A NEW MYSTERY
“Incomprehensible!” exclaimed Professor Barrington, gazing after the
excited lad who had scudded up to them and then away. “What do you
think that young fellow means by all this?”
“It is simple, to my way of thinking,” responded Frank. “He heard us
talking about that missing satchel and knows something about it.”
“But what can he know?” inquired the professor, arising to his feet and
pacing the floor of the summer house in his quick, nervous way.
“Well, he strikes me as an unusually keen and intelligent boy,”
returned Frank. “He is of the kind who keep their eyes open, and may
possibly have noticed the man who got the satchel. Here he is back
again, to report for himself.”
At an amazing pace, his bright young face showing keen interest, the
farm boy was steering straight for the summer house. As he approached
he waved some object in his hand. Frank started as he recognized its
familiar outlines.
“Is that it?” questioned the farm boy, breathlessly, dropping his
burden on the little round table.
Frank’s eyes brightened and Professor Barrington uttered a cry of
delight The farm lad had placed upon the table the stolen satchel. It
seemed to Frank as if a great weight had been lifted from his mind.
Certainly the situation had cleared wonderfully.
Professor Barrington grasped the satchel in both hands. Frank had never
seen him so excited as he tore it open. Then the old savant dug down
into the open receptacle with feverish haste. Its contents covered the
table. He fell back, stared at the various articles in astonishment and
began to rub his head in a bewildered way.
“I declare!” he said, feebly. “Confusion worse confounded! Not mine,
after all.”
“If you mean the satchel,” spoke Frank, quickly pouncing upon the
article in question, “it is the one I got back from the fellow who
tried to steal it with the hollow satchel. Of that I am positive--see,
here is the strap and the buckle I kept under my foot when he got
aboard.”
“But that--truck?” objected the professor. “Why, just look at it--a
pair of gloves, a veil, a lady’s toilet outfit and a dressing sack.”
“That’s so,” assented Frank, for the moment all at sea. Then he took up
an envelope bearing an address. It read: “_Mrs. Clara Barnes_,” and had
been directed to the hotel in New York City, where the professor had
lived during his recent stay there.
“I think I understand,” said Frank to himself, and his thoughts
cleared. He placed the envelope in his pocket and proceeded to repack
the satchel, while he inquired of the boy who had brought it to them:
“How did you happen to come across this satchel?”
“Why, you see I saw two men squabbling over it,” explained the farm lad.
“That was when?” pressed Frank. “I wish you would describe what they
were like.”
The boy proceeded to do this while Frank listened attentively. When the
narrator had finished Frank recognized one of the persons as the man
who had received the signal from the fellow with the trick satchel. His
companion did not tally with anyone Frank could recall just then.
“When I first went down to the train,” went on the farm boy, “I heard
voices behind the hedge of the old farm house that burned down. Two
men were talking. One had just flung that satchel to the ground.
“‘You’re a blunderer,’ he said to the other man. ‘You’ve missed on
everything.’
“I went on to guide the people to the farm and thought no more of it,
until I overhead your conversation here. Then I made up my mind it was
the same satchel you were talking about. I went back to the hedge and
found it, but the men were nowhere about.”
“I don’t know how to solve this problem,” remarked Professor Barrington
with a groan; “but there has been tricky work somewhere. At all events,
my precious papers are gone. We had better get to Boston and head off
these men. Then we can get to work to see if we cannot mend matters in
some way.”
“You have done us a favor,” said Frank to the farm boy, and he handed
him a dollar bill. “You know the lay of the land around here. Can you
figure out any way of our going on without waiting for that wreck to be
cleared away?”
“Sure I can,” responded the lad, briskly. “If you’re willing to foot
the bill I think Mr. Dorsett will let me hitch up the surrey and take
you over to Woodhill.”
“How far is that?” inquired Frank.
“Eighteen miles. You see, a branch road runs from there and hits the
main line further along.”
“That’s good,” said Frank. “Go ahead and make the arrangements. We’ll
pay what’s fair for the service.”
