THE MOTIVE
"And then I opened the back door and found you standing there, Bill.
Phew!" Dorothy ended with a sigh. "It's almost more of an effort in the
telling than it was in the doing!"
"I wouldn't believe it if I didn't know it was true," declared Terry
solemnly.
"You've the great gift of stating things clearly, Terry," remarked Bill
Bolton. "In other words, why must you put in your foot every time you
open your mouth? Dorothy, my girl, you said your piece nicely."
"I'm not your girl, thank heaven! If I was at all interested, I'd
certainly burst into tears. Please don't try to be humorous--it's
painful, positively painful."
"I guess I'd better begin my story," George decided diplomatically. "Or
somebody's likely to start throwing things. Where do you want me to
start?"
"Like this," volunteered Terry, setting his empty coffee cup on its
saucer. "'I was born an orphan at the age of four, of poor but dishonest
parents....'"
"'And until the age of thirteen and three-quarters, could only walk
sideways with my hair parted in the middle,'" came George's quick follow
up.
"He's all right," decreed Bill. "Let him speak his piece, gang--this is
going to be good."
"Of all the conceited nerve!" exclaimed Dorothy.
"Do shut up and give George a chance," broke in Betty heatedly. "I want
to hear about it--and this is a serious matter, I--"
"Now you're the one who's stopping him," accused her chum. "For
goodness' sake, get going, George--we've got to drive to New Canaan some
time tonight."
"All right," said George. "If you people don't find it interesting,
well, you've brought it on yourselves. Surprising as it may seem, I was
born at the usual age at 'Hilltop,' that big whitehouse on the ridge,
overlooking the other side of the reservation. Father, you know, was an
inventor. He was always an extremely reticent man and I realized as I
grew older that he was very much of a recluse. He never spoke to Mother
and me about his inventions, but they must have brought him a good
income. We kept up that big place and had plenty of servants, although
we entertained very little. After I got through the nursery stage, I had
a French governess and later a tutor. Mother and I were great pals. She
must have been a busy woman, for she superintended the running of our
model farm and dairy, but she was never too occupied with her duties but
what she had time to romp and play with me. I know now that she must
have led a very lonely life.
"My father spent nine-tenths of the time in his laboratory and workshop.
He did not encourage friends or acquaintances and he never went anywhere
with Mother. He had but one hobby, his work, and although I know he was
very fond of us, the work came first. Even later, when I grew up, he
never seemed like the fathers of other fellows I knew. It was his
reticence and absolute absorption in those inventions of his that kept
us practically strangers.
"Five years ago last spring, when I was twelve, Mother died. Her heart
had never been strong--her going took the only person I really loved
away from me."
George was unable to go on for a moment, and Betty caught his hand under
the table and held it. The tenderhearted little girl was very near to
tears. George smiled manfully, then went on with his recital.
"Sorry," he apologized for his show of feeling, "I never quite got over
losing Mother. My governess had been replaced by a tutor a couple of
years before this, but now Father decided I was to go to boarding
school. So I was packed off to Lawrenceville, a homesick, lonely little
kid if there ever was one. I'd never been thrown with boys of my own age
before--I guess I was pretty much of a young prig--but as the poet says,
'I soon learned different.'
"During the holidays I used mostly to come back to Hilltop. Father never
made a kick if I brought fellows back with me. We had the run of the
place, which he kept up just as it had been when Mother was alive. One
thing was understood though: he must not be annoyed by my guests. There
were saddle horses, for he rode regularly every morning before
breakfast; cars to drive, and he also belonged to the club over at
Bedford, although I don't think he had ever seen the place. He gave me
plenty of money to spend and always allowed me to accept invitations
from other fellows to visit at their homes. Altogether I had a pretty
good time. The only trouble was that Father never took any real interest
in me. I was lucky enough to get my 'L' at football, but he never came
down to Lawrenceville--not even to see a game."
