III

For two days it had been raining, heavy straight rain. From my window at

Galway's I could see the fields round the village full of pools and

zigzags of water as if they'd been covered with a shiny gray veil that

was suddenly pulled off and had caught in the stubble and been torn to

rags. Saturday morning the weather broke. But the sky was still overcast

and the air had that sort of warm, muggy breathlessness that comes after

rain. That was November the twentieth.

It was eleven o'clock and I was sitting at the switchboard looking out

at the streets, all puddles and ruts, when I got a call from the

Dalzells'--a place near the Junction--for Mapleshade.

Now you needn't get preachy and tell me it's against the rules to

listen--suspension and maybe discharge. I know that better than most.

Didn't the roof over my head and the food in my mouth depend on me doing

my work according to orders? But the fact is that at this time I was

keyed up so high I'd got past being cautious. When a call came for

Mapleshade I _listened_, listened hard, with all my ears. What did I

expect to hear? I don't know exactly. It might have been Jack Reddy and

it might have been Sylvia--oh, never mind what it was--just say I was

curious and let it go at that.

So I lifted up the cam and took in the conversation.

It was a woman's voice--Mrs. Dalzell's, I knew it well--and Dr.

Fowler's. Hers was trembly and excited:

"Oh, Dr. Fowler, is that you? It's Mrs. Dalzell, yes, near the Junction.

My husband's very sick. We've had Dr. Graham and he says it's

appendicitis and there ought to be an operation--now, as soon as

possible. _Do_ you hear me?"

Then Dr. Fowler, very calm and polite:

"Perfectly, madam."

"Oh, I'm so glad--I've been so _terribly_ worried. It's so unexpected.

Mr. Dalzell's never had so much as a _cramp_ before and now----"

"Just wait a minute, Mrs. Dalzell," came the Doctor. "Let me understand.

Graham recommends an operation, you say?"

"Yes, Dr. Fowler, as soon as possible; something awful may happen if

it's not done. And Dr. Graham suggested you if you'd be so kind. I know

it's a favor but I _must_ have the best for my husband. _Won't_ you

come? Please, to oblige me."

Dr. Fowler asked some questions which I needn't put down and said he'd

come and if necessary operate. Then they talked about the best way for

him to get there, the Doctor wanting to know if the main line to the

Junction wouldn't be the quickest. But Mrs. Dalzell said she'd been

consulting the time tables and there'd be no train from Longwood to the

Junction before two and if he wouldn't mind and would come in his auto

by the Firehill Road he'd get there several hours sooner. He agreed to

that and it wasn't fifteen minutes after he'd hung up that I saw him

swing past my window in his car, driving himself.

Later on in the afternoon I got another call from the Dalzells' for

Mapleshade and heard the Doctor tell Mrs. Fowler that the operation had

been a serious one and that he would stay there for the night and

probably all the next day.

Before that second call, about two hours after the first one, there came

another message for Mapleshade that before a week was out was in most

every paper in the country and that lifted me right into the middle of

the Hesketh mystery.

It was near one o'clock, an hour when work's slack round Longwood,

everybody being either at their dinner or getting ready for it. The call

was from a public pay station and was in a man's voice--a voice I didn't

know, but that, because of my curiosity, I listened to as sharp as if it

was my lover's asking me to marry him.

The man wanted to see Miss Sylvia and, after a short wait, I heard her

answer, very gay and cordial and evidently knowing him at once without

any questions. If she'd said one word to show who he was things

afterward would have been very different, but there wasn't a single

phrase that you could identify him by--all anyone could have caught was

that they seemed to know each other very well.

He began by telling her it was a long time since he'd seen her and

wanting to know if she'd come to town on Monday and take lunch with him

at Sherry's and afterward go to a concert.

"Monday," she said very slow and soft, "the day after to-morrow? No, I

can't make any engagement for Monday."

"Why not?" he asked.

She didn't answer right off and when she did, though her voice was so

sweet, there was something sly and secret about it.

"I've something else to do."

"Can't you postpone it?"

She laughed at that, a little soft laugh that came bubbling through her

words:

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Must be something very interesting."

"Um--maybe so."

"You're very mysterious--can't I be told what it is?"

"Why should you be told?"

That riled him, I could hear it in his voice.

"As a friend, or if I don't come under that head, as a fellow who's got

the frosty mit and wants to know why."

"I don't think that's any reason. I have no engagement with you and I

have with--someone else."

"Just tell me one thing--is it a man or a woman?"

She began to laugh again, and if I'd been the man at the other end of

the wire that laugh would have made me wild.

"Which do you think?" she asked.

"I don't think, I _know_," and _I_ knew that he was mad.

"Well, if you know," she said as sweet as pie, "I needn't tell you any

more. I'll say good-bye."

