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BEQUEST OF
Orma Fitch Butler, Ph.D., *07
PROFESSOH OF LATIX
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STRICTLY PRIVATE


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THERESE
BENSON, puMi.
Author of
"The Unknown Daughter," etc.
Qleu, QjorG
DODD • MEAD & COMPANY
1931
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Copyright, 1981
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.
ALL BIGHTS RESERVED
NO PAST OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED IK ANY FORM
WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE PUBLISHES
Published January, 1931
Second printing January, 1931
Third printing February, 1931
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC.. BINGHAMTON, N. Y.


l&.y.tbutCu-
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CONTENTS
PAQl
Prelude 1
CHAPTIB
I Miss Muffet Comes 5
II Miss Muffet Stats 17
III Miss Muffet Goes 29
IV The Automobile 48
V Miss Muffet Is Off Again .... 62
VI Cross Purposes 77
VII A Bird in the Hand 94
VIII Parkins Finds a New Job 112
IX As Others See Us 127
X Another Client 138
XI Cold Comfort 152
XII A Friend in Need 169
XIII Another Client 187
XIV Shaken Faith 200
XV An Old "Personal" 218
XVI A Satisfactory Message ..... 235
XVII The Invaluable Parkins 252





PRELUDE
Petebwill Parkins (named by a calculating par-
ent after two well-to-do uncles, neither of whom
appreciated the compliment), finding his busi-
ness in a temporary slump, was looking through
a collection of newspaper clippings. Most of
these were of recent date, but a few were old, as
their yellowed paper testified.
"Burns tied that case up, and the city dicks
acshully got that guy—" He tore up two strips
of paper, letting the scraps sift into a waste
basket ornamented with a luxuriant pink satin
bow, the gift of a grateful, if humble client; for
he was a tidy man. "Might as well throw the lot
away. There's not a hundred bucks in the whole
of 'em."
He held his hand to read a small paragraph
evidently cut from a Lost and Found column.
$500 REWARD—For the return unharmed of a
series of soft yellow metal disks like half-inch button
tops. If strung together, these would present an ap-
pearance of great solidity but they weigh no more than
a handful of autumn leaves. Communicate with Lee,
Masterson and Co., 025 Broadway, New York City.
[1]


PRELUDE
"An', if I remember right, there was another
of 'em.'' He rummaged through the pile of pa-
pers on the table until he found what he sought.
$1000 REWARD
Will be paid for the immediate return of 71 rounded
pierced disks of virgin gold, abstracted, possibly
through a misunderstanding, from a famous collec-
tion. Handle carefully and return to Lee, Masterson
and Co., 025 Broadway, New York City.
"'Handle carefully,' " Parkins mused, "an'
'they weigh no more than a handful of autumn
leaves.' What was he so scared about? No one
was goin' to melt them down for what was in
'em. That business always promised to be kind
of interestin', an' I wasted a lot of time over it
off and on—but they must 'a' got the things back
long ago. Le' me see, I was busy about then on
that poison pen case where Mrs. Allison was
writin' her husband rotten lies about herself to
keep him attentive an' interested in her—an'
that was along about 1926 or 7."
He settled back in his chair and gave himself
up to rumination, chewing the cud of his mem-
ories, which led him far from the two little para-
graphs.
He returned to them at last only to tear them
[2]


PBELUDE
in halves and add them to the pile of discarded
scraps in the basket.
"Wonder why the cases you don't take up se-
rious always seem as if they must be more inter-
estin' than those you do? 'T any rate, it's too
late now to do anything about this Lee, Master-
son reward, though I'd kind o' like to see what
those little gold buttons look like, an' I sure
would be interested in knowin' why anybody was
offerin' a grand for their return—but I s'pose
I never will."
A brisk rap on the door prevented a further
investigation of his archives. He bundled away
his clippings and scrapbooks, which latter were
concerned solely with his own investigations,
and went to open the door.
The case that was then presented to his notice
was destined to contain surprises even for one
of Mr. Parkins's phlegmatic disposition.
[3]