"I've got your number, now!" cried Terry, interrupting him. "You're
Stoker Conway! I thought I'd seen you before. Say, Bill, this guy is too
modest. 'Lucky to make his letter,' I don't think! Conway captained the
Lawrenceville team last season. My cousin, Ed Durham (they call him Bull
Durham down there) played left tackle. I went down with Dad and Uncle
Harry last fall to see the Princeton freshman-Lawrenceville game."
"I remember your telling about it," said Dorothy. "Somebody, I think,
made a sixty-yard run for a touchdown."
"I'll bet George did it," piped up Betty.
"He certainly did! And let me tell you, Angelface, that your boy friend
was the fastest halfback Lawrenceville or any other school has seen in
years. All American stuff--that's what he is. Hard luck you didn't get
to college this year, old man."
"Can't always have what we want," remarked George philosophically.
"Who won the game?" asked Bill. "The one you saw, Terry?"
"Why, Lawrenceville, of course. Smeared 'em--outplayed those freshies
from start to finish and did it with a lighter team. Thirty-three to
nothing--think of it!"
Dorothy turned toward George.
"Stoker Conway--I like that name, 'Stoker.' How did you get it?"
George grinned. "I was a grubby little mutt--my first term at
Lawrenceville. Somebody pasted the name on me, and it stuck."
"Three celebrities at one table," sighed Terry. "I knew we had two with
us to-night--but a third! It's just too much. Betty, you and I have just
got to do something to make ourselves famous. There's practically no
hope for me, I admit, but you will probably become a movie queen, when
you're old enough--ash-gold hair and a baby doll face are all the rage
on the screen!"
"Oh, I don't know," hit back Betty, ignoring the laughter caused by this
left handed compliment. "How about the fame you won in the diamond
smuggling case? You got plenty of newspaper publicity then."
This sally turned the laugh on Terry, for as the three others knew, he
had played anything but an heroic part in that episode.
But Terry was a jolly soul and his hearty laugh at his own expense
joined with the others.
"Lay off, Betty!" he cried, "that was one below the belt. What do you
bet I spot the motive in this mysterious case of Stoker's?"
"See here, will you pipe down?" Bill expostulated. "All you will spot is
your clothes. Keep quiet and quit waving your arms--you nearly upset my
coffee. How can any of us learn anything unless you give Stoker a chance
to get on with his story?"
Terry suppressed a retort and George hurried into the breach.
"Here goes on the second installment, then," he said. "And it will
probably interest you all to know I'm pretty near the end. Let's
see--where was I?"
"Last fall, at Lawrenceville," prompted Dorothy. "You couldn't get your
father to come down there."
George nodded. "Yes, that's right. He never would come--not even when I
graduated last June. I wrote him specially about it, but, well, he was
having his own troubles about that time. Before I came home I passed my
finals for Princeton. It was on the books that I'd go there this fall.
"Only I didn't," continued young Conway rather solemnly. "Father met me
at the Bedford station in the flivver when I came back. On the way up
here he told me that reverses in business had forced him to sell
Hilltop. I knew, of course, that business conditions were pretty bad all
over the country. But he looked ill and he had aged terribly since I'd
seen him during the Easter holidays. I was much more worried about his
physical condition, he seemed so played out, so feeble. But when we
drove into the yard and I saw this down-at-the-heels old house--well, I
certainly got another shock."
"It must have been terribly hard," sympathized Betty. "Especially after
living all your life in the big place on the hill."
"A bit of a comedown," acknowledged George, "but I don't want any of you
to think I was ashamed of the place. If Father had to live here, it was
good enough for me. I felt so sorry for him, though. He'd never been
much of a mixer, as I said, but when he did talk to a fellow he was
certainly interesting, full of pep and vitality--and a sure hog for
work. Now all that was changed. He had no workshop or laboratory here.
