AT HARVARD
The newspapers gave much space to the near approach to miscarriage of
justice in the Wood's case, and many editorials were written on the
fallacy of allowing circumstantial evidence to carry as much weight as
it did. But what was spoken of most was the clever detective work of
Mary Dana. She was the recipient of congratulatory letters for her work
from all parts of the country, and the press could not say too much in
her praise.
Mary received a most flattering offer to join the Isburn Detective
Bureau in Boston. Mr. Irving Isburn, the proprietor of the world-wide
known agency, had for more than fifty years been engaged in solving
mysteries and apprehending offenders against the law. His success had
been phenomenal, and if his agency had been called “The Scotland Yard
of America” it would have been a derogation rather than a compliment.
He had surrounded himself with the most expert men and women in the
profession, and in a letter to Mr. Dana he said he considered Miss Dana
would be a most important and valuable acquisition to his staff. Mr.
Dana, however, decided that Mary was too young to start business
life, so she was sent to Boston to boarding school for a year. At the
expiration of that time she joined Mr. Is burn's staff, and soon that
gentleman wrote her father that in certain lines of investigation she
was unexcelled.
With the coming of autumn, after Bob Wood's release, Quincy and Tom
started in on their four years at Harvard. They had passed their
entrance examinations without conditions, so the few days in the last of
September, spent so anxiously by many of the freshman class in trying to
make up conditions given them the spring before, allowed Quincy and Tom
to live in Arcady until the portals of the temple of learning were
ajar. Rooms were engaged at Beck Hall, and the young men began their
inspection of the classic city on the Charles.
“This city is on the square,” remarked Tom. “Lafayette, Central, Putnam,
Harvard, Brattle, and some more on the East side I suppose.”
“The college is on the square too,” said Quincy, “as long as Dr. Eliot
is Prexie.”
College life has been depicted many times in books, and Quincy and
Tom's four years probably contained few events that had not had their
counterparts in the lives of other young Harvard men. They joined many
clubs and societies the initiation ceremonies being, in reality, a mild
form of hazing.
Quincy and his chum were not goody-goody boys, but they had mutually
pledged each other that they would lead temperate lives and refrain from
all dissipation that would prejudice their standing as students. Quincy
saw Mary frequently, and, after she was employed by Mr. Isburn, they
talked over some of the most interesting of Mary's cases.
In their college life, Tom and Quincy were unsuspecting, and became the
butt of many good-natured and some unkind jokes. On one occasion they
were invited to join a theatre party. It was a variety or vaudeville
show and ended with a pantomime, the closing scene in which was a
skating carnival.
When the skaters came on, the members of the theatre party rose in their
seats and pelted the performers with paper snowballs made hard by the
liberal use of paste. The police were called in. Quincy and Tom had
taken no part in the snowballing but, as examination showed their
pockets were full of the substitutes for the natural product, they were
adjudged as guilty as the others.
One evening Quincy and Tom went to the theatre together. During a
pathetic speech by the heroine the clang of a big cow bell was heard.
The audience vented its displeasure in hisses. Again came the clangour
and all eyes were turned towards the unconscious youths, Quincy and Tom.
Again were the policemen called in. Two young men who sat behind Quincy
and his friend were accused of causing the disturbance. They indignantly
denied any knowledge of it and left the theatre threatening a suit for
damages. Further investigation by the minions of the law discovered the
bell fastened to the hat-holder beneath Quincy's seat, while the string
that served as a bell pull was under Tom's foot. Denial of such strong
circumstantial evidence was useless and Quincy and Tom promised to cause
no further annoyance. On their way home in the car they discussed the
situation.
“It's Dupont and Kidder that put that up on us, and we must get even,”
said Tom.
“But how?” was the question.
A week later Tom purchased tickets for a whole row of seats at one of
the principal theatres, explaining that they were for a large theatre
party. Dupont and Kidder had been recipients of complimentary tickets
which entitled them to seats in the middle of the row. They expected
that Quincy and Tom and other students would complete the party. Not
so, as events proved. Dupont and Kidder, immaculately dressed, had for
companions two waitresses at a well-known Cambridge café, two Harvard
Square hairdressers, and a number of individuals whose dress and general
appearance indicated physical strength rather than mental powers. Dupont
and Kidder went out at the end of the first act and did not return.
