THE EXPLANATION CONTINUED
“As I was saying when Titus left the room, this morning was the time
fixed by the kidnapers for their grand stroke. You, in all ignorance of
it, and we, too, for that matter, though we were all on the alert,
watched little Bethany go to school. She was quietly and happily doing
her tasks with the other children when at ten o’clock there was an
arrival at her teacher’s front door.”
“I think you said that you took Mrs. Hume into your confidence,”
remarked the Judge.
“Yes, sir, we did; therefore when her maid said that there was a
carriage at the door and that a young woman wished to see her, Mrs. Hume
went quickly to her little parlor. She said a respectably dressed young
person stood there and said that you had sent her—”
“That I?” inquired the Judge.
“Yes, that you, Judge Sancroft, had requested her to call and get
Bethany; that Mrs. Tingsby had been taken suddenly ill, and you had gone
to her; that the doctor was afraid the poor woman would die, and she
wished to see Bethany. The whole thing was quite natural. Under ordinary
circumstances Mrs. Hume’s suspicions would not have been aroused.
However, knowing what we had told her, she was on her guard. And then,
of course, she did not know that the woman’s story was false. She asked
whether it wasn’t quite a drive out there, and the young woman said yes,
about five miles. She said she was a neighbor of Mrs. Tingsby’s, and
would take good care of the little girl. Mrs. Hume said she would get
Bethany ready, and she went away, leaving the young woman in the parlor.
Now, we had had a telephone put into Mrs. Hume’s house in the attic, and
hurrying up there she telephoned to you.”
“I remember,” said the Judge. “She telephoned this morning.”
“She asked whether you were at home.”
“She did.”
“And whether the Tingsbys were all well.”
“And I told her that they were, at last accounts, and she abruptly
informed me that she would see me later in the day, and broke off.”
“She had to telephone elsewhere,” said Mrs. Everest, with a smile, “and
her time was limited. She communicated with Harry Busby, the newspaper
reporter across the street, who also had a telephone in his apartment.
‘Are you watching for that blessed child, Mr. Busby?’ she asked. ‘I am
watching,’ he returned, and then she kissed Bethany and led her
downstairs.”
The Judge shook his head.
“Now, don’t you shake your head,” said Mrs. Everest, playfully, “until I
finish. Good is coming out of all this. Mrs. Hume took Bethany in the
parlor, she introduced her to the young woman, and Bethany trustfully
put out her little hand. She was quite ready to go with a stranger, if
Daddy Grandpa wished it.”
The Judge stretched out a finger and softly touched the sleepy head
against his knee.
“Mrs. Hume accompanied them to the front door. ‘Take good care of the
child,’ she said, anxiously, and she peered into the interior of the
closed cab. ‘Who have you got with you?’ ‘My sister,’ replied the young
woman. She came with me.’”
“You see, there were four accomplices, sir,” said Tom Everest, when his
wife paused a minute and dabbed the perspiration from her face with a
handkerchief.
“Four? Yes, I understand,” replied the Judge. “Mrs. Everest, we are
tiring you.”
“Not at all; I want to tell you. I really enjoy giving you the details.
Well, Mrs. Hume was in an agony when she saw the child drive away, for
of course she knew that she had delivered her into the hands of two
scapegrace young women. However, she raised her eyes across the street.
There was Harry Busby throwing open his window and tossing aside the
curtains. She knew that he had the number of the cab, and a description
of it, and that he had telephoned to police headquarters. The cab would
hardly be round the corner before a detective would be after it. Then
there was Cracker scorching up and down beside it, his bad little head
thrown over his handle bars, his gimlet eyes looking everywhere but at
the driver, and yet observing his every movement. He remembered his
orders. He was artlessly to follow any vehicle that left Mrs. Hume’s.
Bethany was safe, but poor Mrs. Hume was in torture. She came on with a
raging headache, had to send her scholars home, and go to bed.”
“I should think she needed to,” remarked the Judge.
