The Daughter of Anderson Crow
Anderson Crow talked himself hoarse into willing ears, always extolling
the beauty of his erstwhile ward as she appeared before the family
circle in each and every one of those wonderful gowns.
This humble narrative has not to do with the glories and foibles of
Boston social life. It has to deal with the adventures of Anderson Crow
and Rosalie Gray in so far as they pertain to a place called Tinkletown.
The joys and pleasures that Rosalie experienced during that month of
June were not unusual in character. The loneliness of Anderson Crow was
not a novelty, if one stops to consider how the world revolves for every
one else. Suffice to say that the Bonners, _mère, fils_ and _fille_,
exerted themselves to make the month an unforgetable one to the
girl--and they succeeded. The usual gaiety, the same old whirl of
experiences, came to her that come to any other mortal who is being
entertained, fêted and admired. She was a success--a pleasure in every
way--not only to her hosts but to herself. If there was a cloud hanging
over her head through all these days and nights, the world was none the
wiser; the silver lining was always visible.
Once while she was driving with the Bonners she saw a man whom she knew,
but did not expect to ever look upon again. She could not be mistaken in
him. It was Sam Welch, chief of the kidnapers. He was gazing at her from
a crowded street corner, but disappeared completely before Bonner could
set the police on his trail.
Commencement Day at Cambridge brought back hundreds of the old men--the
men famous in every branch of study and athletics. Among them was
handsome Tom Reddon. He came to see her at the Bonner home. Elsie Banks
was to return in September from Honolulu, and they were to be married in
the fall. Wicker Bonner eagerly looked for the confusion of love in her
eyes, but none appeared. That night she told him, in reply to an
impulsive demand, that she did not care for Reddon, that she never had
known the slightest feeling of tenderness for him.
"Have you ever been in love, Rosalie?" he asked ruthlessly.
"Yes," she said after a moment, looking him bravely in the eyes.
"And could you never learn to love any one else?"
"I think not, Wicker," she said ever so softly.
"I beg your pardon," he said humbly, his face white and his lips drawn.
"I should not have asked."
And so he remained the blind man, with the light shining full into his
eyes.
CHAPTER XXIX
The Mysterious Questioner
July brought Rosalie's visit to an end, and once more Tinkletown basked
in her smiles and yet wondered why they were so sad and wistful. She and
Bonner were much nearer, far dearer to one another than ever, and yet
not one effort had been made to bridge the chasm of silence concerning
the thing that lay uppermost in their minds. She only knew that Anderson
Crow had not "run down" his clew, nor had the New York sleuth reported
for weeks. Undoubtedly, the latter had given up the search, for the last
heard of him was when he left for Europe with his wife for a pleasure
trip of unknown duration. It looked so dark and hopeless to her, all of
it. Had Bonner pressed his demands upon her at the end of the visit in
Boston, it is possible--more than possible--that she would have faltered
in her resolution. After all, why should she deprive herself of
happiness if it was held out to her with the promise that it should
never end?
The summer turned steaming hot in the lowlands about Tinkletown, but in
the great hills across the river the air was cool, bright, and
invigorating. People began to hurry to their country homes from the
distant cities. Before the month was old, a score or more of beautiful
places were opened and filled with the sons and daughters of the rich.
Lazily they drifted and drove and walked through the wonderful hills,
famed throughout the world, and lazily they wondered why the rest of the
world lived. In the hills now were the Randalls, the Farnsworths, the
Brackens, the Brewsters, the Van Wagenens, the Rolfes and a host of
others. Tinkletown saw them occasionally as they came jaunting by in
their traps and brakes and automobiles--but it is extremely doubtful if
they saw Tinkletown in passing.
Anderson Crow swelled and blossomed in the radiance of his own
importance. In his old age he was becoming fastidious. Only in the
privacy of his own back yard did he go without the black alpaca coat; he
was beginning to despise the other days, when he had gone coatless from
dawn till dark, on the street or off. His badges were pinned neatly to
his lapel and not to his suspenders, as in the days of yore. His dignity
was the same, but the old sense of irritation was very much modified. In
these new days he was considerate--and patronising. Was he not one of
the wealthiest men in town--with his six thousand dollars laid by? Was
he not its most honoured citizen, not excepting the mayor and selectmen?
Was he not, above all, a close friend of the Bonners?
The Bonners were to spend August in the Congressman's home across the
big river. This fact alone was enough to stir the Crow establishment to
its most infinitesimal roots. Rosalie was to be one of the guests at the
house party, but her foster-sisters were not the kind to be envious.
They revelled with her in the preparations for that new season of
delight.
With the coming of the Bonners, Anderson once more revived his
resolution to unravel the mystery attending Rosalie's birth. For some
months this ambition had lain dormant, but now, with the approach of the
man she loved, the old marshal's devotion took fire and he swore daily
that the mystery should be cleared "whether it wanted to be or not."
He put poor old Alf Reesling through the "sweat box" time and again, and
worthless Tom Folly had many an unhappy night, wondering why the marshal
was shadowing him so persistently.
"Alf," demanded Anderson during one of the sessions, "where were you on
the night of February 18, 1883? Don't hesitate. Speak up. Where were
you? Aha, you cain't answer. That looks suspicious."
"You bet I c'n answer," said Alf bravely, blinking his blear eyes. "I
was in Tinkletown."
"What were you doin' that night?"
"I was sleepin'."
