went, were it to the very ends of the earth, they could not escape him. Even these thoughts could not appease him. He was hungry, he was extremely thirsty, and he was displeased with his red morocco slippers.

It is fortunate that he did not know how streaked with dust and perspiration his face was, how rumpled his stubby hair. As it was, when he caught any one staring at him, he believed it was because of the ruthless determination of his expression.

At last Wickey turned off the Post Road and stopped halfway down a lane, before a little old-fashioned cottage which bore this sign:

YE BETSY BARKER TEA HOUSE

“Here’s where she went,” said Wickey.

Mr. Donalds sprang out, and, bidding the man wait, opened the garden gate and advanced up the path. The cottage door was unlatched, and he entered, to find himself in a dim, cool little room, filled with small tables and high-backed settees.

There was no one else in the room. He had come in so quietly, in his slippers, that no doubt he had not been heard. He waited a moment, and then he rapped vigorously upon one of the tables.

Almost immediately there entered a thin little white-haired woman wearing a chintz apron.

“Tea?” she asked in a little bleating voice.

She was such a very respectable sort of little woman, and the atmosphere of the place was so very tranquil, that Mr. Donalds felt somewhat abashed.

“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m looking for a woman with red hair and a child in a pink hat.”

Suddenly the whole thing seemed to him so fantastic that he was almost apologetic--until he observed that the woman’s face grew very pale.

“Ha!” he cried. “I see you know something of this! Then--”

“I--I--I--” she faltered. “You must be mistaken. I--I never heard of them. They’ve gone away.”

“You contradict yourself, madam!” said Mr. Donalds sternly. “Come, tell me what you know--at once!”

“I--I--I--” said she, trembling with an alarm which he could not but think guilty. “Oh! Please go away!”

“Go away!” he repeated, affronted and amazed. “I have come here for the purpose of--”

She began to cry. Mr. Donalds had not been an employer of great numbers of female stenographers for years and years without learning to withstand tears. In fact, he had formed the notion that women generally cried whenever they had made a mistake, and that it was a feminine way of apologizing.

“Come, come!” he said. “Tell me where the child is--immediately!”

But all she did was to back into a corner and go on crying. Mr. Donalds was not profoundly moved. On the contrary, he was irritated.

“I shall search the premises,” he announced, and made for the door.

The woman came after him, calling in a loud and terrified voice:

“Evelyn! Evelyn! Evelyn! Quick!”

This was undoubtedly a warning, and Mr. Donalds went forward very rapidly. He reached the foot of a narrow, boxed-in stairway, and had his foot on the bottom step, when, with a rustle of skirts and a click of high heels, down rushed a little human whirlwind, with such impetuosity that he had just time to spring aside.

“What do you mean by this?” the whirlwind demanded. “What’s he been doing, Betsy?”

“He--he--he--” bleated the other.

Mr. Donalds was silent, staring at this new one. She had red hair. She had, moreover, the air of one who is capable of anything. He felt absolutely certain that she was the kidnaper; and he decided that he would confute, abash, and alarm her by a sudden onslaught.

“Come!” he shouted. “Where is the child? Quick! No nonsense! Where is the child?”

“Do you imagine I’m going to tell you?” said she.

He was very much taken aback and shocked by this unaccountable display of effrontery.

“Then you do not deny it?”

“Certainly not!” she replied calmly. “I admit it.”

“Then stand aside! I shall search the house!”

“By all means,” said she. “The more time you waste over it, the better for me.”

Now, there might be some truth in this. He hesitated, scowling, staring at the criminal, who returned his stare without flinching. He saw that he had no ordinary person to deal with. This was a master mind.

“I shall call the police,” he said, but he didn’t mean it.

“Pray do!” said she.

It was Mr. Donalds’s belief that those who could not be bullied must be bribed; so he changed his tone.

“Madam,” he said, “my sole object is the recovery of the child. To accomplish this, I am willing--”

“Come into the tea room, Mr. Henderson,” she interrupted, “and we’ll discuss the matter. I can assure you that the child is quite safe and happy, and that you will accomplish nothing by violence. No, Mr. Henderson--the best thing you can do is to come to terms with me.”

“My name is not Henderson,” he began, but she had gone past him into the tea room, and he followed.

