There was the question of Sadie to be settled. There was a certain
severe look that sometimes came about Sadie’s lips, and that caused
Peter to feel absolutely certain that Comrade Sadie had no sympathy
with “free love,” and very little sympathy with any love save her
own for Jennie. She had nursed her “little sister” and tended her
like a mother for many years; she took the food out of her mouth to
give to Jennie--and Jennie in turn gave it to any wandering agitator
who came along and hung around until mealtime. Peter didn’t want
Sadie to know what had been going on in her absence, and yet he was
afraid to suggest to Jennie that she should deceive her sister.
He managed it very tactfully. Jennie began pleading again: “We ought
not to do this, Comrade Peter!” And so Peter agreed, perhaps they
oughtn’t, and they wouldn’t any more. So Jennie put her hair in
order, and straightened her blouse, and her lover could see that she
wasn’t going to tell Sadie.
And the next day they were kissing again and agreeing again that
they mustn’t do it; and so once more Jennie didn’t tell Sadie.
Before long Peter had managed to whisper the suggestion that their
love was their own affair, and they ought not to tell anybody for
the present; they would keep the delicious secret, and it would do
no one any harm. Jennie had read somewhere about a woman poet by the
name of Mrs. Browning, who had been an invalid all her life, and
whose health had been completely restored by a great and wonderful
love. Such a love had now come to her; only Sadie might not
understand, Sadie might think they did not know each other well
enough, and that they ought to wait. They knew, of course, that they
really did know each other perfectly, so there was no reason for
uncertainty or fear. Peter managed deftly to put these suggestions
into Jennie’s mind as if they were her own.
And all the time he was making ardent love to her; all day long,
while he was helping her address envelopes and mail out circulars
for the Goober Defense Committee. He really did work hard; he didn’t
mind working, when he had Jennie at the table beside him, and could
reach over and hold her hand every now and then, or catch her in his
arms and murmur passionate words. Delicious thrills and raptures
possessed him; his hopes would rise like a flood-tide--but then,
alas, only to ebb again! He would get so far, and every time it
would be as if he had run into a stone wall. No farther!
Peter realized that McGivney’s “free love” talk had been a cruel
mistake. Little Jennie was like all the other women--her love wasn’t
going to be “free.” Little Jennie wanted a husband, and every time
you kissed her, she began right away to talk about marriage, and you
dared not hint at anything else because you knew it would spoil
everything. So Peter was thrown back upon devices older than the
teachings of any “Reds.” He went after little Jennie, not in the way
of “free lovers,” but in the way of a man alone in the house with a
girl of seventeen, and wishing to seduce her. He vowed that he loved
her with an overwhelming and eternal love. He vowed that he would
get a job and take care of her. And then he let her discover that he
was suffering torments; he could not live without her. He played
upon her sympathy, he played upon her childish innocence, he played
upon that pitiful, weak sentimentality which caused her to believe
in pacifism and altruism and socialism and all the other “isms” that
were jumbled up in her head.
And so in a couple of weeks Peter had succeeded in his purpose of
carrying little Jennie by storm. And then, how enraptured he was!
Peter, with his first girl, decided that being a detective was the
job for him! Peter knew that he was a real detective now, using the
real inside methods, and on the trail of the real secrets of the
Goober case!
And sure enough, he began at once to get them. Jennie was in love;
Jennie was, as you might say, “drunk with love,” and so she
fulfilled both the conditions which Guffey had laid down. So Jennie
told the truth! Sitting on Peter’s knee, with her arms clasped about
him, and talking about her girlhood, the happy days before her
mother and father had been killed in the factory where they worked,
little Jennie mentioned the name of a young man, Ibbetts.
“Ibbetts?” said Peter. It was a peculiar name, and sounded
familiar.
“A cousin of ours,” said Jennie.
“Have I met him?” asked Peter, groping in his mind.
“No, he hasn’t been here.”
“Ibbetts?” he repeated, still groping; and suddenly he remembered.
“Isn’t his name Jack?”
Jennie did not answer for a moment. He looked at her, and their eyes
met, and he saw that she was frightened. “Oh, Peter!” she whispered.
“I wasn’t to tell! I wasn’t to tell a soul!”
Inside Peter, something was shouting with delight. To hide his
emotion he had to bury his face in the soft white throat.
“Sweetheart!” he whispered. “Darling!”
“Uh, Peter!” she cried. “You know--don’t you?”
“Of course!” he laughed. “But I won’t tell. You needn’t mind
trusting me.”
“Oh, but Mr. Andrews was so insistent!” said Jennie, “He made Sadie
and me swear that we wouldn’t breathe it to a soul.”
“Well, you didn’t tell,” said Peter. “I found it out by accident.
Don’t mention it, and nobody will be any the wiser. If they should
find out that I know, they wouldn’t blame you; they’d understand
that I know Jack Ibbetts--me being in jail so long.”
So Jennie forgot all about the matter, and Peter went on with the
kisses, making her happy, as a means of concealing his own
exultation. He had done the job for which Guffey had sent him! He
had solved the first great mystery of the Goober case! The spy in
the jail of American City, who was carrying out news to the Defense
Committee, was Jack Ibbetts, one of the keepers in the jail, and a
cousin of the Todd sisters!