  Two weeks have passed since the evening upon which Bobs and her new friend, Ralph Caldwaller-Cory, drove together in Central Park and told each other briefly the story of their lives. It does not take interested young people long to become acquainted and these two had many opportunities to be together, for were they not solving the Pensinger mystery, and was it not of paramount importance that the poor defrauded heir of all those idle millions should be found and made happy with his rightful possessions? Of course no other motive prompted Ralph, the rising young lawyer, to seek the companionship of his detective-partner, not only daily but often, in the morning, afternoon and evening. They had sought clues everywhere in the mansion, but the great old rooms had failed to reveal aught that was concealed. Too, they had long drives in the little red car that its owner called “The Whizz,” and these frequently took them far away from the thronged East Side along country roads where, quite undisturbed, they could talk over possible clues and plan ways to follow them. And all this time Roberta really thought that Ralph’s interest in her was impersonal, for the lad dreaded revealing his true feeling until she showed some even remote sign of being interested in him. “If I tell Bobs that I care for her, it might queer the whole thing,” was one thought suggested to him as he rode home alone one night through the quiet park. Another thought was more encouraging. It suggested, “But a girl’s pride won’t let her show that she cares. There is only one way to find out, and that is to ask.” And still another assured him, “There is every reason why Roberta Vandergrift should be pleased. You, Ralph, have wealth and position, and can restore to her all that she has lost.” “Lots you know about Bobs,” the lad blurted out as though someone really had spoken to him. “My opinion is that Roberta isn’t really grown up enough as yet to think of love. She considers her boy friends more as brothers, and that’s what they ought to be, first and foremost. I’ll bide my time, but if I do lose Bobs, it will be like losing Desmond all over again.” Meanwhile, although no progress had been made in solving the mystery, much progress was being made in other directions. Gloria, with Bobs and Ralph, had attended a Sunday afternoon meeting of the Boy’s Club and Mr. Hardinian had walked home with them and had remained for tea. He was very glad to have an opportunity to talk with a young woman whose interest in welfare work paralleled his own, especially as he had one rather wayward boy whom he believed needed mothering more than all else. Gloria’s heart indeed was touched when she heard the sad story that the young man had to tell, and she gladly offered to do what she could. She invited the wayward boy to one of her game evenings at the Settlement House, and in teaching him to play honestly she not only won his ardent devotion but also saved him from being sent to the island reformatory for petty thievery. After that Mr. Hardinian frequently called upon Gloria when he needed advice or help. The little old book shop, during the eventful two weeks, had started, or so it would seem, on a very successful business career. Because of the little memorandum that she had made in her note book on the day that Nell Wiggin had first telephoned to her, Mrs. Doran-Ashley did tell the ladies who attended the next model tenement board meeting about the shop, and asked them to visit it, which they did, being sincerely interested in all that pertained to their venture. And not only did they buy books, but they left others to be sold on commission. One glance at the fine face of the lad who was bookseller made them realize that, crippled as he might be, he would not accept charity. “How’s business this hot day?” Bobs asked early one morning, as she poked her head in at the door. She was on her way down to the Fourth Avenue Branch of the Burns Detective Agency, where she went every day to do a few hours’ secretarial work for Mr. Jewett. “We had a splendid trade yesterday,” the lad replied, as he looked up from the old book of poetry which he was reading. And yet, since he held a pencil, Bobs concluded that he was also writing verse as the inspiration came. “How so?” she inquired. “The shop had a visit from no less a personage than Mr. Van Loon, the millionaire book collector, of whom you told me. He bought several volumes that I hadn’t supposed were worth a farthing, and what he paid for them will more than cover our expenses up to date. I wonder how he happened to know about this out-of-the-way shop?” “Oh, I guess he goes nosing around after old books, sort of ferrets them out, like as not. Well, so long! I’m mighty glad our shop is financially on its feet.” As Bobs went on her way down the crowded First Avenue she smiled to herself, for it was she who had sent Mr. Van Loon a business-like letter announcing the opening of an old book shop, feeling sure that he would not miss an opportunity of seeing it if it held something that he might desire. Fifteen minutes after her departure, Dean again heard the door open, and this time a dear little boy of three darted in and hid beneath a book-covered counter, peering out to whisper delightedly, “I’se hidin’! Miss May, her’s arter me.” Almost immediately the pursuer, who was Lena May Vandergrift, appeared in the doorway. The young bookseller was on his feet at once and there was a sudden light in the dreamy brown eyes that told its own story. “Good morning, Dean,” the girl said. “Have you seen Antony Wilovich? I told him to wait out in front for me so that he could escort me to the Settlement House this morning.” Dean smiled knowingly and replied, which was his part of the game: “Well, well, has that little scamp run away again somewhere, and hidden? I guess he doesn’t love his Miss May or he wouldn’t do that.” This always proved too much for the little fellow in hiding, and from under the counter he would dart, his arms extended. Then the girl, stopping, would catch him in a loving embrace. “I do so love Miss May,” the child would protest. “I loves her next most to my muvver over dere.” A chubby finger would point, or the golden head would nod, in the direction of the rickety tumble-down tenement across the way, the very one which Miss Selenski, the former agent of the model tenement, had called a “fire trap.” This little game of hide-and-seek took place every morning, for Lena May had promised the “muvver over dere,” who was slowly dying of consumption, that she would call for Tony, take him to the Settlement sandpile and return him safely at noon. If this was a merry moment each day for little Tony, it was to Dean Wiggin much more. The sweet, sympathetic girl, in her pretty muslin dress and flower-wreathed hat, suggested to the lad from the country all that he most loved, the fragrance of blossoms, the song of birds, and the peace of the meadow-pool at noon time. When she was gone, with a friendly backward nod at the crippled bookseller, he would always read poetry or try to write one that would express what Lena May was to him, to little Tony, or to the invalid mother who trusted her with her one treasure. And so that two weeks had raised the curtain upon three dreams, but one of them was to become a tragedy. |
|
