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 tomorrow. 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