“Ere this she has heard of our happy issue out of our difficulties,”
continued Mrs. Everest. “Well, our cab went on its way.”
“Tell the Judge what order the young woman gave the driver,” interposed
Tom.
“O, yes, I forgot that. Before they left Mrs. Hume’s the young woman
said to the cabman, ‘Go to Jones’s drug store on Broadway.’ Then she
explained to Mrs. Hume that they had to call there for medicine. They
were really going to the railway station, but she didn’t want either
Mrs. Hume or the cabman to know it. Upon arriving at Jones’s the two
young women and a little boy stepped out of the cab, dismissed the
driver, and went in the store.”
“They had metamorphosed Bethany, I suppose,” said the Judge, quietly.
“Yes, sir. As soon as they got her away from Mrs. Hume these two women
overwhelmed her with caresses and gave her a box of candy, which they
said you had sent her. They also informed her that you were going to New
York, and that she was to go, too; that you would meet her there. Her
grandfather, her mother’s father, had heard of her, and wanted to see
her. He was going to give her a lovely house, full of dolls, and birds,
and all kinds of toys. Now, you see all this harmonized with what the
child had learned from her mother and Mrs. Tingsby. To any ordinary
child it might have seemed remarkable, but Bethany had been brought up
on expectations.”
“Don’t forget the boy part,” suggested her husband.
“No, I was just coming to it. These two young women told Bethany that in
order to please her grandfather, who had always wished for a little boy,
you had requested her to put on boy’s clothes. They had this little suit
all ready,” and Mrs. Everest touched the boyish little garments of the
sleeping child, “and they hurried her into it, and whipping out a pair
of scissors cut off her hair before the bewildered child had time to
protest. She was confused and submissive, and I fancy they kept stuffing
her mouth with candy, and quoted you to her. At the drug store they
bought five cents’ worth of cough drops, then they went into the street
and walked a block to the railway station. They did not hurry, neither
did they dawdle. They did not want Bethany to speak to anyone.”
“Were you watching them then?” inquired the Judge.
“No, sir, but I was requested to go to the station. I was to have the
proud honor of rescuing Bethany. Look here,” and she unbuttoned her
jacket and showed a little white apron rolled up round her waist. “I was
in the kitchen making cakes. When the chief of police telephoned I had
just twenty minutes to get to the station. I caught my hat and jacket
and ran. See, I have no gloves,” and she spread out her bare hands.
Her expression was so good, so genuine, so lovely, that the Judge seized
one of her hands and pressed it warmly. “Go on, my dear girl,” he said,
affectionately.
“I just rushed to the station,” she said. “The chief of police was
there, the chief detective was there. One was standing by the ticket
office, the other was loitering about the platform at which the train
for Boston and New York was to arrive in three minutes. I passed by the
ticket office. The chief gave a nod in the direction of the platform. I
hurried on, and my eyes went roving to and fro. I saw the two women and
the little boy. I saw a great many other people, men, women, and
children. All had the air of going on a journey, and, just to show how
one’s eye needs to be trained for such work, I did not recognize
Bethany, the two women stood so adroitly talking to each, and rather
hiding her face by their bags and cloaks.”
“Not purposely hiding?” commented the Judge.
“O, no, that would have aroused my suspicion at once. They stood so
naturally that actually the detective had to come over and stand beside
them, almost to point to them, before I took in the situation. Then I
boldly walked up to them. ‘Bethany,’ I said in a low voice.
“You should have seen the sharp look these women gave me. For just one
instant they were off their guard. Up to that minute I don’t think they
had an idea that they were being followed. Then they recovered
themselves and looked down quite composedly at Bethany.”
“And what did she do?” burst excitedly from Titus.
They all turned to him, and Mrs. Everest went on with a smile: “The
little creature said, ‘O, Mrs. Everest!’ as if she were glad to see some
one she knew. However, she has not met me so very many times, so she was
just a little shy. But she put out a hand to me, and looked queerly at
the women, as if she didn’t just like going with them.”
