Mrs. Carter picked the boy up and inverted him, talking amiably all the time. “He’s always doing it,” she said, giving him a shake. “Whenever we miss anything we look to see if Obadiah’s black in the face.” She gave him another shake, and the quarter I had given him shot out as if blown from a gun. Then we prepared to go back to the station.
>From where I stood I could look into the cheery farm kitchen, where Alison West and I had eaten our al fresco breakfast. I looked at the table with mixed emotions, and then, gradually, the meaning of something on it penetrated my mind. Still in its papers, evidently just opened, was a hat box, and protruding over the edge of the box was a streamer of vivid green ribbon.
On the plea that I wished to ask Mrs. Carter a few more questions, I let the others go on. I watched them down the flagstone walk; saw McKnight stop and examine the gate-posts and saw, too, the quick glance he threw back at the house. Then I turned to Mrs. Carter.
“I would like to speak to the young lady upstairs,” I said.
She threw up her hands with a quick gesture of surrender. “I’ve done all I could,” she exclaimed. “She won’t like it very well, but - she’s in the room over the parlor.”
I went eagerly up the ladder-like stairs, to the rag-carpeted hall. Two doors were open, showing interiors of four poster beds and high bureaus. The door of the room over the parlor was almost closed. I hesitated in the hallway: after all, what right had I to intrude on her? But she settled my difficulty by throwing open the door and facing me.
“I - I beg your pardon, Miss West,” I stammered. “It has just occurred to me that I am unpardonably rude. I saw the hat down-stairs and I - I guessed - ”
“The hat!” she said. “I might have known. Does Richey know I am here?”
“I don’t think so.” I turned to go down the stairs again. Then I halted. “The fact is,” I said, in an attempt at justification, “I’m in rather a mess these days, and I’m apt to do irresponsible things. It is not impossible that I shall be arrested, in a day or so, for the murder of Simon Harrington.”
She drew her breath in sharply. “Murder!” she echoed. “Then they have found you after all!”
“I don’t regard it as anything more than - er - inconvenient,” I lied. “They can’t convict me, you know. Almost all the witnesses are dead.”
She was not deceived for a moment. She came over to me and stood, both hands on the rail of the stair. “I know just how grave it is,” she said quietly. “My grandfather will not leave one stone unturned, and he can be terrible - terrible. But” - she looked directly into my eyes as I stood below her on the stairs - “the time may come - soon - when I can help you. I’m afraid I shall not want to; I’m a dreadful coward, Mr. Blakeley. But - I will.” She tried to smile.
“I wish you would let me help you,” I said unsteadily. “Let us make it a bargain: each help the other!”
The girl shook her head with a sad little smile. “I am only as unhappy as I deserve to be,” she said. And when I protested and took a step toward her she retreated, with her hands out before her.
“Why don’t you ask me all the questions you are thinking?” she demanded, with a catch in her voice. “Oh, I know them. Or are you afraid to ask?”
I looked at her, at the lines around her eyes, at the drawn look about her mouth. Then I held out my hand. “Afraid!” I said, as she gave me hers. “There is nothing in God’s green earth I am afraid of, save of trouble for you. To ask questions would be to imply a lack of faith. I ask you nothing. Some day, perhaps, you will come to me yourself and let me help you.”
The next moment I was out in the golden sunshine: the birds were singing carols of joy: I walked dizzily through rainbow-colored clouds, past the twins, cherubs now, swinging on the gate. It was a new world into which I stepped from the Carter farmhouse that morning, for - I had kissed her !
CHAPTER XIX
AT THE TABLE NEXT
McKnight and Hotchkiss were sauntering slowly down the road as I caught up with them. As usual, the little man was busy with some abstruse mental problem.
“The idea is this,” he was saying, his brows knitted in thought, “if a left-handed man, standing in the position of the man in the picture, should jump from a car, would he be likely to sprain his right ankle? When a right-handed man prepares for a leap of that kind, my theory is that he would hold on with his right hand, and alight at the proper time, on his right foot. Of course - ”
“I imagine, although I don’t know,” interrupted McKnight, “that a man either ambidextrous or one-armed, jumping from the Washington Flier, would be more likely to land on his head.”
“Anyhow,” I interposed, “what difference does it make whether Sullivan used one hand or the other? One pair of handcuffs will put both hands out of commission.
As usual when one of his pet theories was attacked, Hotchkiss looked aggrieved.
“My dear sir,” he expostulated, “don’t you understand what bearing this has on the case? How was the murdered man lying when he was found?”
“On his back,” I said promptly, “head toward the engine.”
“Very well,” he retorted, “and what then? Your heart lies under your fifth intercostal space, and to reach it a right-handed blow would have struck either down or directly in.
“But, gentleman, the point of entrance for the stiletto was below the heart, striking up! As Harrington lay with his head toward the engine, a person in the aisle must have used the left hand.”
McKnight’s eyes sought mine and he winked at me solemnly as I unostentatiously transferred the hat I was carrying to my right hand. Long training has largely counterbalanced heredity in my case, but I still pitch ball, play tennis and carve with my left hand. But Hotchkiss was too busy with his theories to notice me.
We were only just in time for our train back to Baltimore, but McKnight took advantage of a second’s delay to shake the station agent warmly by the hand.
