THE WOMAN IN THE CASE.
“I’m a fine sort of lover,” Owen muttered to himself, with a mirthless
laugh, as he left the post office, and proceeded to the residence of the
Reverend Doctor Moore. “A man ought to believe in the girl he loves, no
matter who else he has to doubt in order to do so; yet here I am giving
the preference to Pop Andrews, refusing to believe that there’s any
possibility of his being a liar and a thief, when I know very well that
either that must be the case, or else Dallas must be guilty.”
But although he argued this with himself, Owen realized that it was not
a matter of sentiment, but of cold logic, which had caused him to decide
in favor of the veteran letter carrier.
In a very despondent frame of mind, Owen rang the doorbell of the
clergyman’s house, hoping that the reverend gentleman might be able to
tell him something--some little detail which he had not thought to
mention to Superintendent Henderson--which might put an entirely new
complexion on the case, and enable him to solve the mystery without
accusing either Dallas or the letter carrier.
He found that Doctor Moore was a pleasant little man, several years past
middle age, with a kindly smile and an air of unworldliness which the
inspector was not surprised to find in a man who would send a
hundred-dollar note in an unregistered letter.
Owen explained the object of his call, and the clergyman readily agreed
to give him all the assistance he could in solving the mystery.
“In the first place,” said Owen, “did anybody know, doctor, that you
were sending this money through the mail? I mean to say, was anybody
aware of the fact before you dropped the letter in the box? Some
dishonest person might have followed you, and fished the letter out of
the box as soon as you stepped away?”
“No,” answered Doctor Moore. “I don’t think that’s possible. I didn’t
mention the fact that I was sending that money to anybody--not even to
Mrs. Moore.”
“And you are quite sure that it went into the box all right? Some people
are very careless, you know, when they mail letters. Sometimes, instead
of going into the box, the letter slips to the sidewalk unnoticed.”
“No, I am quite sure that wasn’t the case with me,” the clergyman
replied smilingly. “I remember that I was particularly careful to see
that the letter went to the bottom of the box. I even took the
precaution of peering into the slot after I had deposited it, to make
sure that it had gone all the way down. I know letters sometimes stick
in the slot cover, and, as this one contained money, I was especially
careful in that respect.”
“And you are equally positive that it was a pink envelope, are you,
doctor? It couldn’t possibly have been any other color?”
“I am quite certain that it was pink. To prove to you that I couldn’t
possibly be mistaken on that point, I might repeat to you a little pun I
made to the young lady who gave me the envelope. I said to her: ‘I guess
the person who receives this will consider it the pink of perfection.’
Now, it stands to reason I couldn’t have made that pun if the envelope
had been of any other color, doesn’t it?”
“The young lady who gave you the envelope?” repeated Owen, seizing
quickly upon these words. “May I ask you to explain what you mean by
that, sir? Who was this young lady?”
The clergyman smiled. “Why, yes, to be sure! How stupid of me! I am
afraid that when I answered you a little while ago that nobody knew of
my intention to mail the hundred-dollar bill, I was not quite accurate.
On second thought, there was one person who saw me put the money into
the envelope.”
“And who was that person?” demanded Owen eagerly.
“The young lady who gave me the envelope; she is employed as a
typewriter in my friend Mr. Sammis’ office. It would be quite out of the
question, of course, to suspect her of fishing the letter out of the
box.”
The clergyman laughed lightly.
Owen did not echo his laugh. He stared at him in astonishment. “You mean
to tell me, doctor, that you got that envelope from her?”
“Yes; let me explain how that happened: You see, originally the letter
and money were in a white envelope--one of my own. I had it in my pocket
when I reached Mr. Sammis’ office. I was going there to see him about
church affairs, you know. The sight of the street letter box outside his
office suddenly reminded me that I hadn’t mailed that letter. I took it
out of my pocket, with the intention of doing so immediately, when it
slipped from my hand and fell to the sidewalk. It had been raining quite
heavily, and the sidewalks were very muddy. Of course, the letter fell
address side downward--letters always do seem to fall that way,
especially when it’s muddy--and when I picked it up I saw that it was
not in a condition to send through the mails; the writing on the
envelope was all blurred. So I stepped into the real-estate office, and
requested the young lady seated at the typewriter to let me have a plain
envelope. She had a box of square pink envelopes on the desk--her own
private stationery, I presume--and she handed me one of those,
explaining that it was the only kind she had which didn’t bear Mr.
Sammis’ business card. I told her that would do very nicely. It was then
I made that little joking remark that the color was most appropriate, as
the person who received it would think it the pink of perfection.”
“And you put the money in the envelope in her presence?” exclaimed Owen
gloomily.
“Yes, of course! Why shouldn’t I have done so? Bless my soul! You don’t
think for a minute that a nice young woman like that wasn’t to be
trusted, do you?”
A happy thought suddenly occurred to Owen. A plausible explanation of
the mystery flashed through his mind. He believed he understood now why
Dallas had afterward sought to get possession of that letter.
“You say that she took the envelope from a box of private stationery
which she had on her desk, Doctor Moore?” he inquired breathlessly.