The next time that Tom met Fred Dupont he asked,
“Do you believe in the Declaration of Independence?”
“My great-grandfather signed it,” said Dupont proudly.
“How does it read?” asked Tom--“something about men being born free and
equal--a barber's as good as a millionaire's son--isn't it?”
“It's all right,” replied Dupont, “Kidder and I only took one bell to
the theatre, but you kindly supplied us with two. Nothing's too good
for us at that café now, and we've invited Kitty and May to go to the
theatre with us to-morrow night.”
“It's no use, Quincy,” said Tom. “Dupont and Kidder took their medicine
as patiently as we did, and they liked it so well they're going to have
more of it.”
Then he told Quincy what Dupont had said.
“The victory's ours,” cried Quincy. “That shows that Americans, rich or
poor, are democratic at heart. All that keeps them apart is the foolish
idea that the possession of money lifts them above their fellows. Put
them on a money equality, and only the very exclusive ones will care
about the colour of their blood. It was a good lesson for Dupont and
Kidder whose fathers are wealthy men, and they have wisely profited by
it.”
“Then you don't believe in social castes?” said Tom.
“Why should I? My father married a poor girl and I don't expect to find
my wife on Beacon Street or Commonwealth Avenue.”
After Tom had asked his question the thought came to him that if Quincy
had believed in social distinctions on account of wealth he would not
have chosen the son of a cotton weaver as his boon companion, but it was
too late to take back the question, and Quincy had answered it.
The four years of study were at an end. Quincy was loaded with
scholastic honours while Tom's prowess has been most effectually shown
on the ball team and in the 'Varsity Eight, which came near winning a
trophy for the Crimson.
Just before Class Day, Quincy went into the office of Sawyer,
Crowninshield, Lawrence & Merry to see Harry Merry about some matters
connected with his income.
“Quincy, I am glad to see you,” exclaimed Mr. Merry. “I was on the
point of sending a messenger out to Cambridge to have you come right
in. Something very strange has happened this morning and it may be a
question which even your friend Miss Dana may find worthy of her skill
in attempting to solve.”
“What is it, Uncle Harry? There is nothing I love like a mystery, and
Miss Dana often talks her cases over with me.”
“This is a mystery in which you and your mother in England may be
greatly concerned; but before letting her know anything about it I think
it better to find out what it really means. For you to understand
the matter clearly, I will have to go back a number of years. In
your father's will your grandfather and Dr. Paul Culver were named as
executors. After a while the doctor wished to resign, and as you know I
was appointed in his place.”
“Yes, and you have always done more than your duty, and I am truly
grateful. But, pardon me for interrupting you. Please go on.”
“To make myself thoroughly familiar with all the details of my trust, I
went over all the old accounts. When your father and mother started on
that unfortunate trip to Europe, your father took with him some English
gold, some bank notes, and, to last him for his further expenses while
abroad, five bills of exchange, each for two hundred pounds, Sterling, a
total of about five thousand dollars. These bills of exchange were
drawn by his bank here in Boston, and in favour of the bank's agents in
London. About six years ago I changed the deposits of your trust account
to another bank. Until then I had always kept that five thousand still
intact, as it was drawing fair interest, and as, you may not know, your
mother has always had an idea that your father was not drowned. But,
when I changed the account, it seemed foolish to leave that money
still there, and as the bills of exchange had never been presented for
payment, I had no trouble in having them cancelled, and receiving the
money.
“But, and here is where the important part of the matter comes in for
you, one of those bills of exchange, drawn over twenty-three years ago,
has to-day been returned to the bank here in Boston from the London
agents.”
“Why, Uncle Harry,” cried Quincy, “what can it mean? Is it possible that
my father is still alive? I can't understand it, I am bewildered,” and
strong man as he was he was unnerved.