CHAPTER I Miss Muffet Comes
A labge automobile, driven at a rate far in ex-
cess of the legal limit, swept around the curve of
the driveway leading up to the residence of
Mrs. Redmond Redfield. It rushed along silently,
with no tooting of the horn to announce its
approach, and stopped suddenly. In fact, so
abruptly did it come to rest that it appeared as
if the two occupants of the tonneau were shot out
of the machine. The taller one quickly righted
herself and set the smaller on her feet.
"Now, Miss Muffet," she said briskly, "you
know what to do. Don't be afraid, and remember
all I told you."
The little girl nodded her head wisely and
started to climb the steps of the terrace. Thus
she turned her back on the automobile, so that
the surprising rapidity with which her late com-
panion stepped back into the car and the haste
of the chauffeur to be off were lost on her. If
these mysterious strangers had entered the place
rapidly they went out on the very wings of speed.
It seems a pity that no one saw them since they
had made careful preparations in expectation
of observation. The machine was coated with
[5]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
mud until its very color was doubtful, and the
license number was missing. True, the last fact
was not immediately noticeable as the board in
the rear, which examination would have proved
to be blank, was heavily bespattered. The woman
passenger was swathed in more than the tradi-
tional seven veils, while the chauffeur was com-
pletely hidden in a shaggy fur coat, its collar
turned up till it met his cap at the back of his
head. He wore goggles, an unusual sight on the
roads nowadays, and the visible portions of his
face and nose were criss-crossed with strips of
adhesive plaster.
But there were no onlookers, and the two de-
parted with an unostentatious celerity equalling
their advent. In an incredibly short time they
were not only out of the gate of Mrs. Redmond
Redfield's extensive grounds but out of sight as
well.
If it was a pity that no one saw them, it was
more than a pity that there was no one to enjoy
Miss Muffet's evolutions. She was such a mite
of a thing and her responsibilities were so grave.
She surveyed the steps before her dubiously,
then summoning her courage, she placed a little
bundle she carried as high up as she could reach
and followed slowly, attacking each step with
the same foot. Next came the doorbell and Miss
[6]


MISS MUFFET COMES
Muffet's resources were severely tested, for
when she had been taught what to do, the little,
white buttony thing called a bell had been reach-
able if you put down your bundle and stood on
tiptoe. Here, alas, the mittened fingers fell sev-
eral inches short. This was so unexpected and
baffling that she looked back for instructions.
The automobile was gone. Miss Muffet's under-
lip began to quiver and tears were very near the
surface. She gazed about her inquiringly and
her glance chanced to light on a small stool.
She was a lady of resource in an instant, and
it certainly was a thousand pities that no one
saw her—a loving mother perhaps—but then
Miss Muffet had no loving mother. Carefully
depositing her bundle exactly in the middle of
the large doorway, she descended upon the
stool, dragged it across the portico and a minute
later pressed the button. Next, with elaborate
precaution and a fine display of that portion of
a lady's attire usually judiciously concealed, she
scrambled down backward from her haughty
eminence. She had just time to resume her
dignity before the door opened, disclosing a
man in livery.
Now that the crucial moment had arrived,
Miss Muffet's remembrance of her instructions
became a trifle hazy. However, the responsibil-
[7]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
ity of the bundle was heavy and she looked from
the man to it.
"Dere," she said, pointing, "dose is my pa-
jamas. I need 'em in my bed-'oom when I do to
s 'eep.''
The butler stared in amused amazement. To
judge from her clothes, she was the child of
wealthy parents, and he stepped out on the
portico expecting to find an explanatory nurse-
maid. Failing this, he leaned down and asked in
his most conciliatory manner: "And what do
you want, little lady?"
"I want a wed apple and two cookies," she
informed him with perfect lucidity.
"But who would you like to see?" persisted
the man.
This was a cue Miss Muffet recognized.
"I yike to see Mitted Wedmon' Wedfield,"
she answered complacently.
With a final puzzled look about to make cer-
tain that the child was really alone, the butler
picked up the bundle and held out his hand.
In the kitchen regions an admiring group of
white-capped females flocked around them, flut-
tering with excitement. This was the sort of
audience Miss Muffet liked and she beamed
upon it.
"
[8]