“Tea, Betsy dear!” said she. “For two, please!”

“No!” said Mr. Donalds. “I do not want tea!”

“And sandwiches,” went on the red-haired woman, unperturbed. “And cake, if you please, Betsy dear. Sit down, Mr. Henderson!”

“I shall stand,” said he, and stand he did, with his arms folded.

The woman sat down, and she said nothing. Mr. Donalds appreciated the cleverness of this silence. By saying nothing at all she had him at a disadvantage, for she did not mind waiting, and he did. He was obliged to begin.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Well!” she returned briskly.

There was another silence--quite a long one.

“I suppose,” said Mr. Donalds, at last, “that you have some sort of terms to suggest. Let me hear them!”

“Certainly,” said she; “but here’s our tea. How nice! Thank you, Betsy dear!”

Mr. Donalds remained silent until the timid Betsy had set the tea out on the table and once more retired.

“Now!” he said grimly. “The terms, madam--the terms!”

“Mr. Henderson,” she replied in a grave tone, “I wish you would sit down and take a cup of tea--and a sandwich. They’re very nourishing sandwiches. I made them myself; and you _need_ nourishment and refreshment. You are tired, and in an extremely nervous condition.”

This was almost more than Mr. Donalds could bear. He struggled with his indignation for a moment, and then gave a short laugh.

“No doubt my pitiful condition distresses you very greatly,” he observed, with biting sarcasm.

“It does,” said she. “I am a good judge of character, and, since I have actually seen you, I am inclined to believe that you are not really a bad or heartless man. I feel now that what you have done, you have done more through lack of understanding than from deliberate cruelty.”

“Upon my word!” said Mr. Donalds.

He was dazed. He sank heavily into a chair opposite her, and stared at her; and she actually smiled at him--smiled gravely but kindly.

“Good!” said she. “Now we can talk like two reasonable human beings. Milk _and_ sugar?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said he, as if in a dream. “I don’t want it, anyhow.”

“I don’t care much for tea myself,” she told him; “but it is refreshing. A sandwich? If you don’t like cheese, I’ll get you--”

“I do like cheese,” he admitted.

“Most men do,” said she. “My poor husband was so fond of it! He was a newspaper man, and when he came home late I would make him a nice little Welsh rarebit, and he’d have that and a glass of beer. That was years ago, of course, when you could get beer.”

She sighed, but Mr. Donalds understood that the sigh was only for her late husband, not for any other vanished joys.

“I do like to see a man comfortable!” she suddenly remarked.

He believed her. Extraordinary and preposterous as it was, he believed that she really wished _him_ to be comfortable. She had prepared a cup of tea for him, and she watched him while he drank it and ate a sandwich--yes, two or three sandwiches--with the air of a solicitous hostess.

“Another cup?” she asked. “And now won’t you smoke?”

“Thank you,” said he.

He lit a cigar and took a few puffs. He really felt very much better now. The tea and the sandwiches had done him good, and the atmosphere of the place was most restful. The sun was sinking. Already the corners of the room were shadowy, and a shaft of mellow light from the window illumined the woman’s glittering hair in a singular fashion. Seen thus, and through a faint haze of tobacco smoke, she looked not exactly pretty, but certainly attractive, so straight was she, so trim, so smart, so self-possessed.

Mr. Donalds came to his senses with a start.

“The terms, madam!” he said--not savagely now, but firmly.

“Mr. Henderson,” she replied, “I shouldn’t like you to misunderstand me. Perhaps it is a weakness, but I shouldn’t like you to think that my motives were unworthy.”

“I--” he began, and stopped himself just in time. “I don’t think so,” he had been about to say, but that would never do; so he said nothing.

“I give you my word,” she continued, in a voice almost sorrowful, “that I personally have nothing whatever to gain by this. My only object has been to secure justice for others.”

“Justice!” repeated Mr. Donalds. “You call it justice to--”

“I do,” said she. “Now please listen. First”--she paused--“first, that poor creature--that governess--”

“Ha!” cried Mr. Donalds. “Miss Mackellar! So she is a party to this!”

“No, she isn’t. She’s simply a victim, and I don’t wish her to suffer for what isn’t her fault. _Any one_ could _see_ what she is,” the red-haired woman went on with great earnestness. “She’s perfectly helpless. She’s a victim of life--of man.”

