THE STRANGE CONDUCT OF MRS. FOX
All the suspicions of the little white haired old lady seemed to be
revived by Sydney’s manner of receiving the intelligence she gave him.
“Maybe I’ve made a mistake about it,” she said, pinching nervously at
the edges of a white apron she wore. “It may be another man of the same
name.”
“Is this Maurice Darley dead?” asked Sydney, paying no attention to her
disturbed equanimity.
“I don’t know. Maybe he is,” was the reply.
“When did you see him last?” went on Sydney.
“How do you know I ever saw him?” asked the old lady quickly.
Sydney began to lose his patience.
“You seem to think I mean you some harm,” he said. “You are quite wrong
there. It is a matter of money, of a fortune that belongs to Mr.
Maurice Parley, if I can find him.”
The old lady looked at him keenly.
“That’s what caused all his trouble,” she said slowly. “Fortunes. He
was always thinking of them.”
“Can’t you tell me where he is now?” Sydney went on in a coaxing tone.
“You appear to know a good deal about him.”
“Oh, Mr.—I? Do I show it?” A terrified look came into the old lady’s
eyes. Her fingers clutched tightly at each side of the doorway over
which she had mounted guard.
Sydney was by this time convinced that there was some mystery about
Maurice Darley, which the woman before him was seeking to conceal.
“What if he is dead?”
The old lady brought this out with a sort of triumphant tone.
“But he isn’t dead,” Sydney returned, with almost the same manner. “If
he was you would have said so long ago. You see I can understand some
things. But why are you so secret about him? Tell me, did you ever hear
him speak of a Mr. Tyler?”
“Hush, hush!” The old lady put her fingers over her lips and advanced
to Sydney as if to thrust him out of the door. “Not now. Not here,” she
added in an imploring tone.
Sydney was compelled to back out of the door into the street, but he
held it open partially to say:
“I must find out about Maurice Darley. It is for his good, not mine.
Where can I see you about him? Will you come to my office on Chestnut
Street?”
“No, no. I can’t go away,” the old lady replied.
She was glancing backward over her shoulder every instant or two.
“Will you give me your name, then, so I can write to you?” Sydney went
on. “Or if I write to Mr. Darley here will you give it to him?”
“No, only write to me, Mrs. Hannah Fox,” and with that the door was
closed in his face.
Sydney lingered in front of it a second. He had a blind impulse to ring
the bell and compel her to open it again. But he knew that it would be
useless, so he turned his steps slowly toward Chestnut street and went
to his office.
He found that his absence all day had been productive of not a little
harm.
“But this is a part of the expiation,” he murmured to himself.
He put aside the letters waiting to be answered, and set himself to the
task of composing the one to Mrs. Fox. It took him a long while to
write it. He tore up several completed ones.
The usual hour for closing the office arrived. The boy hovered about
his desk, seeming to hope that his presence would remind his employer
that it was time to go home.
Sydney looked up at last.
“You may go, John,” he said. “I will mail this.”
But when the boy had gone he read over what he had written, then tore
it into very small pieces and dropped them in the waste paper basket.
Then he took a fresh sheet and began again.
He was half way down the first page when the door opened and Rex came
in.
“Syd,” he exclaimed, “aren’t you coming home to dinner? We waited till
seven o’clock, then mother grew so worried that I came down to see if
anything had happened.”
“How good you are to me, Reggie,” said the other. “And how little I
deserve it.”
His head went down on his two arms upon the desk. His frame shook as if
with sobbing.
“Syd, you dear old fellow, don’t talk that way. What is troubling you?”
Rex had put his arm about his brother’s neck; his forehead pressed
close against the bowed head.
“Don’t, Reggie. If you only knew you would not want to touch me.”
Sydney lifted his head suddenly, but his arms were still crossed over
the half written letter.
“Syd, what do you mean?”
Rex looked at his brother in deep perplexity, his handsome brow
wrinkled with the anxiety Sydney’s appearance and demeanor were causing
him.
“You will know soon enough, Reggie, and then promise me that you will
try to think of me as friendly as you can; not give away utterly to
your contempt. It was partly for y—. No, I will not say that. No, go
home, Rex. Tell mother I am all right, and will be back some time
to-night, and not to worry.”
“But you ought not to stay here and work, Syd,” Rex persisted. “You are
not fit to do it.”
“I must do what I’ve set out to do.” Sydney’s voice was almost stern as
he made this reply.
Rex saw that it was useless to linger, and went sadly home. Something
dreadful had evidently come over Sydney. What it was he did not pretend
to know. But he made up his mind not to tell the family all that Sydney
had said.
It was nearly nine that night before the young lawyer finished the
letter to Mrs. Fox to suit him. He dropped it in the corner letter box
on his way home, and then stepped in at a restaurant to at least go
through the form of eating something.
“When shall I tell them at home about it?” was his one thought, and the
ever recurring echo to it was, “Not yet! not yet!”
Almost his greatest trial of the day was forcing himself to remain in
the library a half hour after he reached the house, and trying to
appear himself. He was conscious that Rex was watching him closely.
But it was natural for him to plead fatigue after a hard day’s work. He
locked himself in his room after he reached it. With hands tightly
pressed against his forehead, he sank into a chair.
“I foresaw all this,” he muttered. “I knew that I must always suffer.
That what I did was done for others is no excuse; and now they must
suffer, too.”
He slept this night from sheer exhaustion, but the sleep was much
disturbed by dreams, in all of which a white haired old lady with the
face of a fox seemed to be trying to do him some bodily injury.
The next day he seemed to exist for nothing but the arrival of the
mails. But night came, and no response to his letter to Mrs. Fox.
The following morning he tried to get up, but his head was so dizzy
that he was forced to drop back on the pillow again. Fortunately he had
not locked his door this time, so that when they came to inquire about
him, they were able to get in.
It was Roy who came first.
“My mail from the office,” was all Sydney had strength to say when he
saw him.
“Yes, I will bring it for you,” replied Roy, and he decided to give up
school for the day.
The doctor was summoned again, and prescribed perfect quiet, but after
he had gone, Sydney asked so persistently if Roy had come with his
letters, that when he did arrive, Mrs. Pell thought that the quickest
way to quiet the patient was to let him come in with them.
“I only want to see one of them,” Sydney whispered quickly, as Rex took
a seat by the bedside, some dozen letters in his lap.
“Which one, Syd?” asked Roy, gently.
“It is from an old lady—a Mrs. Fox. It will probably be in a plain
envelope.”
“Perhaps this is it, then. Shall I open it and see?”
“No, no. Give it to me,” replied Sydney quickly.
He took the envelope and the knife Roy handed to him, but his fingers
trembled so that he could do nothing.
“I shall have to let you open it after all, Roy,” he said, and handed
them both back.
Roy slit the end of the envelope in a second, and once more put it into
his brother’s hands. With dilated eyes and breath coming in brief
gasps, Sydney drew out the inclosure.
He unfolded it and looked eagerly at the signature.
“I can’t see quite clearly, Rex,” he said after an instant. “Is that
Fox signed to this?”
“Yes. Hannah M. Fox.”
“Thank you.” Sydney turned to the front page and began to read.
Suddenly he gave a little cry.
“I can’t see the words, Roy,” he said. “Something is the matter with my
sight. You will have to read it to me. Never mind if some of the things
it says sound strange to you. I will explain them by and by. Here.”
Roy took the letter, and read as follows:
Mr. Sydney F. Pell.
Dear Sir:—Come tomorrow night at midnight. Don’t ring. Knock lightly on
the door. Yours truly,
Hannah M. Fox.
“And that is to-night,” murmured Sydney. “How can I go?”