MISS MUFFET COMES
"Two wed apples and fwee cookies!" she an-
nounced as Mrs. Cook released her from a moth-
erly embrace.
"And you shall have 'em, darlin'!" exclaimed
Mrs. Cook rapturously. "But wherever did she
come from, Thomas?" she added.
"'T is to consult ye I fetched her here,"
Thomas replied. "Ye all heard the bell," he
went on. "Well, I went to the door and there
was this scrap of a thing all alone."
"All alone?" exclaimed the second Miss
Chambermaid incredulously.
"All alone," Thomas asserted. "There
wasn't hide nor hair of another body in sight.
Nothin' but the child and her bit of a bundle.
And says she: 'It's me pajamas,' pointin' to
it, (which I hope the ladies will excuse me men-
tionin') 'And who do ye want to see?' says I.
'Mrs. Redmond Redfield,' says she—"
"The poor precious!" chorused both Miss
Chambermaids.
"Well, I never!" said Mrs. Cook.
Even the most skilful questioning failed to
extract anything further from the child than
that her name was Miss Muff et and that she had
come to live with Mrs. Redfield. At the end of a
fruitless examination of her bundle the servants
looked at each other blankly.
[9]


STBICTLY PRIVATE
"It's a plant!" said Thomas oracularly.
"Now what do you mean by that?" demanded
Mrs. Cook with indignation.
"I mean," he explained, "some people's
fixin' up a job on the Madam. They know about
her money and how she has no one in particular
to leave it to now Mr. Harry's gone, so they
plant this child on her. But there's them as'11
be fooled if they take the Madam for an easy
mark. Most like she'll send it to the poorhouse."
"For shame, Thomas," cried Mrs. Cook, and
a cloud of white caps descended upon the
munching baby.
"Why, anyone but a man could see that she's
a little lady!"
"Look at her clothes. Handmade every stitch.
A plant, indeed!''
"And pretty as a picture. She's not the kind
you'd find in the poorhouse."
"Well," said Thomas, when their indigna-
tion had vented itself, "what are we goin' to do
about it?"
There followed a period of anxious discussion
leading nowhere, until at last Mrs. Cook ended
the matter.
"The poor lamb's got to go up to her," she
said feelingly.
[10]


MISS MUFFET COMES
"But who's to take her?" asked the serving-
maids in chorus.
Mrs. Cook hesitated to name the victim. At
last she put her hands on her hips and sur-
veyed the others one by one.
"We'll all go up," she announced almost
breathlessly. "Yes, we'll all go up, and—and
send the child in by herself."
Even Mrs. Cook's bravery had its limits.
Upstairs in the sunny morning-room Mrs.
Redmond Redfield and her sister-in-law con-
fronted each other in a state of armed neutral-
ity. They were wholly uncongenial but before
the world they preserved the appearance of in-
timacy their relationship demanded. Mrs. Gil-
bert was the wife of the younger brother yet
her attitude was one of latent superiority. Was
she not the mother of six model children? The
oldest a boy, the next a girl and so on in regular
order. ("Alternate layers of bread and jam,"
Mrs. Redmond Redfield was wont to call them.)
Mrs. Gilbert with her model home, model
husband and model family felt a patronizing
pity for her childless and widowed sister-in-
law and a contempt for her opinion on all sub-
jects. She herself was an active person, given
[11]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
to clubs and societies of many sorts and culti-
vating her intellect assiduously along the lines
most popular at the moment. Naturally these
activities bred a contempt for the conservative
views of her "husband's brother's wife," as
she occasionally designated Mrs. Redfield. But
she always kept in mind the fact that, even with
a very considerable fortune, division by six
results in inadequate portions; while Mrs. Red-
field was an exceedingly rich woman and, since
her difference with Harry Waldron, the son of
a dead sister of the Redfields who had been vir-
tually adopted by her late husband, the prospect
that something substantial would eventually be
done for the model six had assumed alluring
proportions.
On Mrs. Redfield's part there was an equal
antagonism with no counterbalancing reasons
for conciliation; so any interruption was a re-
lief, and both women turned hopefully in re-
sponse to a gentle knock.
The door opened softly and a rotund little
figure wandered in.
"I tame to see Mitted Wedmon' Wedfield,"
Miss Muffet announced genially. She still
clutched a red apple, from which she had re-
fused to be separated, but all traces of cookies
had been painstakingly removed and she looked
[12]


