GILBERT RAND--old Gilbert--was sitting, large and ruddy and cheerful,
at a table in the corner of Henschel’s when Norman came in at
twelve-thirty.
There are various ways in which an elderly lawyer of repute may show
consideration for a young and untried one, if he is so disposed. Old
Gilbert had been so disposed on various occasions during the past year,
for he liked the boy. He didn’t know what Norman wanted of him now
except that it was something legal and personal, which nevertheless
could be disposed of at lunch. Norman had suggested a quiet place
where they could talk without interruption, and Gilbert had said that
Henschel’s would do.
He congratulated Norman on his victory in the Harrington case
yesterday, to which Norman replied in a preoccupied way.
“Now,” he said to Norman, when the luncheon was under way, “what’s on
your mind?”
Norman took the letter from his pocket and handed it over. “What do you
think of this?” he said.
Gilbert put on his glasses and read the letter; then he read it again.
“A very clever piece of writing,” he said thoughtfully; “evidently
intended to look as little like blackmail as possible.”
Blackmail!
“So you think so, too!” said Norman. “Well, what do you think I ought
to do about it? Ignore it? or--what?”
“That depends,” said Gilbert gravely. “If I’m to advise you, I’ll
have to know something about the situation. Who the girl is--her
circumstances and character: you’d better tell me the whole story. Then
we’ll know where we’re at.”
Norman was rather taken aback. But he saw the humor of it, and smiled.
“Aren’t you taking a good deal for granted?” he said.
Old Gilbert smiled back at him. “Oh,” he said, “the alibi part
comes later. I realize, of course, that you are not necessarily the
responsible party in this matter. Girls are sometimes unscrupulous
about that sort of thing. The man who is in a position to pay gets
saddled with the responsibility every time. You remember that case here
in Vickley last winter, in Magistrate Cooley’s court--I saw you there,
I remember.”
“Look here,” said Norman. “You seem to accept it as a matter of
fact--that I’m involved with some girl!”
Gilbert glanced at the letter. “I thought,” he said, “that was what
the letter was about. If I’m on the wrong track, you’ll have to set me
right. What _is_ it about?”
“I don’t know,” said Norman. “But when I read it, I thought the same
thing you did. It seemed like a veiled threat of blackmail. That’s
what puzzles me. You see, I’ve never heard of this Dr. Zerneke--and as
for the girl, if that’s what it hints at, as you also seem to think,
I don’t know who she’s supposed to be. The whole thing comes out of a
clear sky. I haven’t the least idea what it’s all about.”
“That’s curious,” said Gilbert. “Let’s have another look at it.” He
took it up, readjusting his glasses. “There _is_ something queer about
this letter,” he said.
“Damned queer!” said Norman.
“I mean,” said Gilbert, “that it has an air of--well, of quiet
certainty.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Norman, uncomfortably. Did old
Gilbert think he was lying?
“To begin with, you are known by the writer to be interested in art.
That in itself is nothing much. But the fact is put forward in a
rather suggestive way. The reference to the Springer exhibit and the
Steinbach galleries looks as though it were intended to remind you of
something.... Does it suggest anything to you--a girl you met at the
Steinbach galleries, for example?”
“I have not been in the habit of meeting girls at the Steinbach
galleries--or any other galleries,” said Norman, a little on his
dignity. “I know practically no girls in Chicago--and I certainly have
made love to none of them.”
“Well,” said old Gilbert, “there are hysterical girls who make strange
accusations, upon slight or no provocation.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Norman. “It must be something like
that.”
“There’s some explanation for this letter,” said Gilbert. “Let’s see
what we can make out of it. A girl in Chicago ... no, not necessarily
in Chicago; she may have come there from somewhere. She goes to a
doctor; we know nothing about this doctor, but presumably she knows her
business. So we have to assume for the moment that the girl is actually
in trouble. The doctor, apparently, is sympathetic. Money is evidently
needed. The doctor undertakes to write to you.”
“Yes--but why to me?”
“Come, Norman; you are twenty-five years old, and so far as I know you
have never taken any vows. How can you be sure that there’s no girl in
the whole United States who couldn’t accuse you of having got her into
this scrape?”
Norman flushed. “I don’t want to pretend that I’m a saint,” he said.
