WHO RUNS DEARBORN?
“Say that again,” said Larry slowly. “You offered your hand and he
took it?”
She nodded.
“Don’t you know that when you shake hands with the blind, you always
reach out and take their hand, because they cannot see yours offered;
but Dearborn raised his just as soon as I raised mine.”
Larry was staring helplessly at her.
“If he is not blind, why is he there?” he asked. “He is a clergyman.”
“There is no John Dearborn in the Clergy List,” said the girl calmly.
“I went carefully through the list; and he is not amongst the
Congregational, the Baptist, or the Wesleyan ministers.”
Larry looked at her, lost in admiration.
“You’re a wonder! But don’t forget that he came from Australia.”
“The Australian lists are available,” said the girl immediately, “and
the only John Dearborn is an aged gentleman who lives at Totooma, and
is obviously not our John Dearborn.”
She had come to the table and had drawn a chair up close. She now
leant forward, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Larry,” she said--“I’m going to call you Larry out of office
hours--has it not struck you as strange that John Dearborn’s plays
should be produced at a theatre, remembering that he has written a
succession of failures?”
“I’ve always thought that,” Larry admitted, and she nodded her head.
“I wish you would look into the directorate of the Macready,” she
said. “Find out what comprises the syndicate which puts up the money
for producing these plays. I don’t forget that Mr. Stuart disappeared
from that theatre.”
“Nor I,” said Larry quietly. “But John Dearborn! You amaze me.”
She rose.
“I feel sleepy now that I have got that off my mind,” she smiled. “Are
you”--she hesitated--“watching the laundry?”
“I have two men there who are instructed to stop any car coming out
and discover who is the driver and what the car contains.”
“Then I can go to bed cheerfully,” she said with a little laugh, and
passing him, she rested her hand gently on his head. “They will
keep--Emma alive for some time yet. The only danger is that they may
take her away from the laundry.”
“You can rest your mind on that,” said Larry quietly, and with this
assurance she went to bed and he heard her door close.
The next day was uneventful. The police had made a further search of
the laundry, and had discovered a room above that in which the girl
had been imprisoned. It was a very tiny attic apartment, but showed
signs of having been occupied, though it was empty when the police
made their call.
Larry cursed himself that he had not made a more thorough inspection
of the premises. He had been so relieved at the discovery of the girl
that he had not been as painstaking as he should have been--this he
told himself disgustedly.
There were two people whom he desired greatly to meet. The first of
these was the man who had lost the little finger of his left hand.
That curious individual who had preceded him the day he was
investigating the reason for Gordon Stuart’s mysterious visits to a
country churchyard. The second was the mysterious Emma. In his heart
of hearts he knew that Emma would supply the key which would unlock
the door to great and conclusive revelations.
“I shall never forgive myself,” he told Diana, “if any harm comes to
this woman.”
She shook her head.
“You need not fear that they will do her harm,” she said. “She is much
too valuable, and I shall know just when her danger period commences.”
“You!” he said in surprise. “Really, Diana, you scare me sometimes.”
She laughed, and her laughter was drowned in the rattle of her
typewriter.
“Flash Fred has not recovered consciousness yet,” he told her, “but
there’s a big chance that he will. The doctors say that there is no
actual fracture, and that there is a possibility that the pressure
which now keeps him unconscious will disperse.”
“Where is he?” she asked.
“In St. Mary’s Hospital,” replied Larry. “I have him in a private ward
with a police officer on guard. Not that poor Fred could escape,” he
smiled, “but there are people in this city who will probably be most
anxious that he escape by the only way which leaves them safe…”
She did not need to ask which way that was. He put down the pen he had
been holding, though he had done very little writing.
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea if we went along to St. Mary’s and
discovered at first hand how the man is,” he said. “Will you come?”
As she put on her hat before the four-inch square of looking-glass
which she had imported into the building, she asked, without turning
her head:
“What are you going to do about John Dearborn?”
Larry rubbed his chin.
“I hardly know,” he said. “It is not an offence for a man to pretend
to be blind if he isn’t. Besides,” he continued, “he might have had
sufficient sight to have seen your hand. There may be a dozen
explanations. He could have offered his hand mechanically, almost
instinctively.”
She nodded.
“It is possible,” she said quietly, “but he smiled, too, when I
smiled.”
“Who wouldn’t?” said Larry gallantly.
In the business-like office of the senior house surgeon at St. Mary’s
they met the surgeon in charge of the case.
“You’ve come at a very fortunate moment,” he smiled. “Your man has
recovered consciousness.”
“Can he talk?” asked Larry eagerly.
“I think so. At any rate, I see no particular reason why he shouldn’t,
if there is urgent necessity for your questioning him. Naturally, he
is still very weak, and in ordinary circumstances I should not allow
anybody to interview him; but I gather that you have particular police
business.”
“Very particular,” said Larry grimly.
The surgeon led the way to the ward. At the door of the ward the girl
hesitated.
“Shall I come?” she said.
“Your presence is necessary,” said Larry, “if it is only in a
professional capacity. Have you got your notebook?”
She nodded and they went into the little private ward where Fred
Grogan lay. His head was swathed in bandages and his face was white
and drawn, but his eyes lit up at the sight of Larry.
“I never expected to look forward to seeing you,” he said. “But first
of all, governor,”--his voice was earnest--“you ought to get hold of
that woman in the boiler-house.”
“The woman in the boiler-house?” repeated Larry quickly. “What do you
mean?”
“Clarissa’s nurse,” was the staggering reply; “and who ‘Clarissa’ is,
the Lord knows!”