There had been an old story about an idol that had fallen down because it had clay feet. His had tumbled over with vertigo … sick in the head! To have grown to manhood without an “ideal” of any kind; to have espoused one, belatedly, with crusading zeal; to have discovered, after burning all his bridges behind him, that his hero was a sap! … It was a nasty wallop!
He had gouged his hot face into his pillow and decanted his wrath to its bitter lees … It wasn’t that he had any fault to find with Hudson’s penchant for poking a prehensile snout into other people’s affairs with a passionate urge to do his one good deed per day, like the Boy Scout his silly little journal proclaimed him … but … My God! … Hudson wasn’t the first man in all human history who had titillated his ego and busted the buttons off his weskit by doing alms! … What a pother about nothing!
At long last he had drifted off into an uneasy sleep, growling that he had a damned good notion to go on to New York in the morning and hop the first boat for Cherbourg … His passport was still alive … Grandpère would gladly send it to him … Then he wouldn’t have to stop and face Nancy … What a rotten trick that would be! … And Grandpère? … The dear old boy had taken a lot of pride in him lately …
He would be in Detroit now in five minutes. He must be careful not to offend Nancy. Why not hand her the journal and the code-key and make off hurriedly to keep some urgent engagement? He could say his grandfather needed him badly. It would be true enough if he said he himself was sick.
She was waiting for him at the gates, wide-eyed and smiling when he first sighted her from the tunnel; a bit perplexed as he drew nearer … So it was plastered all over his mug, then! … He tried to pull a smile—a sickly smirk he knew it was; slipped an arm through hers; inquired, without meeting her eyes, if she’d had anything to eat, which she hadn’t; told the porter to check his bags; and propelled Nancy to a quiet corner of the station restaurant where he made much ado about helping her with her coat—nervous as a caged fox.
“But I thought you had succeeded, dear.” She followed him with inquiring eyes as he multiplied his little attentions and made no end of trouble for himself trying to find a place for her umbrella. “You don’t resemble a conquering hero. You look more like the man who had set out after a beautiful butterfly, under the impression it was some kind of a bird; and found, after battering its wings to bits, that he had captured a worm.”
Bobby put down the menu, which he had begun to pore over assiduously, and emphasized his rejoinder by planting a long index finger close to her plate.
“Now you’ve said it! I went after a butterfly and came back with a worm!”
“And whose fault was that—the butterfly’s?”
“Take your base, Nancy,” he conceded with a chuckle.
“Take my base—indeed! … What about? … Your wild pitching? … I tell you it was a safe hit and a home run! … But—no matter about the butterfly. Wake up, stupid; and let me into the secret!”
At that he attempted to rally, cleared his throat, made pretence of rolling up his sleeves. He wasn’t going to let Nancy down. Maybe he himself could carry on without the guidance of the Hudson spectre; but Nancy couldn’t. He would save the honour of her precious ghost if he had to profess faith in voodooism, necromancy, and witchcraft!
“I’m tired; that’s all … Up nearly all night. Let’s talk to the waiter first.”
She was not reassured, but willing to be patient.
“It’s simple as addition!” he declared, when the waiter had trotted off. “That is—” pleating the tablecloth with restless fingers, “the mere mechanics of converting the script into readable sentences is easy enough. But—to understand what it’s about, once you’ve done that …”
He broke off suddenly and smiled … By the Lord Harry—he’d been handed his cue—at last! Now he could make his speech! He’d tell her the stuff was too deep for him! That would be infinitely better than to say it was childish piffle!
“Why—how very exciting!” exclaimed Nancy. “Out of one mystery into another!”
Bobby took the book from his pocket and opened it on the table before her, their heads close together. He was smiling now, quite pleased with his decision to let her explain it to him.
“Look! I’ll read you the first page … Easy enough, isn’t it?”
Nancy was ecstatic. She spread her hand over Bobby’s and gripped it hard. Almost too good to be true, wasn’t it? He nodded, adding mentally, “or even entertaining.”
“How far have you gone?” she inquired, leafing the unintelligible pages. “Aren’t you just thrilled to death?”
Bobby had no enthusiasm to match hers, try as he would.
“Over to here … about twenty pages. Thrilled? Well—no; not that, exactly … Just stupefied … It’s over my head, you see … I suppose I’m like your clumsy naturalist chasing a butterfly. I’ve been expecting so deuced much, and have worked so long to pry the lid off this thing that, now it’s off, maybe I’ve damaged it somehow, or perhaps I haven’t the mentality to—”
Nancy clutched his hand again—savagely.
“Look me straight in the eyes, Bobby Merrick! You’ve not been yourself for one instant since you arrived. You can’t put anything over on me! I’ve been all through you with a lantern! You’re trying to keep something back! I won’t have it! Come clean, now—and tell me all about it! What’s the trouble, boy?”
Bobby flushed and hung his head like a naughty child caught in the jam-pot.
“Aw—the stuff’s no good! … Bunk—if you ask me … If anybody else but Doctor Hudson had—I say, Nancy, are you quite sure he really did write this? It isn’t signed, you know.”
“Don’t talk nonsense! … What’s it about?”
“Well—it isn’t exactly religion, I guess; but it reads