“But I’m not a cad, either; I’ve been engaged to Madge for six months,
and I swear I haven’t looked at another girl in that time.... In fact,”
he added, “you’ll see how absurd it is to think that I could be mixed
up in such a thing, when I tell you that there’s been nothing of that
sort in my life since I left Cambridge. There was a waitress there--but
that was fully four years ago.”
“Well, Norman, you ought to know. But the trouble with this matter is
that it is so vague. If it mentioned a name, you would know where you
are at. As it is, of course, you may have overlooked some trifling
incident of no consequence to you at the time.”
Norman laughed. “I’m not such a devil of a fellow as all that. I’d not
be likely to forget such an incident.”
“I hope you’re right. It might prove rather embarrassing to you if
you went to this doctor in Chicago, indignantly convinced of your
innocence, and then found you had made a little slip of memory.”
“You think, then, that I ought to go and see this doctor?” Norman asked
in surprise.
“Somebody ought to go, and find out what it’s all about. There’s
something that needs to be straightened out.... Mistaken identity,
possibly.”
“Yes--there’s that,” said Norman. “There may be some very simple
explanation.”
“In any case,” said Gilbert, “I don’t think it’s ordinary blackmail.
A doctor, and especially one connected with a child adoption society,
would hardly mix herself up with anything like that. And the whole
tone of her letter shows a due consideration for your position. It’s
written in such a way as not to make trouble for you if it fell into
the wrong hands. And at the same time--or so it seems to me, though
I’ve apparently stumbled into a mare’s nest--it attempts to remind you
who the girl is.... That reference to the Steinbach Galleries--”
“I said I knew no girls in Chicago,” Norman interrupted.
“You might take a wider range,” suggested Gilbert.
Norman made an impatient movement.
“I’m only trying to help you,” said Gilbert.
“I know, and at my own request,” said Norman. “But I thought we had
cleared up the possibility of it’s being me who is involved.”
“I suppose we have,” said Gilbert. “Well, I was going to propose this
to you. I’m going to Chicago to-night, to see some people in connection
with the Ostrander case; and I’ll go and see this doctor to-morrow
if you like. I’ll be home Sunday, and your mind will be set at rest
without undue delay.”
“That’s damned good of you, Gilbert.”
“Oh, it’s nothing.... Only you see, if I’m to act for you, I’d like to
be quite sure of my facts.”
“You can be quite sure the facts are as I’ve stated them,” said Norman
comfortably.
“Then I’ll take this letter with me,” said Gilbert. He folded it up and
put it in his pocket. “However, there’s one more angle on this thing
still to be checked up on.”
“What angle is that?” asked Norman.
“The Cambridge angle,” said Gilbert. “Nothing like being prepared for
the worst, you know.”
“But that,” said Norman, “is all ancient history now.”
“Just the same, I’d better know something about it. When did these
Cambridge incidents occur and what was the nature of them?”
“Well, besides the waitress, there was just one incident, really,” said
Norman. “It was just before I came home.... It seems ages ago.”
“Actually, however,” said Gilbert, “it’s been something less than a
year. Late June to early April--”
“Ten--” said Norman, and then stopped, with a shock of dismay.
“Ten months,” said Gilbert, “or to be exact, nine months and some
days.” He looked at the young man questioningly. “Does that letter
begin to mean anything to you now?”
“It couldn’t be Isabel,” said Norman wonderingly. “And yet--”
“Isabel?” said Gilbert inquiringly--suppressing a smile.
Norman spoke with an effort. “Springer’s pictures.... It was with her
that I first saw them. At his studio in Boston. She took me there.”
Gilbert nodded. “And now,” he said, “this Isabel seems to be in
Chicago, under the care of a doctor. It looks suspicious, doesn’t it?”
“Oh, but that--it’s impossible!” said Norman.
“For a girl to have an unexpected baby? I’m afraid not,” said Gilbert
dryly. “Though this is rather late in the day for her to let you know
about it.”
“My God!” said Norman.
The waiter appeared, and recommended the Mocha tarte.
“I don’t think I want anything more,” said Norman faintly.
“You’d better have some coffee. No? Then nothing for me either. Bring
the check.”
When the waiter was gone, he said: “There’s no occasion to look so
upset. Girls have had by-blown babies before. And respectable Vickley
citizens have been the fathers of them.”
Then he added, more kindly: “We’ll go to my office, thresh the whole
thing out, and decide what’s to be done.”