THE DOCTOR, HIS WIFE, AND THE CLOCK
Violet had gone to her room. She had a task before her. That afternoon, a packet had been left at the door, which, from a certain letter scribbled in one corner, she knew to be from her employer. The contents of that packet must be read, and she had made herself comfortable with the intention of setting to work at once. But ten o'clock struck and then eleven before she could bring herself to give any attention to the manuscript awaiting her perusal. In her present mood, a quiet sitting by the fire, with her eyes upon the changeful flame, was preferable to the study of any affair her employer might send her. Yet, because she was conscious of the duty she thus openly neglected, she sat crouched over her desk with her hand on the mysterious packet, the string of which, however, she made no effort to loosen.
What was she thinking of?
We are not alone in our curiosity on this subject. Her brother Arthur, coming unperceived into the room, gives tokens of a similar interest. Never before had he seen her oblivious to an approaching step; and after a momentary contemplation of her absorbed figure, so girlishly sweet and yet so deeply intent, he advances to her side, and peering earnestly into her face, observes with a seriousness quite unusual to him:
"Puss, you are looking worried,--not like yourself at all. I've noticed it for some time. What's up. Getting tired of the business?""No--not altogether--that is, it's not that, if it's anything.
I'm not sure that it's anything. I--"
She had turned back to her desk and was pushing about the various articles with which it was plentifully bespread; but this did not hide the flush which had crept into her cheeks and even dyed the snowy whiteness of her neck. Arthur's astonishment at this evidence of emotion was very great; but he said nothing, only watched her still more closely, as with a light laugh she regained her self-possession, and with the practical air of a philosopher uttered this trite remark:
"Everyone has his sober moments. I was only thinking--""Of some new case?
"Not exactly." The words came softly but with a touch of mingled humour and gravity which made Arthur stare again.
"See here, Puss!" he cried. His tone had changed. "I've just come up from the den. Father and I have had a row--a beastly row.""A row? You and father? Oh, Arthur, I don't like that. Don't quarrel with father. Don't, don't. Some day he and I may have a serious difference about what I am doing. Don't let him feel that he has lost us all.""That's all right, Puss; but I've got to think of you a bit. Ican't see you spoil all your good times with these police horrors and not do something to help. To-morrow I begin life as a salesman in Clarke & Stebbin's. The salary is not great, but every little helps and I don't dislike the business. But father does. He had rather see me loafing about town setting the fashions for fellows as idle as myself than soil my hands with handling merchandise. That's why we quarreled. But don't worry.
Your name didn't come up, or--or--you know whose. He hasn't an idea of why I want to work--There, Violet there!"Two soft arms were around his neck and Violet was letting her heart out in a succession of sisterly kisses.
"0, Arthur, you good, good boy! Together we'll soon make up the amount, and then--""Then what?"
A sweet soft look robbed her face of its piquancy, but gave it an aspect of indescribable beauty quite new to Arthur's eyes.
Tapping his lips with a thoughtful forefinger, he asked:
"Who was that sombre-looking chap I saw bowing to you as we came out of church last Sunday?"She awoke from her dreamy state with an astonishing quickness.
"He? Surely you remember him. Have you forgotten that evening in Massachusetts--the grotto--and--""Oh, it's Upjohn, is it? Yes, I remember him. He's fond of church, isn't he? That is, when he's in New York."Her lips took a roguish curve then a very serious one; but she made no answer.
"I have noticed that he's always in his seat and always looking your way.""That's very odd of him," she declared, her dimples coming and going in a most bewildering fashion. "I can't imagine why he should do that.""Nor I,--" retorted Arthur with a smile. "But he's human, Isuppose. Only do be careful, Violet. A man so melancholy will need a deal of cheering."He was gone before he had fully finished this daring remark, and Violet, left again with her thoughts, lost her glowing colour but not her preoccupation. The hand which lay upon the packet already alluded to did not move for many minutes, and when she roused at last to the demands of her employer, it was with a start and a guilty look at the small gold clock ticking out its inexorable reminder.
"He will want an answer the first thing in the morning," she complained to herself. And opening the packet, she took out first a letter, and then a mass of typewritten manuscript.
She began with the letter which was as characteristic of the writer as all the others she had had from his hand; as witness:
You probably remember the Hasbrouck murder,--or, perhaps, you don't; it being one of a time previous to your interest in such matters. But whether you remember it or not, I beg you to read the accompanying summary with due care and attention to business.
When you have well mastered it with all its details, please communicate with me in any manner most convenient to yourself, for I shall have a word to say to you then, which you may be glad to hear, if as you have lately intimated you need to earn but one or two more substantial rewards in order to cry halt to the pursuit for which you have proved yourself so well qualified.