The professor sat at the table absorbed in making some notes in his
memorandum book. Frank walked to a little distance and sat down on a
rustic seat. He was thoughtful, but his face showed energy.
“I think I have figured out about the mystery of the satchel,” he
told himself with some satisfaction. “I don’t think, though, that
I will raise the professor’s hopes or burden his mind with any
further suspense, until I am sure of my ground. As soon as I reach
Boston--hello!”
The farm boy had again come up to him. He regarded Frank shyly, then
wistfully, and then blurted out:
“Say, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Fire away,” responded Frank, with an encouraging smile.
“Mr. Dorsett is getting the rig ready, and I’m to drive you over to
Woodhill. You’ve sort of riled me all up coming here and I wanted to
get it off my mind.”
“How is that?” asked Frank, wonderingly.
“Why, from what I heard you say I guess you’re show people,” said the
lad.
“Well, we are in what is called the movies line--yes,” admitted Frank.
“That’s still better,” declared the boy. “Here’s the way it is! I want
to break into the business. It’s a new idea and I want a chance before
it gets stale. I was sort of born to the show line. You see, my father
was a lion tamer. He’s dead now. My uncle is with a menagerie out West.
He settled me in a comfortable home here, but I just dream all the time
about the show life I know I’d just love. Many a time I’ve had a mind
to go to my uncle, whether he liked it or not, or run away from here
and join a show.”
“Oh, you mustn’t think of doing that,” declared Frank.
“I know that,” confessed the lad, naively, “and that’s why I spoke
to you, thinking maybe you would help me break into the business
respectably. See here, my name is Vic Belton and a letter directed in
care of Mr. Dorsett will reach me by rural free delivery. If you have a
show or are going to have one, can’t you try and give me a chance?”
Frank had to smile. He was constantly running across ambitious young
fellows who saw nothing but glare and glitter in the movies line--and
wanted to “break into it,” as the lad put it. Frank in a few words
explained some of the cold facts of the business, which did not seem to
make much impression on his lively auditor.
“That’s all right,” said the young fellow, in an offhand way; “but I
may line up right to do what I want some day. Won’t you give me your
address? I may want to write to you some time.”
Frank obliged the persistent Vic, telling him of the Empire at New York
City and the possibility of locating in Boston. Then the surrey was
ready and there was a brisk drive to Woodhill, where they had to wait
nearly three hours for a train.
It was late in the afternoon when they reached Boston. It was Frank’s
first view of the great center of culture. Its crooked streets confused
and puzzled him as they walked the short distance from the station to
the Parker House at the corner of Tremont and School streets, just a
block from the famed Boston Common.
“We will not be able to do much in the way of business until
to-morrow,” announced the professor as they were shown to a pleasant
room in the great hostelry. “I want to show you around the Common in
the morning, however. Then we will map out our programme.”
Professor Barrington was pretty well tired out with the excitement and
cares of the day. Frank was glad when he announced that he would go to
bed, as it was then past 10 o’clock.
“Now for it,” Frank said to himself, following out an idea he had
carried in his mind for several hours. Frank went to the telephone
booth in the hotel, directing the operator to call up long distance.
New York City was the connection he desired, specifically the hotel at
which Professor Barrington had been a guest. Frank was at the ’phone
for some time and left the booth with animated step and a bright face.
He returned at once to the room upstairs. The Professor was slumbering
peacefully as a child. Frank closed the door softly after him and
proceeded to lift to a stand the satchel he had found, and which he had
brought to Boston with him.
Frank repacked the satchel carefully, wrote an address on a card and
tied it to the handle. Then he also went to bed. The next morning Frank
was astir early and was dressed before the professor awoke. The latter
blinked at Frank, then at the satchel.
“H’m!” he observed. “Disagreeable impression. That satchel. Mystery,
too--clouded. What you doing with it now?”
“I am sending it back to the owner, Professor Barrington,” explained
Frank.
“Why, how can you do that? Do you know the owner?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Frank. “In the same connection, I have a very
pleasing announcement to make to you. I have located your own satchel
and expect it will be in your hands safe and sound again within the
next twenty-four hours.”