'Sure does.' He appreciated her phrase. Smiled over it. 'And it's our job to find the needle. Now come, you sit here. We'll start in the middle of the top and dig our way straight down to the bare wood. O.K. with you?'
They sat down. Mr. Gibson began to spin out of his own substance an atmosphere of cheerful, purposeful, organized endeavor. Soon she was breathing less shallowly and her lips were parted. She was intelligent.
But after a while absolutely nothing could save the situation from tragedy but a sense of humor. The old professor had scratched on paper during many hours. But his handwriting was atrocious, and worse, what he had written, where it was decipherable, seemed to have no reasonable meaning.
Mr. Gibson, in automatic defense, began to force himself to see the funny side. 'If that is a capital T, as it may be for all I know,' said he in semicomical despair, 'then the word can be 'Therefore.' What do you think? Of course, it might just as well be 'Somewhere.' '
'Or 'However'?' said Rosemary earnestly.
' 'However' is a distinct runner-up,' he drawled. 'Or even 'Whomever.' '
''Whatever'?'
'I have a psychic feeling there's an T in it. How about 'Wherefore'? 'Wherefore art thou Romeo?' D'you know, Miss James, the word might even be 'Romeo'.' It was heavy work to be light about this.
'Oh, I don't think so,' she said seriously. And then she looked startled. Then she giggled.
It was as if a phoenix had risen from some ashes. Her giggle was rather low-pitched and melodious. The tiny folds at the upper-outer comers of her eyes were built for laughter. It was their function. They were droll. The eyes themselves lost their dusty look and became a little shiny. Even her skin seemed to gain a tinge of color.
'I'll betcha we could make it read anything we like,' said Mr. Gibson enthusiastically. 'Do you know anything about the Bacon-Shakespeare ciphers?' She didn't. She listened while he told her some of the wild aspects of that affair.
After that, while she was still relaxed and amused, he said gently, 'You know, I think we had best look at the bottom of the pile.'
'Earlier, you mean?' She was intelligent. 'I think so, my dear.'
'He . . . tried so hard.' Her handkerchief came up. 'It was brave to keep trying,' he said. 'It really was. And we'll keep trying, too.'
'There are mounds—' she said bravely, 'of papers in the drawers. Some typewritten . . .' 'Hurray.'
'But Mr. Gibson, it wall take so much time . . .' 'Of course,' he said gently. 'I never expected to go through it all in an hour. Did you?' 'You mustn't get tired.' 'Are you tired?' He thought she was. 'I wondered . . . Do you drink tea?' 'When I am offered any,' he said.
She rose awkwardly and went to fetch the tea which had been her own bold idea. Mr. Gibson waited by himself staring soberly at the desk and all this waste of paper. He didn't think they were going to find any treasure. Also, he knew that he had, once again, been foolish and rash. He'd let an impulse lead him. When would he learn not to do these things? He had given hope where there was not much real chance. He had best softly kill the hope he'd raised. But he feared very much that it was too important to her.
While they drank tea and ate some thin store cookies ... a tiny feast she'd made as dainty as she could . . . Mr. Gibson fejt that he must pry.
' ' Do you own this house?' he asked her.
'Oh, no. We only rented this half.'
'Will you stay on here?'
'I can't.. It's too big. Too much for me.'
He feared she meant too expensive. 'Forgive me for asking, but is there money? Funds of any kind?'
'I can sell the furniture. And the car.'
'Ah, a car?'
'It's ten years old.' He saw that she swallowed. 'But it must be worth something.'
'Your father's income was . . . for his lifetime?'
'Yes.'
'There is nothing?' he guessed sharply.
'Well . . . the furniture . . .' She stopped pretending that the furniture was of any value and met his eyes. 'I will just have to get a job. I don't know just what . . .' She twisted the beads. 'I hoped . . .' Her eyes went to the papers.
'Can you type?' he asked quickly. She shook her head. 'Have you ever held a job. Miss James?'
'No, I . . . Dad needed me. When Mama died I was the only one left, you see.'
It was easy for Mr. Gibson to understand perfectly what had happened to her. 'Have you anyone who can advise you?' he asked. 'Relatives?'
'Nobody.'
'How old are you?' he asked her gently. 'Since I am old enough to be your father, you mustn't mind if I ask these things.'
'I am thirty-two. And it's late, isn't it? But I'll find something to do.'
He thought she needed somewhere to rest, above everything. 'Have you a friend? Is there some place you could go?'