“I’m sure _I_--” he began indignantly.

“I’m sure you’ve frightened her. I’m sure you’ve discharged her.”

“Naturally!”

“Well, then, the first article of our agreement must be this,” said she. “Miss--Mackellar, you said? Miss Mackellar is to have an annuity of one thousand dollars a year.”

“No!” shouted Mr. Donalds. “No! I refuse!”

“Then it’s a deadlock,” said she, and poured herself another cup of tea.

A silence.

“You assure me that the woman is absolutely innocent of any participation in the kidnaping?” demanded Mr. Donalds.

“Absolutely! Any one could see that. She’s only a poor, muddled, tired little woman who does her best. She needs help, and you can very well afford to do this for her.”

“Very well!” said Mr. Donalds. “I agree to this--outrage!”

To tell the truth, the red-haired woman’s description of Miss Mackellar had rather touched him.

“Will you write it down, please?” said she. “Just say that you will provide an annuity of one thousand dollars a year for Miss Mackellar, as from the 10th of April, 1925.”

She spoke in an efficient, businesslike tone, which somehow gave an air of plausibility to this incredible proposal, and he obeyed. He wrote on a page of his notebook, signed it, and put it on the table before him.

“And now,” she went on, “you will agree to settle upon Judith, for life, an income of--”

“Judith!” he cried. “This is too much!”

“Write this,” she said calmly, “and I shall at once take you to the child.”

“This is blackmail!” he cried. “This is extortion!”

“Mr. Henderson,” she replied sternly, “don’t you think, in your heart, that you ought to do this for Judith? Think, Mr. Henderson! Think of all that poor Judith--”

“Who the devil is Judith?” he roared. “I never heard of her!”

“Mr. Henderson!”

“My name is not Henderson--I told you that before! My name is Donalds--William Donalds, importer. Here! Here’s a card!”

From his pocket he pulled not one card, but many, and they fell all over the table.

“Donalds!” he repeated. “Now you know with whom you have to deal. This farce must end! This--”

He stopped, because such an extraordinary change had come over the woman. Her face had grown alarmingly white, and she was staring at him with a sort of horror.

“You--you _must_ be Mr. Henderson!” she said faintly.

“I will not be!” he shouted. “I refuse! Nothing can induce me to assume a false name! You have kidnaped my grandchild--”

“Your niece, you mean.”

“I don’t! I mean my grandchild. I have no niece. I--”

“Wait a minute!” she interrupted. She rose to her feet and stood, holding the back of the chair. “I’m afraid,” she said, “that there’s been--some terrible mistake!”

“You mean--the child? Quick! Something has happened to the child?”

“No,” she said. “No--it’s just--me.”

Criminal though she was, he could not help feeling sorry for her.

“Madam, you are ill,” he said. “Sit down again!”

She shook her head.

“Mr. Donalds,” she said. “I--I must apologize. I’m afraid--it’s the wrong child!”

“The wrong--”

“Yes. Please come!”

She went out of the room, and he followed her up the stairs. She opened the door of a room, and there, on a bed, he saw his grandchild, sleeping peacefully.

“No!” he whispered. “No--it’s the right child!”

“It isn’t the one I meant,” said she.

He looked at her.

“Then you are not acting on behalf of my scoundrelly nephew, Masterton Donalds?” he said.

“I never heard of him.”

“But I thought--he has made certain threats that he would attempt to force me to make him an allowance. I thought--”

“No,” said the red-haired woman in a very low voice. “Take her! I’m sorry. It was all a mistake!”

V

Judith was waiting in Mrs. Fremby’s room. She had been told to come there at six o’clock, in order to hear some news. She had come, and had found the room empty. Judith’s nature, however, was not an impatient one. She waited, full of a calm confidence in her friend. She ate the entire contents of a bag of chocolates that she found on the table, she tried on Mrs. Fremby’s hats, and then she sat down to read Mrs. Fremby’s latest article, which began thus:

Paris no longer reigns undisputed over American modes. There is a distinct tendency--

The door opened, and Mrs. Fremby entered. As was her habit, she locked the door behind her. Then she smiled. It was a pretty sickly smile, but Judith was not observant.

