THE HOUSE OF CLOCKS
Miss Strange was not in a responsive mood. This her employer had observed on first entering; yet he showed no hesitation in laying on the table behind which she had ensconced herself in the attitude of one besieged, an envelope thick with enclosed papers.
"There," said he. "Telephone me when you have read them.""I shall not read them."
"No?" he smiled; and, repossessing himself of the envelope, he tore off one end, extracted the sheets with which it was filled, and laid them down still unfolded, in their former place on the table-top.
The suggestiveness of the action caused the corners of Miss Srange's delicate lips to twitch wistfully, before settling into an ironic smile.
Calmly the other watched her.
"I am on a vacation," she loftily explained, as she finally met his studiously non-quizzical glance. "Oh, I know that I am in my own home!" she petulantly acknowledged, as his gaze took in the room; "and that the automobile is at the door; and that I'm dressed for shopping. But for all that I'm on a vacation--a mental one," she emphasized; "and business must wait. I haven't got over the last affair," she protested, as he maintained a discreet silence, "and the season is so gay just now--so many balls, so many--But that isn't the worst. Father is beginning to wake up--and if he ever suspects--" A significant gesture ended this appeal.
The personage knew her father--everyone did--and the wonder had always been that she dared run the risk of displeasing one so implacable. Though she was his favourite child, Peter Strange was known to be quite capable of cutting her off with a shilling, once his close, prejudiced mind conceived it to be his duty. And that he would so interpret the situation, if he ever came to learn the secret of his daughter's fits of abstraction and the sly bank account she was slowly accumulating, the personage holding out this dangerous lure had no doubt at all. Yet he only smiled at her words and remarked in casual suggestion:
"It's out of town this time--'way out. Your health certainly demands a change of air.""My health is good. Fortunately, or unfortunately, as one may choose to look at it, it furnishes me with no excuse for an outing," she steadily retorted, turning her back on the table.
"Ah, excuse me!" the insidious voice apologized, "your paleness misled me. Surely a night or two's change might be beneficial."She gave him a quick side look, and began to adjust her boa.
To this hint he paid no attention.
"The affair is quite out of the ordinary," he pursued in the tone of one rehearsing a part. But there he stopped. For some reason, not altogether apparent to the masculine mind, the pin of flashing stones (real stones) which held her hat in place had to be taken out and thrust back again, not once, but twice. It was to watch this performance he had paused. When he was ready to proceed, he took the musing tone of one marshalling facts for another's enlightenment:
"A woman of unknown instincts--"
"Pshaw!" The end of the pin would strike against the comb holding Violet's chestnut-coloured locks.
"Living in a house as mysterious as the secret it contains. But--" here he allowed his patience apparently to forsake him, "I will bore you no longer. Go to your teas and balls; I will struggle with my dark affairs alone."His hand went to the packet of papers she affected so ostentatiously to despise. He could be as nonchalant as she. But he did not lift them; he let them lie. Yet the young heiress had not made a movement or even turned the slightest glance his way.
"A woman difficult to understand! A mysterious house--possibly a mysterious crime!"Thus Violet kept repeating in silent self-communion, as flushed with dancing she sat that evening in a highly-scented conservatory, dividing her attention between the compliments of her partner and the splash of a fountain bubbling in the heart of this mass of tropical foliage; and when some hours later she sat down in her chintz-furnished bedroom for a few minutes' thought before retiring, it was to draw from a little oak box at her elbow the half-dozen or so folded sheets of closely written paper which had been left for her perusal by her persistent employer.
Glancing first at the signature and finding it to be one already favourably known at the bar, she read with avidity the statement of events thus vouched for, finding them curious enough in all conscience to keep her awake for another full hour.
We here subscribe it:
I am a lawyer with an office in the Times Square Building. My business is mainly local, but sometimes I am called out of town, as witness the following summons received by me on the fifth of last October.
DEAR SIR,--I wish to make my will. I am an invalid and cannot leave my room.
Will you come to me? The enclosed reference will answer for my respectability. If it satisfies you and you decide to accommodate me, please hasten your visit; I have not many days to live. Acarriage will meet you at Highland Station at any hour you designate. Telegraph reply.
A. Postlethwaite, Gloom Cottage, -- N. J.
The reference given was a Mr. Weed of Eighty-sixth Street--a well-known man of unimpeachable reputation.
Calling him up at his business office, I asked him what he could tell me about Mr. Postlethwaite Problem 6 for Violet Strange 189of Gloom Cottage, --, N. J. The answer astonished me:
"There is no Mr. Postlethwaite to be found at that address. He died years ago. There is a Mrs. Postlethwaite--a confirmed paralytic. Do you mean her?"I glanced at the letter still lying open at the side of the telephone:
"The signature reads A. Postlethwaite."
"Then it's she. Her name is Arabella. She hates the name, being a woman of no sentiment. Uses her initials even on her cheques.
What does she want of you?"
"To draw her will."
"Oblige her. It'll be experience for you." And he slammed home the receiver.
