THE MISSING STENOGRAPHER.
When next Richard went to Mulberry Street, it was to notify Dido Morgan
of a position he had secured for her with a prominent photographer. Her
duties would be light and not unpleasant, as she was merely required to
take charge of the reception room.
Dido was delighted; nothing could have suited her better. Before
her father died, she had devoted a great deal of time and study to
sketching, and now this work seemed as though it might lead her nearer
to her old life.
While Richard was talking to the girls he heard a scraping noise in
the hall, and presently the door opened, and an old man, with such
a decided roundness of the shoulders that it was almost a hump, felt
with his cane the way before him and apparently finding everything all
right entered and closed the door. A little, short-tailed, spotted dog,
with a world of affection bound up in his black-and-white hide, slid in
beside the man’s uncertain legs, and now stood wiggling his body with a
wiggle that bespoke affection for the man.
“Maggie, is you ready for me and Fritz?” he asked, timidly.
“Yes, Gilbert,” she replied, gently, and she went to him and guided his
uncertain feet to a chair which stood before the table.
“The young gentleman who was so good to Dido is here,” she explained,
and he lifted his head quickly as if he would like to see. At this,
Richard very thoughtfully came forward and taking the old man’s shaking
hand, gave it a warm pressure.
“I’m glad to know you, sir,” Blind Gilbert said, deferentially. “May
be you know me, sir. It’s sixteen years this coming August since I’ve
had a stand on Broadway. I don’t do much business, but I’m thankful for
all I have. The Lord, in all this mercy, seen fit to afflict me, but he
never let old Gilbert starve.”
“How did you lose your sight?” Richard asked awkwardly, not wishing to
express any opinion concerning the mercy of making a man blind.
“Well, it came very sudden like. I had a little shop in this very room,
sir, and I lived in the one back, where I’ve lived ever since I lost
my shop. I done a good business, as I had done ever since me and me
old woman came out from Ireland, these forty years ago. Me old woman
fell sick and after running up a long doctor bill, she died, the Lord
bless her soul, for if we had our fights, she was a good woman to me.
One mornin’ after she had been put in her grave, I started out to go
across Mulberry Street. The sun was shinin’ bright when I started out
the door and it was as fine a mornin’ as I ever seen. When I got to
the middle of the street, everything got as dark as night and I yelled
for help. They took me to the doctor’s but he said I had gone blind
and nothing could help me. Then they took me to a hospital, and after
a while I could see some light with one eye, but then it left and they
said nothing could be done. I couldn’t stay shut up, so I came back.
Me little shop was gone and everything I owned, so I got a license and
went on to Broadway and begged until I got enough to rent the back room
again and there I’ve lived ever since.”
“Does what you get pay all your expenses?” Richard asked.
“The city gives me forty dollars a year, and I manage to make enough
with that to keep me.”
Maggie took a newspaper off the table which disclosed beneath it the
table spread for a simple meal. She took a bit of fried steak and some
fried potatoes from the oven and set them before Gilbert.
Richard felt somewhat embarrassed and started to leave, but they all
urged him so warmly to stay that he sat down again. When Maggie poured
out Gilbert’s coffee, she offered a cup of it to Dick. He, fearing to
hurt her feelings by refusing to partake of what she had made, accepted
the great thick cup. It was the worst dose Dick ever took. He tried to
maintain an air of enjoyment, but he found it impossible to prevent his
face drawing very stiff and grave when he tried to swallow the horrible
stuff.
“Won’t you have some more coffee? This is warmer,” Maggie asked, as
Dick at last set the cup down.
“No, no,” he answered, thickly, but most decidedly.
Maggie gave him a startled, inquiring look, and poor Richard felt
himself blush as he endeavored to swallow the mouthful of coffee-grains
he got with the last of the coffee. Finding this unpleasant as well as
impracticable, he disposed of them as best he could in his handkerchief
and hastened to reassure her.
“I never, never drink coffee until after dinner,” he said, earnestly,
“and only broke my usual rule on this occasion because you made it.”
He gave her a smile with this pretty speech; while it was not exactly
what his pleased smiles usually were, it made Maggie blush with
pleasure.
The spotted dog, having swallowed his food after the manner of people
at railway stations, came rubbing and sniffling around Richard’s knee
in a very friendly spirit.
“Fine dog, sir, Fritz is,” Blind Gilbert said, hearing the dog’s
sounds. “Gettin’ old, though, like the old man. Now, Mag’,
child,--she’s me ’dopted daughter, sir, I never had no children of me
own--if you’re ready, me girl, we’ll start for me place of business.”
Maggie put on her hat and fastened a chain to Fritz’s collar, and then
giving Richard a little smile, took blind Gilbert by the hand and led
him out.
“Maggie is very wretched about her sister Lucille,” said Dido,
confidentially, when left alone with Dick. “She went away two weeks
before Mrs. Williams died, and she hasn’t come back yet.”
“Did she say that she would be away for any time?” Richard asked, with
a show of interest that he was far from feeling. He was rather weary of
troublesome girls just then.
“No, that’s it,” eagerly. “They hadn’t any idea that she wasn’t coming
home.”
“Indeed! Where had she gone?”
“They don’t even know that. She said she was going out to do some extra
work.”
“What kind of work?”
“She was a typewriter and a stenographer,” Dido explained, “and in the
evenings she used to get extra work. This night she went to work, but
she did not come back, and Maggie worries over it.”
“I should think she would,” Richard replied kindly. “Why didn’t Maggie
go to her sister’s employer? Probably he could throw some light on the
subject.”
“She did go to him, and he said Lucille had asked for two weeks’
vacation, which he had given her, and Maggie didn’t want to tell him
that Lucille had gone out to do some extra work, for fear he wouldn’t
like it. He paid her by the week, and didn’t know she did outside work.
Maggie thought then she would be back, but now it is five weeks and she
hasn’t come back yet.”
“And poor mother loved her so,” added Maggie huskily, as she re-entered
the room, having left Blind Gilbert on his corner.
“Do you think we could do anything towards finding her?” Dido asked
eagerly.
“I hardly see what you could do, unless you notify the police and
advertise for her,” Dick replied, listlessly. He had enough girls on
his mind now, with Penelope, the Park Mystery girl and Dido, and he did
not feel anxious to add another to his already too large list. He felt
satisfied to look after Penelope, and was desirous of assuming sole
charge of her, but did not want any more.
“I should say that she had received a better position somewhere, and
that you will hear from her before long,” Dick added, encouragingly.
“Oh, she would surely send for her clothes if she had,” Dido said,
earnestly. “If you will tell us what to do--what is the best thing--we
will try to do it; Maggie is so anxious to find her.”
“I can easily do for you all that can be done,” Dick replied. “If you
can give me a description of her, I will send it to Police Headquarters
and have them search for her.”
“She was slender, and had a lovely white complexion and blue eyes, and
black hair,” Dido began, Richard writing it in a little notebook.
“Was she tall or short?” he asked, pausing for a reply.
“About my height--don’t you think so, Maggie? I’m five feet four and
one-half inches.”
“How was she dressed?”
“She had on her black alpaca dress, and wore a round black turban, with
a bunch of green grass on the back of it,” said Dido.
“And she carried her light jacket along to wear home, ’cause mother
thought it would be cold,” Maggie said, helping Dido along. “Lucille
always had nicer dresses than I had. She was twenty-one, though she
didn’t look it. I am older than she is.”