“Hello, Judith!” she said.

“Hello, Evelyn!” answered Judith. “What is the news you said you’d have for me?”

Mrs. Fremby took off her hat and coat, and sat down.

“My dear,” she said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you to-night. Later on--”

Judith’s beautiful eyes filled with tears of disappointment.

“Oh, Evelyn!” she said. “I did hope there’d be something--something about little Doris, or at least an order for an article. I only have two dollars, Evelyn!”

“I’ll lend you a little money,” said Mrs. Fremby.

She spoke absent-mindedly, for she was calculating. The cost of that taxi had been terrific--and all for nothing! She was tired and downcast and miserable; but it was not her way to allow others to know such things. She reflected that after Judith was gone she could be as miserable as much and as long as she liked, but in the meantime--courage!

It was never a difficult matter to divert Judith’s mind, and within a few minutes Mrs. Fremby had got her to talking about the spring costume she wished she could buy. It was scarcely necessary to listen. Mrs. Fremby was able to indulge in her own far from cheery thoughts.

There was a knock at the door. Mrs. Fremby rose and opened it promptly. It was the landlady. Let it be! There were no surreptitious cooking or heating processes going forward just now.

“There’s a gentleman wants to see you, Mrs. Fremby,” said the landlady, with perfect affability. “He’s waiting down in the hall.”

“I’ll see him,” said Mrs. Fremby. “Just a minute, Judith!”

With a firm step she left the room. At heart, though, she was by no means easy. She felt sure that this visitor was Mr. Donalds, and she was not very anxious to see him again.

It was Mr. Donalds. As she descended the stairs, she saw him standing, hat in hand, in the dimly lit hall, and her heart sank still lower. He was not a man to be trifled with. He was--

“Not a handsome man at all,” thought Mrs. Fremby; “but distinguished-looking.”

He came toward her. Their eyes met. They did not smile.

“Madam,” said he, “I obtained your name and address from the--ah--person in the tea room.”

“She ought to have known better,” observed Mrs. Fremby.

“I succeeded in convincing her that I intended no harm,” he went on; “and I wish to assure you that I bear no ill will.”

Mrs. Fremby softened.

“I gave you a great deal of quite unnecessary trouble and anxiety,” she said. “I regret it very much; but--perhaps I ought to explain. You see, there is a friend of mine--Judith Cane--who has a little niece, her own sister’s child; and the father’s people have taken the little girl away from her. It’s shameful! Judith loves the child so much!”

“But surely the law might be resorted to in such--”

“The law!” said Mrs. Fremby scornfully. “They’ve got the _law_ on their side; but what I wanted was justice--for Judith, I thought I’d steal the child, and force them to do something for Judith.”

“But the risk!” cried Mr. Donalds. “Did you realize the risk you--”

“I don’t care about risks,” said Mrs. Fremby calmly. “Nobody would dare to do anything to me!”

Mr. Donalds knew well how absurd this statement was, yet he was impressed. The dauntlessness of this little woman!

“Judith knows nothing about it,” she continued; “and I don’t intend her to know until the thing’s done.”

“Madam! Mrs. Fremby! You don’t mean that you propose to do this again?”

“Certainly I do.”

“No!” he protested. “That must not be! You don’t realize--”

“Yes, I do,” she interrupted. “It’s the only way; and this afternoon I saw that you--even a man like you--you were willing to make all sorts of concessions. Oh, I do wish!” she exclaimed. “I do wish you had been the right one!”

“Er--why?” asked Mr. Donalds, with a modest, downcast glance.

“Because we got on so well. I could discuss things with you. You were so reasonable--about that poor Miss Mackellar, for instance.”

“Mrs. Fremby,” he said solemnly, “I consider that you were in the right about Miss Mackellar. I mean to carry out your wishes in that matter.”

“No!” she replied incredulously. “You can’t mean that, after I caused you so much worry and--”

“You did me good,” said he. “I don’t mind admitting it. The example of your--your heroism--”

“Oh, no!”

“Your heroism,” he repeated doggedly, “and your unselfish devotion to the interests of others--What is more, my grandchild is--is enthusiastic in your praise. Mrs. Fremby, allow me to say that you are a wonderful woman!”