“Calm yourself, Quincy,” said Harry Merry, “I am afraid that would be
entirely too good news to be true, but at least it must mean that your
father's body was found some time or other, and probably the bill of
exchange got into the hands of some dishonest person who has cashed it.”
“Have you got it here?”
“Yes,” and Mr. Merry handed a paper to him.
“Is the signature that of my father?” asked Quincy turning the bill
over, and looking at the various endorsements on the back.
“I am not sure. If I were, there would be one great question solved, for
he would never have put his name to it, of course, until he was ready to
cash it. In a way it looks a little like his writing, but it may be, and
I think it is, a rather bungling forgery. It is more than likely that in
the wallet in which he kept the bills of exchange he may have had some
papers to which he had signed his name, and the signature was copied
from that.”
“I want to show this to Miss Dana,” said Quincy, “perhaps she can help
me solve the problem. Have you got any paper with my father's signature
to it?”
“Wait a few minutes, and I will see if I can find any in the old files.”
After a good quarter of an hour, which to Quincy seemed as though it
would never end, Mr. Merry came back, covered with dust, but with the
required paper in his hand.
“A lawyer should never destroy a paper,” said Mr. Merry, “and I am glad
to say this firm never does. Here is a letter your father wrote to your
grandfather nearly thirty years ago, and is dated from Mason's Corner.
Take it, and the bill of exchange with you. I hope you can solve the
mystery, and let's pray it will turn out to mean that you are Quincy
Adams Sawyer, Junior; but, my boy,” and Harry put his hand on Quincy's
shoulder, “do not build too many air castles on it. If you do, I am
afraid you have a bitter disappointment before you.”
Quincy immediately called on Mary Dana, and had a long talk with her
about the matter. He told her all his conversation with Harry Merry and
showed her the bill of exchange, and the signature of his father's which
he knew to be genuine. After examining them both Mary said,
“In many ways, this looks like a very clever forgery. The characters
are all made the same as in the signature to the letter,--notice the
peculiar little twist to the S in the word Adams, but your father wrote
a very firm, strong hand, and the writing on the bill of exchange is
weaker and a little shaky. That is undoubtedly due partly to the fact
that the signature on the bill of exchange is written with a very fine
steel pen, while that in the letter was written with a quill. But, what
makes me doubt the genuineness of the signature is this,--although the
characters are practically the same on the two pieces of paper, your
father's name in the letter is the writing of an educated man, that on
the bill of exchange looks like the efforts of a man unaccustomed to
write, probably through ignorance, but perhaps due to the fact that he
has not held a pen for a long time.”
“But, Mary,” asked Quincy, “how are we going to find out about it, how
can we learn who did sign it?”
“There are the endorsements on the back. They are the only clues. Below
your father's name appears that of Jonathan Drake; then that of Agostino
Tombini, and, below that, Macquay Hooker. There is also the stamp of the
London bank. Where the bill of exchange was cashed does not appear.
It is evident, however, that the last person who signed it before it
reached the bank in London was Macquay Hooker. We will cable London now,
and in the morning will have an answer. Be in to see me early, but, if
I were you, I would hold myself in readiness to leave for Europe at a
moment's notice. Is your work all finished at Cambridge?”
“Yes, I had my last examination yesterday, and I should leave for the
summer in a few days. Class Day is all that keeps me now, but I am
perfectly willing to recall the invitations I have sent out, and can
leave at any time.”
On his return to his rooms Quincy told Tom what had happened.
“I had been intending to speak about our going abroad anyway this
summer,” said Quincy. “It's the style for college boys after being
graduated to go to Europe. I want to see my mother and aunt, too. To be
sure, I have had nice long, loving letters from them, and I've kept them
fully posted as to my doings, but that doesn't quite come up to seeing
them. Now, with this mystery on my hands, with all it may mean to me, I
must go anyway. Will you come along with me?”
“If dad don't mind, I'll go.”
“We'll run down to Fernborough for a day or two to say good-bye, if
there is time, and you can see your father about it.”
At ten o'clock the next morning, Quincy entered the office of the Isburn
Detective Bureau.
