He wanted her to go with him somewhere to dinner, but she declined. She was glad that she had promised Mrs. Scott to share her solitary dinner, and she knew there was to be chicken in her honor.
Harrington lingered, keeping her much longer than she desired, carrying her fifteen minutes out of her way, for he had his car of course, and insisted on taking her home. But he asked her several questions about the meetings, and expressed satisfaction that the minister had held his own through a second hearing. He said he had never heard any other preacher who wasn’t disappointing the second time. He went away at last, declaring that she simply must come up for the next weekend and they would have a day at golf together again. As she went up the steps she laughed to herself. Here was another who would stick to her in the face of all discouragements!
And then, even as she smiled over it she looked up and saw Dawson coming!
The days went by, one by one, pleasant enough, but lonely, and with a dull ache because no word had come from McNair, and Kerry had about given up expecting any.
For five weeks she managed to sidestep Dawson. Perhaps he did not think of looking for her at church. Or else he had some purpose in holding aloof. She began to wonder uneasily why he stayed in her vicinity at all. At times his threat that he was going to marry her came up suddenly like a hidden pin to prick her sharply with an unreasoning anxiety, but for the most part she was glad to forget him, and to rest in hope that he had got over his foolishness.
Kerry came home one night more than usually tired, determined to curl up on her bed and read for a while and go early to sleep. But when she unlocked her door and turned on her light she looked around her in dismay.
All the bureau drawers were pulled out, and everything that had been neatly arranged within was spread around on chairs and bed. The desk where she had put away her few papers was open, and the papers were lying in a heap on the floor as if they had been taken out and examined one by one. The closet door stood open and her garments were tumbled around, some on chairs, some on the floor, some hanging with their pockets turned inside out.
Her locked trunk, which had stood against the wall, had been broken open, everything tossed around, and the trays turned out on the carpet. At one side lay a pile of printed pages, which upon examination proved to be the leaves of the magazine she had used on shipboard as a hiding place for a few days for the notes of her father’s book. She was sure she had removed all of them most carefully, yet evidently her purpose had been suspected and every page torn apart. Some of the edges were still adhering where they had been pasted. How thankful she was that she had been so careful in taking the notes to her safety deposit in the bank. Could any little scrap have been overlooked that could give her enemy anything on which to hang trouble for her?
She suddenly sat down weakly in a chair, shaken, nervous, ready to cry, and looked around upon the devastation. There was not a cranny in the room that had not been ransacked! Why, even the edges of the carpet in some places had been ripped up and turned back! What could it all mean? Was the man crazy or did he think that she had something by which he could profit if he could get possession of it? A great fear took possession of her! If she only had someone, some good counselor! Some sound advisor! And of course she thought of McNair at once.
Then as suddenly came his words so hastily written in that last message. “Advise with publisher or landlady in any perplexity.”
She had not had that telegram out for a long time, it had been too unsettling, especially that last sentence, “Am anxious about you.” It came to her now with a dull thud on her heart. Oh, if he were only here to help her! Well, she would take his advice, anyway. Tomorrow she would ask to speak with Mr. Holbrook and find out if there was any possible reason why that uncanny Dawson should have to haunt her this way, and what possible reason he could have for going through her possessions. And tonight, right now, she would tell Mrs. Scott what had happened. But first she would ask God.
She dropped upon her knees and breathed a quick petition for guidance and help, and then hurried down to the landlady.
Mrs. Scott was always pleased to see her. She told her her hair looked like the morning sunshine, and she smiled now as Kerry entered the kitchen where she was preparing her bit of supper.
“Mrs. Scott,” began Kerry, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice. “Have you been up to my room today? You know you spoke something of taking the curtains down.”
“Why, no darlin’,” beamed Mrs. Scott, “I didn’t get up. The man came to fix the furnace, and then Mrs. Brown from up in the Bronx dropped in just before noon and I kept her for lunch, and when she was gone it was that late I thought I’d leave it till the morrow.”