MISS MUFFET COMES
lovable enough to win any save the stoniest of
hearts. Mrs. Redfield bent and held out a hand
invitingly. Immediately she was treated to sev-
eral moist kisses from the reddest mouth in the
world.
"Lif' me up!" said Miss Muffet imperiously,
and Mrs. Redfield found herself holding in her
lap a soft and blooming bit of humanity whom
she had no recollection of ever having seen be-
fore and—she rather liked the sensation.
"What a pity she has red hair," Mrs. Gilbert
smiled acidly upon the tableau. "With hair
like Hermione's she might have been almost
pretty."
"Do you call it red?" Mrs. Redfield asked
with a hint of championship in her voice even at
that early date.'' I should say it was pure gold.''
"Who is she?" Mrs. Gilbert inquired, wisely
ignoring the challenge.
"I haven't an idea."
And Mrs. Redfield questioned the little girl
gently, to gain no more information than they
had below stairs. Her name was Miss Muffet.
Asked how she came there she declared that she
had walked. Riding in an automobile was so
much an everyday experience that it was for-
gotten; but the climb up the terrace, being a
new adventure, was still a vivid memory.
[13]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
Mrs. Gilbert Redfield meanwhile sat stiffly in
in her chair and sniffed.
"Give her to me, Caroline," she said at last
with a tolerant smile. "I'll find out who she is
in a jiffy. She must be three if not more. It's
absurd to believe that a child of that age doesn't
know her own name. She's just showing off be-
cause you make such a fuss over her. Beside,
you're so unused to children she's probably
afraid of you."
Mrs. Redfield frowned ever so slightly. As
usual her sister-in-law had rubbed her the wrong
way.
"The child does not seem what could be called
terrified," she returned dryly, drawing Miss
Muffet a little closer.
Something in her attitude irritated Mrs. Gil-
bert in her turn.
"At least you can ring for a servant and put
an end to this folly," she suggested caustically.
"They must know downstairs where she came
from. Children in handmade French dresses
with gold collars around their necks don't de-
scend from the clouds."
Her sister-in-law was giving more attention
to this little red-haired stranger than she had
ever bestowed upon the whole six of the Gilbert
Redfield olive branches. Perhaps this fact made
[14]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
That evening in the privacy of their own
room, Mrs. Gilbert told her husband of the com-
ing of Miss Muffet. "And do you know," she
concluded angrily, "Caroline actually opened
the front door for me herself. Think of it! She
never did such a thing in her life before, and
I feel convinced that she wished to prevent my
inquiring who that child was. As if I would
stoop to pumping the servants!"
Mr. Gilbert Redfield, being a model husband,
shrugged his shoulders sympathetically and
said nothing.
"
[16]