“I have good news for you, Quincy,” said Mary. “I have found out from
London that Macquay Hooker is a banker in Rome, and I have cabled him,
asking who the other two endorsers are. We should receive a reply by
noon at the latest.”
A good half hour before noon a messenger boy came in and handed Mary
an envelope. She scanned the cablegram quickly, and handed it over
to Quincy. It read, “Tombini banker, Drake American consul, Palermo,
Sicily.”
“You see,” said Mary, with a smile, “matters are simplifying themselves
considerably. I shall cable now to Drake at Palermo, and find out what
I can about the original signer of the bill of exchange. This is
Wednesday. The Gallia sails from here to England on Saturday. You had
better engage passage, and make arrangements to go then. Come back late
this afternoon, and I will tell you what has developed in the meantime.”
After engaging a stateroom for Saturday, Quincy returned to Cambridge,
packed what things he needed for a couple of days, and with Tom came
back to Boston, intending to go to Fernborough on the late train in the
evening.
“The answer has just come,” said Mary, when Quincy saw her later in the
day, “but, I am sorry it is not as satisfactory as I could wish. Mr.
Drake is away from Palermo at present, and beyond the fact that a Quincy
Adams Sawyer had registered at the consulate about a month ago and has
since left the town, they seem to know nothing about the matter.”
“Well,” said Quincy, “we have a starting point anyway, and more than
we had in Bob Wood's case in the beginning. I shall go directly to
Fernborough Hall to see my mother for a day or so, but I think I will
not mention the real reason for my trip abroad until I have found out
more. I will tell her that Tom and I are anxious to get to the continent
as soon as possible, and that we will return to England later on. Then
we will go down through Italy to Sicily, and start in there tracing the
signer of that bill of exchange.”
“I think that is the best plan,” said Mary. “In the meantime I will keep
in close touch with Mr. Merry here, and if another one of those bills of
exchange comes in I will cable you, care of your bankers in London, the
names of the endorsers.”
“Mary,” said Quincy as he took her hand at parting, and held it perhaps
a little longer than was really necessary, “I can't thank you for all
you have done for me. I am truly grateful, and wish there were some way
in which I could show you my true appreciation.”
“Your thanks are all I want. Besides, you may be the means of bringing
a very clever criminal to justice,” and the smile left her face as she
said it, “for I am afraid that is all you will find. You must not hope
too much for what seems the impossible.”
On their way to Fernborough that evening, Quincy and Tom decided it
would be best not to mention the real object of their going to Europe,
so Mr. Chripp thought it was only a pleasure trip. He did not object
to his son going,--but he made one condition, that Tom should visit the
village in old England in which he was born and bring him back a picture
of the little thatched cottage in which Mr. Chripp had lived until the
tales of high wages and better prospects in America had drawn him from
his native land.
Quincy had said good-bye to all his relatives, friends, and
acquaintances except Mr. Obadiah Strout. That gentleman should have no
reason to say he had been snubbed.
When Quincy entered the store Mr. Strout was weighing some butter.
Quincy noticed that the wooden plate and a sheet of thick paper were put
on the scales before the butter was cut from the tub.
“Well, what can I do for you, Master Sawyer?” said Strout when the
customer who had paid thirty cents a pound for butter including wood and
paper had departed.
“I came to say good-bye. I am going to Europe.”
“I s'pose you'll like England with its 'ristocrats and kings so well
that you won't come back to these ordinary United States.”
Quincy knew that Mr. Strout wished he would stay in England, so he
replied,
“Oh, no. I'm coming back sure. I know a little about weighing groceries
and I've decided to come back and go into business.”
“What good will your book larnin' do you then?”
“For one thing, they teach something besides dead languages in colleges
nowadays. I studied moral philosophy, which points out the difference
between right and wrong, between honesty and dishonesty, between fifteen
ounces of butter and one ounce of wood and paper, and sixteen ounces of
butter to the pound.”
With this parting shot, Quincy joined Tom in front of the store and they
started for Boston, from which port the _Gallia_ was to sail two days
later.