“Why are you dressed like a little boy?” I asked, “and what are you
doing here?”
“Is this your little child, madam?” said one of the women, respectfully.
“‘No,’ I replied, ‘but I know her. Where did you get her?’
“‘The woman who takes care of the waiting room told us that she had been
left here. Her mother missed her when the last train passed through for
Boston. She asked us to take charge of her, and we consented.’
“‘Why is she dressed like a boy?’ I asked, severely.
“The young woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘She is just as we found her.’
“Bethany, who had been following our conversation with much interest, at
this piped up, and pointing to a suit case that one of them carried
said, ‘Bethany’s clothes are in there.’
“A very ugly look came over the young woman’s face. She knew that she
was trapped. I saw her glance at the other. Out of the mouth of a little
child they had been condemned. O, Judge, I looked for some sign of
softening, some regret, some tender feeling. There was nothing.
[Illustration: “Why are you dressed like a little boy?” I asked.]
“We heard a dull roar in the distance. The train was coming in. The
women looked at each other again. They were uncertain just what to do. I
think they had concluded that I was a chance passer-by and had made up
their minds to rush for the train in the confusion. I had seized Bethany
tightly by the hand. They knew they could not take her with them.
“‘Don’t move,’ I said, in a low voice, ‘there are two police officers in
plain clothes behind you.’ Now, you know, Judge, we were all scattered,
we watchers, even though Bethany had been stolen. Harry Busby was still
on duty, Cracker was watching, the second newspaper reporter was keeping
his eyes open, and Jennie and Dallas were by no means asleep, though, of
course, they were busy with their respective duties—Jennie here in the
house and Dallas at school. But we weren’t sure of the plan of the
miscreants, Barry warned us. He said, ‘Don’t let them fool you by
dragging a red herring across your track.’ We did not know the extent of
their designs. Bethany’s capture might have been only the preliminary to
something else. However, as it turns out, it was the beginning and end,
and quite enough it is, I think.”
“What about the women?” asked the Judge.
“O, the train thundered in and thundered out. We wanted to see if they
would have any confederates on board. No one got off to meet them, and
then we turned. Such a quiet little group—the two women, Bethany, two
policemen, and I. We walked down the platform together. The women were
clever enough not to make a fuss. When we got to the place where the
carriages stand there was Mr. McIntyre, the detective, holding open a
carriage door. The two women got in, and he followed them. I could not
leave them that way. I rushed impulsively up to the door. I said, ‘O,
tell me you are sorry for this.’ It seemed to me that even then I could
have forgiven them for their crime if there had been the least sign of
contrition.”
“Did they say anything to you, Berty?” asked her husband, eagerly.
“One of them sneered, the other made a dreadful remark in which she
invoked vengeance on me for interfering with their scheme. It was no
time to reason with them. They were too sore over their defeat, but I
shall take pains to see them to-morrow.”
“If the affair was managed so quietly, how is it that it got over the
city so quickly?” inquired the Judge.
Berty laughed gleefully. “O, those newspaper men! They had done such
yeoman’s service that we were obliged to let them have their own way at
the last. You see, both men who helped us were on the staff of the News.
It was too good a chance to triumph over their rivals. So they had
everything ready. Bulletin boards were out, and extras were being
prepared, almost before the women got to the prison or I reached my home
with Bethany. I took her there to change her clothes, but found when we
got to the door that I had forgotten to get the suit case from the
wicked women, so we wheeled about and came here. By that time the news
had gone by word of mouth just like wildfire. I don’t know when I have
seen the city so excited, unless it was when we had our last
presidential election. I am proud of the way my fellow citizens are
standing by the rights of children.”
She stopped, fanned herself with a newspaper, and they all gazed
silently at her.
