"Now, I'll describe some people and where they live and not tell
who they are, and you see if you can guess their names and
addresses."
"Addresses, too?"
"Yes, because I'm going to describe the way their houses look.
Write each name on a separate sheet of paper, and the number of
their house below it if you know it, and if you don't know it,
just the street. If it's a woman: put `Miss' or `Mrs.' before
their name and if it's a man write `Esquire' after it."
"Is all that necessary for the game?"
"It's the way I invented it and I think you might----"
"Oh, all right," she acquiesced, good-naturedly. "It shall be
according to your rules."
"Then afterward, you give me the sheets of paper with the names
and addresses written on 'em, and we--we----" He hesitated.
"Yes. What do we do then?"
"I'll tell you when we come to it." But when that stage of his
invention was reached, and Laura had placed the inscribed sheets
in his hand, his interest had waned, it appeared. Also, his
condition had improved.
"Let's quit. I thought this game would be more exciting," he said,
sitting up. "I guess," he added with too much modesty, "I'm not
very good at inventing games. I b'lieve I'll go out to the barn; I
think the fresh air----"
"Do you feel well enough to go out?" she asked. "You do seem to be
all right, though."
"Yes, I'm a lot better, I think." He limped to the door. "The
fresh air will be the best thing for me."
She did not notice that he carelessly retained her contributions
to the game, and he reached his studio with them in his hand.
Hedrick had entered the 'teens and he was a reader: things in his
head might have dismayed a Borgia.
No remotest glimpse entered that head of the enormity of what he
did. To put an end to his punishing of Cora, and, to render him
powerless against that habitual and natural enemy, Laura had
revealed a horrible incident in his career--it had become a public
scandal; he was the sport of fools; and it might be months before
the thing was lived down. Now he had the means, as he believed, to
even the score with both sisters at a stroke. To him it was
turning a tremendous and properly scathing joke upon them. He did
not hesitate.
* * *
That evening, as Richard Lindley sat at dinner with his mother,
Joe Varden temporarily abandoned his attendance at the table to
answer the front doorbell. Upon his return, he remarked:
"Messenger-boy mus' been in big hurry. Wouldn' wait till I git to
door."
"What was it?" asked Richard.
"Boy with package. Least, I reckon it were a boy. Call' back from
the front walk, say he couldn' wait. Say he lef' package in
vestibule."
"What sort of a package?"
"Middle-size kind o' big package."
"Why don't you see what it is, Richard?" Mrs. Lindley asked of her
son. "Bring it to the table, Joe."
When it was brought, Richard looked at the superscription with
surprise. The wrapper was of heavy brown paper, and upon it a
sheet of white notepaper had been pasted, with the address:
"Richard Lindley, Esq.,
1218 Corliss Street."
"It's from Laura Madison," he said, staring at this writing.
"What in the world would Laura be sending me?"
"You might possibly learn by opening it," suggested his mother.
"I've seen men puzzle over the outside of things quite as often as
women. Laura Madison is a nice girl." She never volunteered
similar praise of Laura Madison's sister. Mrs. Lindley had
submitted to her son's plans concerning Cora, lately confided; but
her submission lacked resignation.
"It's a book," said Richard, even more puzzled, as he took the
ledger from its wrappings. "Two little torn places at the edge of
the covers. Looks as if it had once had clasps----"
"Perhaps it's the Madison family album," Mrs. Lindley suggested.
"Pictures of Cora since infancy. I imagine she's had plenty
taken."
"No." He opened the book and glanced at the pages covered in
Laura's clear, readable hand. "No, it's about half full of
writing. Laura must have turned literary." He read a line or two,
frowning mildly. "My soul! I believe it's a novel! She must think
I'm a critic--to want me to read it." Smiling at the idea, he
closed the ledger. "I'll take it upstairs to my hang-out after
dinner, and see if Laura's literary manner has my august approval.
Who in the world would ever have thought she'd decide to set up
for a writer?"
"I imagine she might have something to write worth reading," said
his mother. "I've always thought she was an interesting-looking
girl."
"Yes, she is. She dances well, too."
"Of course," continued Mrs. Lindley, thoughtfully, "she seldom
_says_ anything interesting, but that may be because she so seldom
has a chance to say anything at all."
Richard refused to perceive this allusion. "Curious that Laura
should have sent it to me," he said. "She's never seemed
interested in my opinion about anything. I don't recall her ever
speaking to me on any subject whatever--except one."
He returned his attention to his plate, but his mother did not
appear to agree with him that the topic was exhausted.
"`Except one'?" she repeated, after waiting for some time.
"Yes," he replied, in his habitual preoccupied and casual tone.
"Or perhaps two. Not more than two, I should say--and in a way
you'd call that only one, of course. Bread, Joe."
"What two, Richard?"
"Cora," he said, with gentle simplicity, "and me."