CHAPTER II Miss Muffet Stays
A mixtuee of curiosity and anxiety brought
Mrs. Gilbert back to her sister-in-law's house
as early as possible the following day. She was
distinctly uneasy about that child; why, she
could hardly have explained except that it was
of a type to attract Caroline, with its red hair
and its impudent ways. At all events she wished
to make sure it was not to be a stumblingblock
in the path of the model six; for it had some-
times occurred to her that Mrs. Redfield took
particular pleasure in thwarting plans calcu-
lated to bring her nieces and nephews into closer
relations with their childless aunt.
Thomas opened the door, displaying his usual
expressionless countenance in a fine light. Mrs.
Gilbert made it a point to be ostentatiously ami-
able to servants, who hated her for the hollow-
ness of the pretension.
"Good morning, Thomas," she said unctu-
ously, expecting him to rejoice at her condescen-
sion. "Where is Mrs. Redfield?"
"At the luncheon table, madam," the man re-
plied without enthusiasm.
"I suppose the little girl got home safely?"
[17]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
"Yes, madam. She is quite safe," Thomas
replied, pretending to misunderstand.
"No, no. That's not what I asked," said Mrs.
Gilbert testily. "I wish to know if she reached
home safely."
"Where is her home, ma'am?" the butler
inquired with deceptive idiocy.
"I'm sure I have no idea." As she swept be-
fore him into the breakfast-room little of Mrs.
Gilbert's urbanity remained. It actually looked
as if Thomas wished to avoid answering a per-
fectly simple question
And Thomas's remark to the first Miss
Chambermaid was at least illuminating as to his
point of view.
"The old cat! Thinkin' to pump me as has
waited on a door since I was knee-high to the
knocker. I'm hopin' the Madam will be keepin'
the child an' send them as is only after her
money to the right about."
The first Miss Chambermaid beamed upon
him.
"Now that's like your good heart, Thomas,"
she said with real enthusiasm.
The scene that met her eyes as Mrs. Gilbert
entered the breakfast room was calculated not
only to shock her sensibilities, but to quicken all
-
[18]


MISS MUFFET STAYS
the vague suspicions the situation suggested.
Miss Muffet was getting through her luncheon
by an agreeable process of elimination. Those
things which contained plenty of cream or sugar
she ate. Anything less promising she pressed
upon Mrs. Redfield with the most enchanting
and disinterested of smiles.
The visitor stood for a moment aghast, then
advancing into the room, she seated herself
militantly. Here was a situation that must be
"seen to," and if there was one person in the
world more capable than another of "seeing to
things" Mrs. Gilbert felt no doubt as to who
it was. Mrs. Redfield acknowledged her presence
with a pleasant if preoccupied nod. She read her
superior sister-in-law like an open book, though
she rarely found the reading entertaining. To-
day it was otherwise. She felt an almost youth-
ful light-heartedness that she rightly attributed
to the presence of the little stranger; and Mrs.
Gilbert's evident discomfiture amused her so
much that she decided to prolong the pleasure.
"You need hardly have troubled to sit down,
Rachel, if you've had your lunch," she sug-
gested. "I think Miss Muffet has finished, and
we can go into the library. Wash your mouth,
pettikins, and come along."
"And I'll wash oor mouth and oor paddies
[19]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
and dive oo a pempermint 'tause oo was sut a
dood dirl."
Mrs. Redfield submitted gravely to these min-
istrations, maliciously conscious of their devas-
tating effect on Mrs. Gilbert, whose face be-
trayed her horrified disapproval.
Lifted down from the table, the baby started
on a brisk trot for the library, making a bee
line for the place where the peppermints were
stored and only too surely revealing past in-
dulgences. The two women followed in silence.
Mrs. Gilbert was appalled but she found an un-
expected difficulty in beginning her protest. She
resented her sister-in-law's attitude of aloof-
ness. It required an effort to break in on it. Mrs.
Redfield's silence, however, forced the initiative
upon her.
"I've been very uneasy about you all night,
Caroline," she began.
Mrs. Redfield glanced at her with a smile of
comprehension.
"Uneasy about me?"
"Yes," Mrs. Gilbert, fairly launched at last,
forced herself to go on. "Unused to children as
you are, I felt what a strange predicament you
must be in with a strange baby left on your
hands. I blamed myself for not taking her with
me last evening. She would have been suitably
X
[20]