They were waiting for the Judge to speak. “My dear young lady,” he said,
in a moved voice, “you are reaping what you have sowed. Nearly five
years ago you began your cry for the children. Day after day you have
unweariedly gone on with your good work. This demonstration to-day was
more for you than for me.”
“Dear Judge,” she said, extending a hand and speaking with exquisite
gentleness, “can we not say that youth and advancing age are united in
this? Together they stand, divided they fall.”
She rose as she spoke, but the Judge made a gesture to detain her. “It
only remains for me to thank you most heartily for what you have done
for me. We will go over the thing more in detail at some future day. I
must be very largely in your debt, pecuniarily. As for the moral aspect
of the case, my mind seems to falter and stagger when I think of it.
There seems to be an awful cloud overshadowing me—a cloud of
possibilities—of probabilities. Suppose you had not rescued Bethany,
what would have been her fate?”
The Judge’s voice broke. He was overcome by emotion. “I want to see the
cat man,” he said at last, weakly. “He is at the root of this
deliverance.”
There was nothing amusing about his remark, but they all broke out
laughing. There had been a great strain on their nerves during the past
few hours.
Titus and Dallas roared until they woke up Bethany, who sleepily rubbed
her eyes and looked about her. Mrs. Everest laughed so heartily that at
last she began to cry.
“Come,” said her husband, inexorably, and he checked his own amusement.
“Come now, old girl. You can’t be domestic, motherly, and grandmotherly
to a whole city without your nerves going on strike occasionally. You
come home and play with your baby and Cracker. He’s cutting up Jack.”
Berty weakly wiped her eyes. When there was work to be done she regained
her self-control.
“What is he doing?” she asked.
“Teasing the life out of Daisy and the cook. They locked him in his room
and telephoned to me at the iron works.”
“Good-bye, dear Judge,” said Berty, hastily. “I’ll see you soon again,”
and she fairly ran from the room.
“Tom,” she said to her husband on their way home, “human nature is a
queer thing, isn’t it?”
“Mighty queer, Berty.”
“Do you know, when I first began my story of the Bethany affair the dear
old Judge was inclined to stand off and criticize.”
“That was the man of him. He would like to have been consulted and to
have engineered the affair.”
“In anticipating these revelations I really supposed that he would fall
on my neck when I told him what we had done,” continued Berty,
thoughtfully.
“And you say he didn’t—just stood back and criticised? How funny,” and
Tom laughed irrepressibly.
“But he changed,” pursued Berty, earnestly. “It seemed to come over him
that a dreadful fate might have been poor Bethany’s if we had not
rescued her.”
“Of course he changed—would have been a donkey if he hadn’t,” said Tom,
disrespectfully. “You’re all right, Berty—always were and always will
be.”
“And so are you, Tom,” she responded, generously.
“However, speaking of Bethany,” he went on, “no dreadful fate would have
overtaken her for a while. Suppose the women had made off with her. They
would have taken mighty good care of her till the ransom business was
settled.”
Berty shuddered. “Suppose no ransom had been given?”
“O, I fancy Bethany, being a nice child, would make friends and settle
down to business. She would adapt herself to a changed environment. She
would make a pretty little thief.”
“Tom, don’t jest on such a subject,” said Berty, passionately. Then she
went on in a musing tone, “Since this affair began I have thought so
much of another kidnaping case that Barry told me about.”
“O, that New York affair?”
“Yes—the only son of a widow. O, Tom, suppose our baby were taken from
us?”
“Are you pining to be left childless and a widow?” he asked, pointedly.
“Tom, don’t. You have that hopeless national habit of jesting upon every
subject. Do be serious. I assure you I dream of that widow.”
“Why doesn’t she get her boy back?”
“She can’t raise the money. She hasn’t got it. Barry thinks the Smalley
gang is in the affair. I wonder whether these women would know anything
about it?”
“Possibly; ask them.”
“I will; and Tom, as soon as we get home telephone to the fish market to
have a boat sent for Barry. I want him to come up this evening and talk
over this affair.”