"At what time? Keerful now, don't lie."
"What time o' night did they leave her on your porch?" demanded Alf in
turn.
"It was jest half past 'leven."
"You're right, Anderson. That's jest the time I was asleep."
"C'n you prove it? Got witnesses?"
"Yes, but they don't remember the night."
"Then it may go hard with you. Alf, I still believe you had somethin' to
do with that case."
"I didn't, Anderson, so help me."
"Well, doggone it, somebody did," roared the marshal. "If it wasn't you,
who was it? Answer that, sir."
"Why, consarn you, Anderson Crow, I didn't have any spare children to
leave around on doorsteps. I've allus had trouble to keep from leavin'
myself there. Besides, it was a woman that left her, wasn't it? Well,
consarn it, I'm not a woman, am I? Look at my whiskers, gee whiz! I--"
"I didn't say you left the baskit, Alf; I only said you'd somethin' to
do with it. I remember that there was a strong smell of liquor around
the place that night." In an instant Anderson was sniffing the air.
"Consarn ye, the same smell as now--yer drunk."
"Tom Folly drinks, too," protested Alf. "He drinks Martini cocktails."
"Don't you?"
"Not any more. The last time I ordered one was in a Dutch eatin' house
up to Boggs City. The waiter couldn't speak a word of English, an'
that's the reason I got so full. Every time I ordered 'dry Martini' he
brought me three. He didn't know how to spell it. No, sir, Anderson; I'm
not the woman you want. I was at home asleep that night. I remember jest
as well as anything, that I said before goin' to bed that it was a good
night to sleep. I remember lookin' at the kitchen clock an' seein' it
was jest eighteen minutes after eleven. 'Nen I said--"
"That'll be all for to-day, Alf," interrupted the questioner, his gaze
suddenly centering on something down the street. "You've told me that
six hundred times in the last twenty years. Come on, I see the boys
pitchin' horseshoes up by the blacksmith shop. I'll pitch you a game fer
the seegars."
"I cain't pay if I lose," protested Alf.
"I know it," said Anderson; "I don't expect you to."
The first day that Bonner drove over in the automobile, to transplant
Rosalie in the place across the river, found Anderson full of a new and
startling sensation. He stealthily drew the big sunburnt young man into
the stable, far from the house. Somehow, in spite of his smiles, Bonner
was looking older and more serious. There was a set, determined
expression about his mouth and eyes that struck Anderson as new.
"Say, Wick," began the marshal mysteriously, "I'm up a stump."
"What? Another?"
"No; jest the same one. I almost got track of somethin' to-day--not two
hours ago. I met a man out yander near the cross-roads that I'm sure I
seen aroun' here about the time Rosalie was left on the porch. An' the
funny part of it was, he stopped me an' ast me about her. Doggone, I
wish I'd ast him his name."
"You don't mean it!" cried Bonner, all interest. "Asked about her? Was
he a stranger?"
"I think he was. Leastwise, he said he hadn't been aroun' here fer
more'n twenty year. Y'see, it was this way. I was over to Lem Hudlow's
to ask if he had any hogs stole last night--Lem lives nigh the
poorhouse, you know. He said he hadn't missed any an' ast me if any hogs
had been found. I tole him no, not that I knowed of, but I jest thought
I'd ask; I thought mebby he'd had some stole. You never c'n tell, you
know, an' it pays to be attendin' to business all the time. Well, I was
drivin' back slow when up rode a feller on horseback. He was a
fine-lookin' man 'bout fifty year old, I reckon, an' was dressed in all
them new-fangled ridin' togs. 'Ain't this Mr. Crow, my old friend, the
detective?' said he. 'Yes, sir,' said I. 'I guess you don't remember
me,' says he. I told him I did, but I lied. It wouldn't do fer him to
think I didn't know him an' me a detective, don't y'see?
"We chatted about the weather an' the crops, him ridin' longside the
buckboard. Doggone, his face was familiar, but I couldn't place it.
Finally, he leaned over an' said, solemn-like: 'Have you still got the
little girl that was left on your porch?' You bet I jumped when he said
that. 'Yes,' says I, 'but she ain't a little girl now. She's growed
up.' 'Is she purty?' he ast. 'Yes,' says I, 'purty as a speckled pup!'
'I'd like to see her,' he said. 'I hear she was a beautiful baby. I hope
she is very, very happy.' 'What's that to you?' says I, sharp-like. 'I
am very much interested in her, Mr. Crow,' he answered. 'Poor child, I
have had her in mind for a long time,' he went on very solemn. I begin
to suspect right away that he had a lot to do with her affairs. Somehow,
I couldn't help thinkin' I'd seen him in Tinkletown about the time she
was dropped--left, I mean.
"'You have given her a good eddication, I hope,' said he. 'Yes, she's
got the best in town,' said I. 'The thousand dollars came all right
every year?' 'Every February.' 'I should like to see her sometime, if I
may, without her knowin' it, Mr. Crow.' 'An' why that way, sir?'
demanded I. 'It would probably annoy her if she thought I was regardin'
her as an object of curiosity,' said he. 'Tell her fer me,' he went on'
gittin' ready to whip up, 'that she has an unknown friend who would give
anything he has to help her.' Goshed, if he didn't put the gad to his
horse an' gallop off 'fore I could say another word. I was goin' to ask
him a lot of questions, too."
"Can't you remember where and under what circumstances you saw him
before?" cried Bonner, very much excited.