MISS MUFFET STAYS
cared for in my nursery. It's extremely pre-
sumptuous of her parents and thoughtless as
well. By the way, who are they? Her red hair
suggests one of the Arnold Abbots' five."
"I thought I told you yesterday that I didn't
know who she was," Mrs. Redfield answered
calmly.
"So you did, my dear Caroline; but this is
today. Surely you know by this time?"
Mrs. Redfield shook her head.
"No, I'm as ignorant as ever," she returned,
her indifference only too apparent.
"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Gilbert. "You
mean to say there have been no explanations—
nothing?"
"Nothing," echoed Mrs. Redfield.
"But the servants—surely a little judicious
inquiry among them would elicit all the necessary
information and you could have packed the child
off."
"Poor little mite, whatever is wrong is cer-
tainly not her fault." Mrs. Redfield looked down
at Miss Muffet playing contentedly on the floor.
"What makes you so sure I want to pack her
off?"
"Now, Caroline, don't talk nonsense," pro-
tested Mrs. Gilbert. The situation was more
critical than she had anticipated and she was
[21]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
a little too eager in her desire to put an end to
it: "The first thing you must do is to find out
whose baby it is. The next is to get rid of it
promptly. Who would want the child of strang-
ers imposed upon her in this way?"
It is true that Mrs. Redfield had been think-
ing very much the same thing herself during
the moments when she was not influenced by
the glamour cast by two fat arms, two velvety
cheeks and a most innocent impudence; but, on
principle, she never agreed with her sister-in-
law.
"Perhaps if she were unattractive I might
feel as you do, Rachel," she rejoined, with the
intention of being annoying; "as it is, I am
thankful to be supplied with such a charming
plaything."
'' 'Plaything!' "Mrs. Gilbert repeated aghast.
"Caroline, I am surprised at you. This being,
no matter how humble and degraded her origin,
has an immortal soul and must not be classed
as a plaything."
"Oh, come, Rachel," said Mrs. Redfield
easily, "Miss Muffet's immortal soul isn't going
to trouble her for some years yet; and, until it
does, I don't propose to worry myself about it."
"Do you mean me to infer, Caroline, that
V
[22]


MISS MUFFET STAYS
you, of all people, mean to accept this child?
This waif from the gutter, this—"
Mrs. Redfield interrupted laughing:
"Isn't that a little strong, Rachel? You said
yesterday, if you remember, that children in
handmade French dresses with gold collars
about their necks don't come from nowhere;
and I'm inclined to agree with you. Everything
about this baby indicates gentle birth."
"Was there nothing by which she could be
identified? No note, no explanation?" Mrs.
Gilbert began her inquiry anew.
"There was not a mark of any kind," Mrs.
Redfield replied. "The clothes she brought in
her funny little bundle are all fine, but evidently
in daily use. The gold collar is the only thing
that could possibly give a hint as to who she is,
and it is a curious affair. I've never seen any-
thing at all like it. Come here, darling, to Auntie
Carol and show her your pretty necklace."
Miss Muffet obeyed promptly and the two
women examined the bit of jewelry with care.
It was made up of rounded disks of gold, prim-
itive in workmanship yet showing no hammer
or tool marks and wholly different from any
ornament either of them had ever seen. It was
so long that in encircling the child's neck, the
[23]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
ends, finished with conventionalized flowers,
overlapped by an inch or more.
Mrs. Redfield, willing at last to end the mys-
tery in so far as lay in her power, briefly told the
story of the baby's coming.
"Thomas says there wasn't a soul in sight,
but he thinks he heard an automobile," she
ended.
"Automobiles are everywhere. It would have
been stranger if he had not heard one. That
tells us nothing," Mrs. Gilbert grunted after a
moment's thought. "It strikes me that such
careful concealment implies a necessity for it.
In the name of the family, I must insist that
you do not permit yourself toT)e victimized."
Previously she had made some impression,
unwilling as Mrs. Redfield would have been to
acknowledge it. It would have been better now
for her cause if Mrs. Gilbert had spoken less
imperatively.
"What would you suggest my doing?" Her
sister-in-law inquired with deceptive meekness.
"Give the child to me," Mrs. Gilbert hastened
to propose, too easily convinced that Caroline
was going to see reason, after all. "I'll place her
in the Bethesda Home. If her parents abandon
her, she will be trained for domestic service.
They have a splendid system there, the children
^
[24]


