by P. J. Searles
Connors was genuinely puzzled. What had happened to the old lady?
Surely she could not have fallen from the car. On the other hand why
should she have left before reaching her destination and how could she
have got out without his notice? Her disappearance was perplexing.
He had first seen the old lady when he had stopped to admire the
picturesque church on the outskirts of Huntsville. Wearing an old
fashioned, rather shabby, taffeta dress ornamented at the throat
and wrists with bits of yellowed lace, a bonnet that proclaimed her
adherence to the fashions of 1880; and with a sole jet pendant hanging
from her neck, she was standing near the car as Connors came out of the
church and strolled through the adjoining grave yard reading quaint
inscriptions on the tombstones. Her manner was forlorn and pathetic
as she edged timidly up to Connors to ask in a low voice if he were
driving on to Milltown. When Connors replied in the affirmative the old
lady hesitantly mumbled that she had not seen her daughter in Milltown
for five years and could she ride into the city with him.
Since the front seat was loaded with bundles Connors had placed the old
lady in the rear and driven on. Some twenty miles had been traversed
and the outskirts of Milltown reached when Connors discovered he was
out of cigarettes. Stopping the car at a corner drugstore he went
in to buy his favorite brand. Once inside he recalled the old lady's
presence and, stepping out again, asked if she would like an ice cream
soda. Her pleasure and gratitude seemed all out of proportion to the
offer until she said she had not tasted ice cream for over five years.
When they were ready to drive on again Connors asked the old lady
where she wanted to be taken. At first she was certain she could walk
the rest of the way but finally agreed with Connors' insistence that
he could easily drive her to the daughter's home which she had never
visited. Number 17 Portland street was the address she gave, an address
that took Connors far out of his normal route into an unfamiliar
section of the city. After perhaps fifteen minutes of driving he
reached Portland street and stopped the car at a corner to inquire
directions for number 17. The first person he asked pointed to a house
four doors from the corner.
It was at this moment that Connors turned around and discovered the old
lady was missing.
Her disappearance was puzzling. It seemed unbelievable that she could
have left the car without being noticed by Connors, or that she would
have left without so much as "Thank you," but the fact remained that
she was gone. Connors jumped out of his seat, looked up and down the
street, glanced behind the car, peered into the corner there was no
sight of the old lady.
Connors was both perplexed and irritated. After a moment's indecision
he stepped across to number 17 and rang the bell. His summons was
answered by a pleasant looking, young woman.
"Pardon me," said Connors, "I am afraid I don't know your name, but are
you expecting your mother today?"
"My mother," replied the woman with a gasp, "why--why, what do you
mean?"
"A nice old lady in Huntsville this morning asked me to drive her to
17 Portland street to visit her daughter whom she hadn't seen for five
years. I brought her into town but when I stopped at the corner there
to inquire the way I found she was no longer in the car. So I came on
here to ask if she had already arrived."
"What did she look like?"
"A sweet old lady, short and slender, snow white hair, pale thin
cheeks, wearing an old fashioned taffeta dress with yellowed lace and a
jet necklace. Is that your mother?"
"Yes, that is my mother but she died in Huntsville five years ago
today."