“Well, won’t you please come upstairs just a minute? Somebody has been into my room. I want you to see it before I disturb anything.”
“Been into your room, darlin’? Why, how could that possibly be? I’ve bided right here all the day. The furnace man was never up the stair at all. He came in by the back way, and he couldn’t ha got up and me not see him. There’s been nobody here at all outside of Mrs. Brown. Of course the gentleman in the third floor might have gone up, I didn’t notice, he’s that quiet, but I always hear him when he’s about, and I think he’s been out mostly all day. He’s out now, I’m sure, for I went up half an hour ago to put in clean towels, he likes plenty, and he wasn’t about. I noticed his hat was gone. You don’t suppose a burglar could have got in, now, darlin’? See, the night latch is on.”
Mrs. Scott had wiped her hands on the clean roller towel, turned down the gas under her cooking and hurried after Kerry, talking as she went and stopping in the front hall to examine the front door latch.
But when Kerry unlocked her door and the good woman beheld the disorder she lifted her hands in horror.
“Oh, my darlin’ dear!” she exclaimed. “Now who could ha done the like of this? Such a mess! And you left it all put by?”
“Everything was in order when I went away this morning. The door of the closet was shut, the clothes all hung up, the bureau drawers all in order and closed, the desk shut.”
“But who do you ’spose it might be?”
Kerry hesitated. Should she cast suspicion on Dawson?
“Mrs. Scott, did Mr. McNair tell you anything about me when he brought me here? Did he happen to mention my father?”
“He certainly did darlin’, he said your father was a great man who wrote science books, and you were here gettin’ his last book printed to sell.”
“Well, then, Mrs. Scott, I’m going to tell you what happened on shipboard. Sit down a minute, please. Here, I’ll clear a chair for you.”
“But wait, darlin’, hadn’t we better send for the police before we disturb things? I’m thinkin’ that should be the way.”
“Why, I’m not sure,” said Kerry, looking troubled. “I think perhaps you ought first to know what has happened before this.”
So Kerry told the story as briefly as possible, and Mrs. Scott sat down in the little rocker with the patchwork cushion and wrapped her hands in her neat kitchen apron, and listened.
“The rascal!” she said. “The rascal! Now would you ever! And me thinin’ he was so quiet like and genteel! But it takes them quiet ones! And to think of me takin’ in your enemy just like that! You poor little darlin’! I’ll never forgive myself ! And Mister Graham’ll never forgive me!”
“You mustn’t feel that way, Mrs. Scott. It certainly is not your fault. Perhaps I should have told you about him before, only I hated so to bother you with it, and I didn’t see anything else he could do!”
“The rascal!” ejaculated the good woman getting up suddenly. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. A friend of mine has a son that’s a policeman on this beat, and he’ll tell us what to do. He won’t do anything about it unless you say, but we better ask him. I’d feel better about it myself if somebody kind-of professional knew about this business. Mister Graham put you in my charge, he did, and if anything should come
to his young lady he’d never forgive me.”
Kerry’s cheeks suddenly flamed.
“Oh, Mrs. Scott, you mustn’t feel that way!” she said again. “I’m not Mr. McNair’s young lady at all, just a friend he met on shipboard. He was kind to me, but you haven’t a bit of obligation in this.”
“Obligation or no obligation, I’m bound to be held to account by my young gentleman. And you may not know you’re his young lady, but I do. I could read it in his eyes. I’ve knowed those eyes for years, an’ they never lied to me, and they said to me as plain as eyes could speak that the young lady he put into my charge was to be looked after very particular, because you was something very precious to him, and I’m going to keep my promise. Now, don’t you worry one mite. I’m goin’ to get that police boy in. He comes home to his supper about this time. I’ll call up his mother on the telephone, and get him over. It can’t do no harm at all.”
“But I’m not sure we ought to put it into the hands of the police,” said Kerry with worry in her eyes. “I thought I would ask the publisher tomorrow. He will know if there is any possible harm the man can do to Father’s book. I’m sure he couldn’t hurt me, only annoy me of course.”