MISS MTJFFET STAYS
are taught housework from their earliest youth.
(We find girls are safer in homes than in fac-
tory work, where they soon get insolent and in-
dependent.)"
"The poor little mites!" Mrs. Redfield ex-
claimed. "I suppose they would cut Miss Muf-
fet's beautiful curls and dress her in blue cal-
ico? No! The Bethesda Home won't do. You
must suggest something better than that."
"Then I'll keep her until I find a suitable
family to adopt her. There are always people
looking for promising children, and she seems
healthy enough." /
"Why not leave her here until such a family
is found?"
This proposal was far from welcome. Mrs.
Gilbert felt it imperative to get Miss Muffet out
of that house at once.
"My dear Caroline, I'm sure you can't want
to be bothered with her. She couldn't fail to be
a perpetual source of annoyance. Have her things
bundled up and I'll take her away. You'd like
to go with me, wouldn't you, baby?" she added
putting as much persuasion into her words as
she could muster.
With great deliberation Miss Muffet thrust
aside the proffered hand and threw her arms
around Mrs. Redfield.
r
[25]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
"Won't do wif oo. Tay wif Auntie Tawol.
Love Auntie Tawol."
Mrs. Gilbert colored with annoyance and fool-
ishly gave rein to her temper.
"You'll do exactly what you're told, miss; or
you'll be taught better in my house," she
threatened.
"Not doin' to oor house," Miss Muffet re-
joined composedly. "Tay wif Auntie Tawol.
P'ease, Auntie?" and she lifted a coaxing
mouth, which was promptly kissed.
"I think she's come to stay, Rachel," said
Mrs. Redfield deliberately.
"Caroline, what nonsense are you talking?"
exclaimed Mrs. Gilbert. "You know that the
only thing for you to do is to send her away
at once."
"Oh, no," said Mrs. Redfield gently. "Not the
only thing. The wisest thing, perhaps. But in
my experience only the stodgy, uninteresting
people do the wisest thing. No, I shan't give
her up until I have to. Every word you've said
has made it clearer that the thing for me to do
is to keep her as long as I can. She needs me—
and I begin to think I need her."
"Caroline, for heaven's sake don't be quix-
otic," Mrs. Gilbert protested. "If you want
companionship, Gilbert and I are ready to share
[26]


MISS MUPPBT STAYS
our children with you. I beg you to rid yourself
of this nameless waif. How will you bear it
when her dissolute parents come here and have
rows on your front lawn? Think of the child's
inherited degeneracy and reconsider before it
is too late."
'' You rather pile up the horrors, Rachel, "Mrs.
Redfield interrupted, quite unmoved by the
other's arguments. "As for your children," she
went on, "their Aunt Caroline is too old-fash-
ioned and would spoil them. I'll keep Miss Muf-
fet. She and I get on, and I can indulge her to
my heart's content without fear of criticism."
Mrs. Redmond Redfield had made her deci-
sion and her sister-in-law knew the futility of
trying to alter it. Still she made a despairing
effort.
"You can't be going to allow yourself to be
victimized. My dear, don't let the shallow at-
tractions of this red-headed foundling overcome
your good sense. How can you bring yourself
to adopt a child without a name? Have you no
self-respect, Caroline?"
This exhausted Mrs. Redfield's patience. Al-
ready she had borne more from Mrs. Gilbert
than she was accustomed to put up with from
anyone. She rose to her feet with the intention
of elosing the interview.
[27]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
-vr
"I've not said a word about adoption, Eachel;
but, since you suggest it, if the child needs a
name she shall have mine. She came to me on
the fourteenth of February. I don't know who
sent her—still, mystery is usual in such cases.
It pleases me to fancy she's a valentine—and
whoever heard of returning a valentine?"
With a gesture of despair Mrs. Gilbert Red-
field departed.
[28]