"No," he shouted, "don't hang up--wait. What do you want to torment me

for?" Then he got sort of coaxing, "It isn't kind to treat a fellow this

way. Can't you tell me who it is?"

"No, that's a secret. You can't know a thing till I choose to tell you

and I don't choose now."

"If I come over Sunday afternoon will you see me?"

"What time?"

"Any time you say--I'm your humble slave, as you know."

"I'm going out about seven."

"Where?"

"That's another secret."

I think a child listening to that conversation would have seen he was

getting madder every minute and yet he was so afraid she'd cut him off

that he had to keep it under and talk pleasant.

"Look here," he said, "I've something I want to say to you awfully. If I

run over in my car and get there round six-thirty, can you see me for a

few minutes?"

She didn't answer at once. Then she said slow as if she was undecided:

"Not at the house."

"I didn't mean at the house. Say in Maple Lane, by the gate. I won't

keep you more than five or ten minutes."

"Six-thirty's rather late."

"Well, any time you say."

"Can't you be there exactly at six-fifteen?"

"If that's a condition."

"It is. If you're late you won't find me. I'll be gone"--she began to

laugh again--"taking my secret with me."

"I'll be there on the dot."

"Very well, then, you can come--at the gate just as the clock marks one

quarter after six. And, maybe, if you're good, I'll tell you the secret.

Good-bye until then--try not to be too curious. It's a bad habit and

I've seen signs of it in you lately. Good-bye."

Before he could say another word she'd disconnected.

I leaned back in my chair thinking it over. What was she up to? What was

the secret? And who was the man? "Run over in his car"--that looked like

someone from one of the big estates. How many of them _had_ she buzzing

round her?

And then, for all I was so downhearted, I couldn't help smiling to think

of those two supposing they were talking so secluded and an East Side

tenement girl taking it all in. Little did I guess then that me breaking

the rules that way, instead of destroying me was going to----But that

doesn't come in here.

And now I come to Sunday the twenty-first, a date I'll never forget.

It seemed to me afterward that Nature knew of the tragedy and prepared

for it. The weather was duller and grayer than it had been on Saturday,

not a breath of air stirring and the sky all mottled over with clouds,

dark and heavy looking. A full moon was due and as I went to the

Exchange I thought of the sweethearts that had dates to walk out in the

moonlight and how disappointed they'd be.

Things weren't cheerful at the Exchange either. I found Minnie Trail,

the night operator, as white as a ghost, saying she felt as if one of

her sick headaches was coming on and if it did would I stay on over

time? I knew those headaches--they ran along sometimes till eight or

nine. I told her to go right home to bed and I'd hold the fort till she

was able to relieve me. We often did turns like that, one for the other.

It's one of the advantages of being in a small country office--no one

picks on you for acting human.

About ten I had a call from Anne Hennessey. "Have you got anything on

for this evening, Molly?"

"I have not. This is Longwood, not gay Paree."

"Then I'll come round to Galways, about seven and we'll go to the Gilt

Edge for supper. I want to talk to you."

The Gilt Edge Lunch was where I took my meals, a nice clean little joint

close to the office. But I didn't know when I'd get my supper that

night, so I called back:

"That's all right, sister, but come to the Exchange. Minnie's head's on

the blink and I'll stay on here late. Anything up?"

"Yes. I don't want to talk about it over the wire. There's been another

row here--yesterday morning. It's horrible; I can't stand it. I'll tell

you more this evening. So long."

I put my elbows on the table and sat forward thinking. If you'd asked me

a year ago what I wanted most in the world I'd have said money. But I'd

learnt considerable since then. "Money don't do it," I said to myself.

"Look at the Fowlers with their jewels and their millions scrapping till

even the housekeeper on a fancy salary with a private bath can't stand

it."

And there came up in my mind the memory of the East Side tenement where

I was raised. I thought of my poor father, most killed with work, and my

mother eking things out, doing housecleaning and never a hard word to

each other or to me.

The night settled down early, black, dark and very still. At seven Anne

Hennessey came in and sat down by the radiator, which was making queer

noises with the heat coming up. Supper time's like dinner--few calls--so

I turned round in my chair, ready for a good talk, and asked about the

trouble at Mapleshade.

"Oh, it was another quarrel yesterday morning at breakfast and with

Harper, the butler, hearing every word. He said it was the worst they'd

ever had. He's a self-respecting, high-class servant and was shocked."

"Sylvia and the Doctor again?"

"Yes, and poor Mrs. Fowler crying behind the coffee pot."

"The same old subject?"

"Oh, of course. It's young Reddy this time. Sylvia's been out a good

deal this autumn in her car; several times she's been gone nearly the

whole day. When the Doctor questioned her she'd either be evasive or

sulky. On Friday someone told him they'd seen her far up on the turnpike

with Jack Reddy in his racer."