Kerry had not said a word about Dawson’s threatened intention of marrying her. That seemed too awful to tell, too embarrassing.
“We’re goin’ to have professional advice!” asserted Mrs. Scott, her hand on the door, and vanished, then suddenly put her head back to say, “Don’t you touch a thing till I get back. I want he should see it just as it is.”
Ten minutes later Mrs. Scott returned triumphant, a burly young policeman following her, stamping up the stairs, curiosity on his face. She had evidently given him a hasty sketch of the whole affair.
He stomped into the room, shut the door and looked around him, listened to all that was said, took hasty and approving cognizance of Kerry, and asked a few slow questions.
“Anything gone?” was the first question.
Kerry began to look around.
“Why, I hadn’t thought to look,” she said. “There wasn’t anything I thought he would want—if it was he who did this. Every scrap of my father’s writing is safe, one copy in the bank, the other with the publisher. I wasn’t anxious about anything else.”
“Better look around.”
Kerry began to investigate. She gathered up things rapidly, capably, putting them in piles, taking stock of her clothing, her few treasures, her pictures—Ah! Her father’s photographs—the snapshots! Where were they? She had kept them in the little drawer of the desk!
Yes, they were gone!
Not very valuable in a sense, except to herself, and yet—what would that fiendish man want of them? Perhaps to use in some article he was writing?
She looked further, and found three little books missing, books that bore Shannon Kavanaugh’s name written by his own hand on the flyleaf, with a few notes on the margins here and there. They were not valuable books in themselves, only small treatises on some scientific themes, which her father had used as reference. It never occurred to her that they might help the enemy. She had kept them only because they were dear with memories of the vanished hand that had held them, and commented on the different paragraphs. Ah! Well, they were gone, too!
Further investigation could discover nothing else missing.
“Let’s see the guy’s room, M’s Scott,” demanded the policeman. “Looked up there yet to see if he’s got ’em?”
“Why, no,” said the landlady looking a little scared. “Now ain’t I dumb? But you see we hadn’t noticed they was gone.”
They mounted the stairs, Kerry’s heart beating wildly, in time to the sturdy tramp of the policeman’s big assured feet.
Mrs. Scott half nervously, half triumphantly unlocked Dawson’s room door after timidly tapping to make sure he was not already inside, and they all stepped in.
A neat drab suit of clothes and an overcoat hung innocently in the closet, all with empty pockets. A steamer cap of well-remembered snuff color lay on the closet shelf. A hairbrush and three or four handkerchiefs occupied the upper bureau drawer. A traveling bag contained pajamas and a clean pair of socks, with a few other garments. Not a scrap of paper, not a book, nor a picture. Not a sign of a snapshot anywhere. Absolute innocence!
“Don’t look like this guy expected to stay long!” commented the policeman. “Say, you leave them things be a few minutes down in that room on the next floor. I’ll bring the chief. We’ll mebbe get some fingerprints.”
“Oh, is it necessary to do that?” asked Kerry distressed, “I don’t know whether I’m justified in going so far—”
“Can’t do no harm, miss. But it looks ta me like this guy might be a real one mebbe. Anyhow, I’ll bring the chief and see what he says. Might be some old hand. Anyhow we’ll find out if it is the same man that has this room.”
So the policeman walked away and presently returned with another one, and they two inspected both rooms again and hunted for fingerprints in each. They said little and Kerry did not know whether or not they got any fingerprints.
“This door has been opened with a key!” announced the chief, examining it carefully. He tramped upstairs and got the key from Dawson’s door. Locked Kerry’s door with its own key, and then unlocked it with Dawson’s key. Then he stood back and looked at the two dismayed women.
“There you are!” he said significantly. “Better get that lock changed before that guy gets back again! But I don’t guess you’ll need to hurry. I think it likely he’ll stay hid for a few days anyhow after this.”
Mrs. Scott scuttled down to her telephone and somehow managed to get a new lock on Kerry’s door, late though it was.