“Yes; but really I cannot understand why you should lay such stress upon
this unimportant incident.” The clergyman had not yet heard Pop Andrews’
story about handing the missing letter to Dallas, and consequently had
no idea what Owen was getting at.
It had occurred to the inspector that it was quite possible that Dallas,
intending to give Doctor Moore an empty envelope, had unwittingly handed
him one which contained something of great value to her. She had not
discovered her mistake until after the clergyman had dropped the letter
into the box. Then, determined to get her property back, she had waited
for the postman, and told him that little fib about the letter being
hers, realizing that Pop Andrews would have refused to hand it to her if
she had told him the truth.
That must be the solution to the mystery, thought Owen, and he drew a
deep breath of relief. Dallas had acted unlawfully, of course, in
claiming and opening a letter which was not hers; but, if this theory
was correct, the circumstances were extenuating, and the thing wasn’t
nearly as serious as it had looked.
“Don’t you think it possible,” asked Sheridan, turning eagerly to Doctor
Moore “that there was something in that pink envelope which she handed
to you--a slip of paper or something of that sort? You wouldn’t have
noticed that, of course.”
“On the contrary,” replied the clergyman, with a smile, “I surely would
have noticed it. I can’t imagine what you are driving at, my friend; but
I am quite positive that the envelope she handed to me was empty.”
“What makes you so sure of that?” demanded Owen incredulously.
“Because,” came the slowly delivered answer, “I recall distinctly that I
held the envelope up against the electric light. You see, it looked to
me as if the paper it was made of was exceedingly thin, and I thought
there might be a possibility of that hundred-dollar bill showing through
and attracting attention, so I held the empty envelope against the
electric globe to ascertain just how transparent it really was. I could
see right through it, and if there had been any object inside, I should
surely have noticed it and called the young lady’s attention to it.”
Owen’s heart sank into his boots as this hope was dispelled. He walked
out of the clergyman’s house more dejected than when he had entered it.
Gloomily he wended his way to the real-estate office of Walter K.
Sammis.
“Any word of Miss Worthington?” he inquired of the girl’s employer.
“No,” replied Mr. Sammis, with a frown; “and I can’t understand what’s
happened to her. I sent around to her boarding house, just now, and they
say that she isn’t there--hasn’t been there since yesterday evening.
It’s really very strange that she should be absent like this, without
leaving me any word.
“Surely,” he muttered, speaking more to himself than to Owen, “the
little row we had yesterday afternoon can’t have anything to do with
it?”
“The little row?” repeated Sheridan quickly.
Mr. Sammis frowned. “Yes; Miss Worthington and I had a little
difference; but I scarcely think that was enough to make her go off and
leave me in the lurch like this. It was over a financial matter. She
requested me to advance her fifty dollars--said she was badly in need of
the money, and offered to pay it off in weekly installments, out of her
wages. I told her that I regretted that I could not consent to such an
unbusinesslike arrangement.”
Owen glared at the real-estate man. He knew that Sammis was
close-fisted, but he could not imagine any man refusing such a slight
favor to an employee as faithful and industrious as Dallas had always
been.
“And you wouldn’t let her have the money?” he exclaimed scornfully.
“No; I told her that I couldn’t see my way clear to do so. You see, I’ve
had heavy expenses lately, and, anyway, I have----”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Sammis,” Sheridan interrupted
hotly. “Whatever that poor little girl has done, in her desperation,
you’re responsible for.”
He strode indignantly out of the place, more discouraged than ever.
Matters were getting worse and worse. Everything seemed to point to
Dallas’ guilt.
He went once more to the girl’s boarding house, hoping against hope that
he might find her there, although he knew very well that his errand
would be in vain.
“Heard anything from Miss Worthington?” he inquired of the landlady.
“Nothing at all, Mr. Sheridan. There was somebody from her place of
employment inquiring about her half an hour ago. Ain’t it queer that she
should have disappeared like this?”
“I’d like to go upstairs to her room,” said Owen, an idea suddenly
striking him.
“Well, I don’t know about that, Mr. Sheridan,” said the landlady. “It
seems to me it would scarcely be proper----”
She stopped short as her astonished gaze fell upon the shining badge
which Owen suddenly displayed.
“I’m not here in a personal capacity, Mrs. O’Brien,” he said. “I’m here
as a representative of the United States government, and I demand the
privilege of inspecting Miss Worthington’s room.”
“Well, I never!” exclaimed the woman. “The United States government!
Dear me, what can it all mean? Why, certainly, Mr. Sheridan. Under those
circumstances, will you please step this way?”
Owen followed her upstairs, feeling almost ashamed of himself that he
was offering this indignity to the girl he was going to make his wife.
But it had occurred to him that perhaps in Dallas’ room he might find
some clew to her present whereabouts, and he was determined to find her.
And the very first thing his gaze fell upon as he entered the room was a
waste-paper basket, in which were the pieces of a torn pink envelope.
There were only four pieces, and it was an easy matter for Owen to put
them together and to read the address.
He uttered a groan of anguish and despair as he did so. The pink
envelope, the stamp of which had not been canceled, was addressed in a
man’s handwriting to the person in Pennsylvania to whom the Reverend
Doctor Moore had mailed the hundred-dollar note.
It was no longer possible to doubt that Dallas was guilty of robbing the
United States mails.