Mrs. Fremby was deeply touched.

“Mr. Donalds,” she said, “for you to say that--after what has happened--is magnanimous!”

“I mean it,” said he; “but I most earnestly implore you not to do it again. The risk is--appalling! It is possible--it is highly probable--that I can be of some assistance to this friend of yours, this--er--Miss Judith. Whatever I can do, Mrs. Fremby, I will--anything authorized by law,” he added a trifle anxiously.

“Mr. Donalds!” she cried. “Oh, Mr. Donalds! This is--oh, this is really too much! I never--I never in my life--”

He thought she was going to cry. She thought so too, for a moment, but with a pretty severe effort she recovered herself. She smiled. That smile completely finished Mr. Donalds.

“Mrs. Fremby,” he said, “one thing more. I believe I told you that I was an importer--”

“I know. I’ve heard of your firm.”

“Mrs. Fremby, I should be honored--it would be a favor to me--if you would come to our showroom to-morrow morning and pick out for yourself any one of the new model gowns from Paris--”

“Paris!” cried Mrs. Fremby. “Never!” Mr. Donalds was startled by her impassioned tone. “I wouldn’t wear a Paris gown--not for anything!”

“Wouldn’t wear a Paris gown!” he repeated, overcome. “I never before heard of a lady--”

Mrs. Fremby held out her hand, and he took it.

“You mustn’t think I don’t appreciate your generosity,” she said. “It’s just a matter of principle.”

Again their eyes met.

“Wonderful little woman!” said he.

It was amazing, the difference that one word of six letters made in that phrase. Mrs. Fremby became quite confused.

“What can I do,” continued Mr. Donalds, still holding her hand, “to mark my profound appreciation?”

Appreciation of what? Of Mrs. Fremby’s kidnaping his grandchild? Strange that so practical a man as Mr. Donalds should become so curiously obtuse about the clearest moral issues! Mrs. Fremby was undeniably a lawless, reckless, dangerous sort of creature.

“Mrs. Fremby,” said he, “will you do me the honor of dining with me to-morrow evening?”

“Thank you, Mr. Donalds, I will,” she replied, grave but very gracious.

And you may believe it or not, but neither of them doubted for a moment that it was an honor which she conferred upon him.

MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE

OCTOBER, 1925 Vol. LXXXVI NUMBER 1

As Patrick Henry Said

THE UNFORESEEN CIRCUMSTANCES THAT LED DR. JOE TO CHANGE SOME OF HIS IDEAS ON THE SUBJECT OF PERSONAL LIBERTY

By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding

“Mean to tell me she won’t let you go?” demanded Dr. Joe, in his big voice.

“No,” said young Bennett stoutly, “I don’t mean to tell you anything of the sort. Of course she’d let me go; only, if I did, there’d be no one--well, no one to look after the furnace or--”

“Merciful powers!” said Dr. Joe, staring at his friend in pity and wonder. “So that’s what it’s done to you!” he thought. “Can’t take two weeks off for a hunting trip with your old friend! Can’t call your soul your own!”

He was determined not to say a word of this, though.

“If the man’s happy,” he thought, “the thing for me is to be tactful.”

And no one could have convinced him that he was not tactful. He got up, a formidable figure of a man, more than six feet in height and stalwart in proportion. He was under thirty-five, yet no one ever spoke of him as a young man, any more than people called him a handsome man, in spite of the fine regularity of his massive features. He was simply Dr. Joe. There was no one like him.

“Well, my boy,” he said, in a soothing way, “I’ll be off now. Got half a dozen calls to make before lunch. See you--”

“Look here, Joe! I want you to come to dinner with us on Sunday.”

“Can’t do it!” replied Dr. Joe, in alarm.

“You’ve got to do it, Joe. She wants to meet you, and I want you to see--what she’s done for me.”

“Seen that already!” thought Dr. Joe, but, true to his policy of tactfulness, he kept the thought to himself. “Some other time, old man,” he said.

“You know you can come on Sunday if you want to,” insisted Bennett.

Dr. Joe did know that. What is more, he knew that Bennett knew it.

“And I’ll have to go some time,” he thought ruefully, so he said: “All right, old man--Sunday it is!”