A SECRET REVEALED
I
But more pressing matters drove the curious problem presented by his
sister and Good temporarily out of Roger's mind. He was dining with
Molly Wolcott that evening, and, as he dressed, his thoughts, quite
properly, centred exclusively in her.
It was she herself, however, who recalled the distressing situation.
"How's Mr. Good?" she asked. Somewhat to his surprise her father echoed
the question, with what seemed like more than a mere polite interest.
Briefly he told the simple facts as they had occurred, refraining from
any attempt at explanation.
"But didn't he give any reason?" asked Mollie incredulously, when he had
finished.
"Not a one."
"Did he say there was a reason?" Roger thought it a little odd that the
Judge should manifest such concern for a person with whom he could have
had only the slightest acquaintance.
"Yes," he admitted, "he did."
"But he wouldn't give it?"
"No. And he skipped so fast I didn't have time to press him much."
"Have you any hypothesis?" The Judge fingered his watch chain nervously.
It occurred to Roger that he was making an effort to seem only mildly
interested.
"Well ... yes, I have." Roger hesitated for a moment. The theory he had
formulated was not one which he cared to present. It would be scornfully
rejected, he felt, before he had an opportunity to elaborate it. And, as
a matter of fact, he was forced to admit, it was not a very explanatory
theory at best. It needed explanation in itself.
"Go on," said Molly. She had noted his pause and was the more expectant
in consequence.
"Well ... it's a funny thing--but this business has been in the air.
I've noticed a different spirit around the office for a couple of weeks.
You know Good was the idol of the boys on the staff. They were a little
suspicious of him at first, I guess. He was too good to be true. Bassett
has hinted as much. But that wore off. He proved he was no fake. They
came to trust him absolutely. Then, all of a sudden, the whole thing
seemed to change. I've noticed lots of queer little things lately. The
boys have been pretty cool toward him. I've taxed several of them with
it, but I couldn't get anything out of them. He's lost his hold on them.
There isn't any doubt of that. He isn't the leader any more. He's done
something--I don't know what--but it must have made the boys pretty
sore. Anyway, they seem to have sent him to Coventry for it. I guess the
poor chap got so discouraged he just had to quit. That's the way I
figure it out."
"Isn't that a shame," cried Molly. "Do you think he's to blame--has he
really done something awful?"
"Blessed if I know." Roger shook his head helplessly. "Knowing the man
as I've known him, I can't believe it. But Bassett's one of the coldest
of them all--and I'd trust Bassett to the limit. It certainly is a
puzzle." He was silent for a moment. Then he added slowly, as if he were
reluctant to put his thought into speech: "Of course Good's led a pretty
hard life, you know. Maybe some of it came back on him--maybe he had a
relapse. Liquor had him once. Maybe...."
"Has Judith any explanation?" asked the Judge suddenly.
"None that I know of."
"Was she--surprised?"
"Honestly, Judge, I don't know," said Roger candidly. "She acted mighty
queer. First she seemed surprised, and then she didn't. For a minute I
kind of thought she was--well--sore. But...." A picture flashed across
his memory of Judith on the lounge, with the sobs shaking her shoulders.
"... I guess it was disappointment. She thought the world of Good, you
know."
"Indeed, yes!" cried Molly. "I've often thought...." But she never
finished saying what it was she thought. Her father rose abruptly.
"I think if you young people will--er--excuse me...." His voice was
strangely tremulous. "I'm a trifle tired."
"Your father looks kind of knocked up over something," said Roger when
the old man had left them. "Anything wrong?"
Her face clouded. "I--don't know. He's been awfully busy. He's not very
well. That attack last winter--he's never shaken it off, quite.
Sometimes--I'm afraid! Oh, Roger--if anything should happen...."
Suddenly she burst into wholly unexpected tears.
Roger, comforting her, experienced a vague satisfaction, for which he
knew he should be ashamed--but was not. Molly was such a sturdy soul, so
self-sufficient and self-contained, it delighted him to know that she
could cry ... just like any ordinary protectible woman.
Upstairs, in his study, the Judge had seated himself before his desk,
the tips of his long white fingers clasped together. For a long time he
remained immobile, staring blankly at the wall before him. The single
green-shaded lamp at his elbow cast grotesque shadows at his infrequent
movements. Finally he sighed, as if he were very tired, and put out the
light.
II
When the maid went up with the Judge's coffee next morning, she found
him already fully dressed.
"Tell O'Neil I'll have the car at once," he said quietly.
"But Miss Wolcott, sir, she's...."
"At once, please."
In relaying the order to the chauffeur the maid volunteered the
interesting information that she had left the Judge swallowing his
breakfast with unprecedented haste, and that the newspaper had not been
unfolded. The chauffeur, having designs of a serious nature upon her,
was obliged to conceal his natural repugnance to haste, disassociated
from a motor: but he consoled himself with the other part of her
message. It was not unpleasant to discover in the lady of one's choice
such evidence of keen perception. He went to his task whistling.
III
As Roger came down to breakfast he fancied he heard the front door slam.
Judith was just leaving the library.
"Having callers?" he asked cheerfully.
"No," she said shortly. He noticed suddenly that her face seemed
bloodless. Fired with a vague suspicion that matters were not as they
should be, he strolled over to the window.
"Whose car is that outside? Say--that looks for all the world like the
Judge. What's he doing out at this hour d'ye suppose?"
"I'm sure I can't guess." Judith's voice seemed curiously dry and husky.
She was gazing sightlessly straight before her. Roger ached to voice the
questions which rose in his mind, but the expression on his sister's
face deterred him. He contented himself with studying her narrowly.
It was Judith who broke the silence first.
"Roger," she said suddenly, "I want you to arrange at once with a
detective agency to find Mr. Good."
"Oh, see here, sis," he protested. "That's foolish, you know. He'll come
back--give him time."
"I can wait no longer," said Judith coldly. "Please do as I ask--this
morning."
"That was the Judge who was here. He told you something?" demanded Roger
accusingly. There was no reply. He finished his meal before questioning
her again. There was still no reply. Then he shrugged his shoulders and
left her. When his sister's lips formed a line like the cut of a razor,
Roger knew the futility of interrogation or argument.
Within an hour the machinery of one of the greatest systems of espionage
in the world was set in motion for the trifling purpose of locating the
present whereabouts of one Brent Good, described as well over six feet
tall, with hazel eyes, thin hair, a large mouth and nose, heavy
eyebrows, a deep and not unmusical voice, a marked stoop to the
shoulders, and wearing a suit, as Roger expressed it, "rather brown."