All day long and half the night he would sit reading in the library
across the hall. If I spoke to him, he would answer 'yes' or 'no' to a
question--but never volunteered anything on his own account. He seemed
more like a man stunned--a man who realizes his life is a failure and no
longer cares to go on.
"The woman down the road who cooks and keeps the house clean told me he
had moved in here the early part of April and that during the time
before I came back, he had been exactly as I found him.
"I wanted to get a job in the city. Even though I couldn't get him to
talk about his affairs, I knew he couldn't have very much money, living
in a ramshackle place like this. But though I wanted to get out and earn
some money, I realized I must stay with him for the time being--and I'm
glad I did. Father passed away in his sleep the night of July fourth.
The doctor said it was his heart--like Mother.
"Well, I guess that's about all of it. When the will was read I found
that he'd left me everything. It amounted to two thousand dollars in
cash, and this house and the sixteen acres that go with it. I stuck on
here for the rest of the summer, trying to get the place in better
shape; gave the house a couple of coats of paint, re-shingled parts of
the roof, and have done as much as I could. I'm trying to sell the
place, you know, and the agent told me I could never do it unless it was
put in better condition. It looks pretty bad still, but I've worked like
a dog.
"And I forgot to say, that Mr. Lewis bought Hilltop from father. He
drops in here every once in a while for a chat. I know he's got a
reputation for being a skinflint, but I sort of like the old man,
anyway."
Dorothy, who had been absent-mindedly rolling bread pills on the table
cloth, threw him a sharp glance.
"What happened tonight, before we came?" she asked.
"Why, I was just about to get my supper, when the bell rang. I opened
the door and those two guys jumped me."
"Not very subtle, were they? What do you suppose they were after?" Bill
looked inquiringly at George.
"Well, this is the funny part of it all. They said they'd come for the
letter Father had left for me to read after his death--"
"And you didn't give it to them?"
"I'd never even heard of such a letter. I told them so."
"And they wouldn't believe you, eh?"
"They thought I was bluffing, of course."
"But how on earth--did they say anything about the contents of the
letter?" This question came from Dorothy.
"No. Simply that they wanted it--and they knew I must have it. What I
can't understand is how they could be so sure that a letter exists--even
if I'd known about it, I wouldn't have given it to them--but it's all as
clear as mud to me."
"Has Mr. Lewis ever spoken to you about it?"
"Never."
"Have you any reason to suppose that your Father might have left a
letter for you--any idea that he might have had an important message to
convey to you in that way?"
"Not the slightest. You see, I--"
"Look here," broke in Terry. "Do you think it possible that old Lewis
knew that your Father wrote you that letter--and believes that it's in
this house? He might have hired those thugs to get it from you, then
when he found out they failed, he hopped over here himself and made that
offer to buy your place, in order to get hold of it? There may be
something valuable contained in it, and he wants to get it at any cost."
"Too crude," declared Dorothy with a shake of her head. "Perhaps he does
want to buy it--but I doubt if he has anything to do with those holdup
fellows. Mr. Lewis may be close but I'm sure he's a clever man. The very
fact that he came here so soon after the fracas clears his skirts of
trying to hold up Stoker. As I say, he may want to get hold of the
letter himself, but I'm dead sure he's not the nigger in this particular
woodpile."
"Then who is?" Terry wanted to know.
"Tell us that, and you'll win the fame you're after," chuckled Betty.
"Just a moment," Bill was speaking again. "If old Lewis is as clever as
you think he is, Dorothy, then the smart thing for him to do would be
exactly what he _has_ done!"
"How's that?"
"Well, if he did hire those lads, he might figure that by coming over
here, Stoker'd begin to believe he was the man behind the gun. _But_, he
might have realized that on second thought, Stoker would discount the
idea, for the very reason you have done so."
"Gosh!" exploded Terry. "That's a stumper, Bill. What are we going to do
about it?"
"That's the question--_can_ we do anything?" Dorothy flicked a bread
pill across the table.