While Kerry was at work putting her room to rights, and going carefully over everything to make sure nothing else was gone, Mrs. Scott was down in her kitchen getting a nice little supper.
“Just a cup o’ soup and a wee bit of salad to hearten you,” she explained as she brought it up on a tray, and Kerry was cheered by the kindliness and companionship of the good woman.
As the policeman had prophesied, Dawson did not return that night. Mrs. Scott, having reflected all night on the fact that Dawson possessed a latch key to the front door, had the front door lock changed the first thing in the morning. When Dawson did return—if Dawson did return—he would not find it so easy to get in.
Two days went by and no Dawson, and then came a letter from a New Jersey town, saying he had been suddenly called away for a few days. It enclosed a New York draft to pay for his room for another month. Mrs. Scott sat down and looked at it for a few minutes and then she summoned her policeman and laid the matter before him. He looked wise, nodded his head and said, “Jus’ what I thought!” and went mysteriously off with the letter.
Chapter 17
Kerry had duly inquired for Holbrook the next morning and found that he had not been well and had gone off on his vacation. That meant two weeks at least before she could tell him what had happened. Meantime a lot more things might happen. However, she was probably foolish about it. What, after all, could happen?
The days went by and Kerry was very busy. The proof of her father’s book was coming off the press, and she was spending her days going carefully over it, correcting, and revising in places. This work made her as happy as anything material could do, and she went back to the house every night dead tired.
She had ceased to look for a letter from McNair. He had forgotten her, that was all. That was to be expected. What was she to him except a casual stranger whom he had helped to find the way of life? She had great reason to be grateful to him always for the peace that had come to her heart. There was no more tempest and rebellion. She had accepted the fact that she was here on the earth as a sort of college to fit her for the heavenly home, and that she was to look for her joy hereafter, not here. Yet unconsciously, always when she entered the hall, her eyes went to the table where the mail was put. There were only two other lodgers, one in the second story b
ack, and one in the third story back. One was a dressmaker who went out by the day, and sometimes came home very late at night, a sad oldish woman. The other was a trained nurse who had been off on a chronic case ever since Kerry had been there. She had never seen either of them, but there were frequent letters for both, which lay on the hall table sometimes when she came in. But there was never anything for her.
One night about ten days after the ransacking of her room Kerry came in a little later than usual and found Mrs. Scott watching for her.
“Come in a wee bit,” she said, “I want to talk to you, darlin’. Here’s a bite of hot scones and honey I’ve saved for ye, and a hot bit of meat I had left. You’re lookin’ peaked and white. I doubt you don’t eat enough in them restaurants! Just the same thing day after day and all taste alike.”
Kerry accepted the supper gratefully, for indeed she had not stopped to take more than a milk shake on her way home. She felt too tired and warm, for the weather had been unusually hot that day.
“And now,” said Mrs. Scott when she had set out a supper fit for a king on her little kitchen table with its white cloth and delicate old china, “now, darlin’, may I ask ye a personal question?”
“Why surely,” said Kerry, opening her sweet eyes in surprise, “you certainly have a right after all you have done for me.”
“Well, then, darlin’, why don’t ye answer my boy’s letters?”
“Letters?” said Kerry. “What letters? I’ve had no letters!”
“Oh, yes ye have, darlin’,” said Mrs. Scott, studying the girl’s open face with a puzzled expression. “I saw the letters myself, took ’em in and noted the handwritin’. I never forgets handwritin’, not especially when it belongs to one whom I honor and love as me own. And I saw his name right up in the corner of the envelope, Graham McNair, Los Angeles, California. Three letters there was, two in one week, and one the next week, and I laid ’em all neat on the hall table like I always do, and they was gone soon as you come home, for I went out in the hall to see each night after I heard you come in. I says to myself, I says, she’ll be tellin’ me a message from him, forbye, or mebbe a bit of what he said to her, but never a word did you say. And then I thought, well, why should she? She counts me a stranger, of course. But I was that happy knowin’ you had a letter from him whom I love as if he was my own, and that’s true!”