CHAPTER III Miss Muffet Goes
One morning some six months later Thomas
was brushing up the porch. Rhoda, who was the
first Miss Chambermaid, was shaking a duster
over the rail. It was astonishing how much shak-
ing that duster needed when Thomas was at
work outside.
Through the open door came a round little
person disconsolately trailing a white sun-hat
by one string. Seeing Rhoda her view of the
situation grew more cheerful.
'' Oh, Whoda!'' she exclaimed, embracing the
maid around her knees. "Auntie Tawol has done
to town and vere's no one to dwess me in my
hat."
"And what's happened to your fine nurse,
dear?" Rhoda inquired, with a shade of ani-
mosity in her voice. She rather suspected
Thomas of a weakness in that direction. He was
a man given to gallantries.
"S'e's up in ve nursewy and when I ask her
to fits it, s'e only talks Fwench." Miss Muffet
explained mournfully.
'' Aye, that's the way with 'em!'' cried Ehoda
[29]


STRICTLY PEIVATE
scornfully. "Her, that's got the easiest place
in the house, is always puttin' her work off on
them as has enough of their own. And what was
it she said to you in her queer language?"
Rhoda ended, sitting down on the terrace steps
and drawing the child toward her.
"S'e said: 'My Dod, my Dod, tan't oo see I'm
busy?' " replied Miss Muffet, translating lit-
erally.
"Now what do you think of that?" Rhoda,
honestly shocked, demanded of Thomas. "For
all her high and mighty airs, swearin' at the
child like that! I never did hold with them for-
eigners as nurses for white children." Then,
remembering the proverbial Little Pitchers, she
brought the conversation back to Miss Muffet
and her immediate needs.
"And what will you give Rhoda if she ties
your hat on pretty?"
The small lady considered this question of
reward seriously.
"My shina doll I bwoke ve head off of," she
announced at length.
"Goodness me!" exclaimed Rhoda. "What
would I be doin' with a doll with a broken head?
I don't want it, me dear."
"Neiver do I," Miss Muffet agreed sweetly.
"You'll have to think of something better
^
[30]


MISS MUFFET GOES
than that if you want me to tie your hat," said
Ehoda, dangling it enticingly.
"Well ven," Miss Muffet surrendered, "I'll
dive oo a tiss."
"And now what are you going to do till Elise
comes for you?'' Rhoda asked, after the bow had
been set effectively on one side of the soft chin
and the reward taken.
"I'm doin' to p'ay wif F'uffy Wuffles." This
was a little sable colored Pomeranian Colonel
Cameron had given her.
"But you'll not go out of the gate. Promise
your Ehoda that."
Miss Muffet promised earnestly, and, calling
to the dog, who appeared, gaping and display-
ing a surprising length of pink tongue, she de-
scended the steps with much circumspection. On
the grass, she turned and ran back, calling,
"Whoda!"
"What is it, dear?" asked that willing slave,
going down to her. Miss Muffet put up her arms
as the girl stopped.
"Vis isn't for tying my hat. I want to tiss oo
'tause oo 're so dood to me.'' A moment more and
she ran off happily.
Rhoda looked after her for an instant, then
went up the steps wiping her eyes.
"Oh, you needn't laugh, Thomas," she said,
[31]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
tossing her head, "the ways of that little thing
goes right to my heart, the lovingest little one,
she is; and when I think of how she was left on
these very steps, like she was so much dirt to
be thrown away, I can't understand what kind
of people the world's made up of!"
"They brought her to the right place,"
Thomas returned philosophically. "The Mad-
am's that wrapped up in her it's a treat to see
'em together. Things is different in this house
nowadays, as ye know, Rhoda. Do ye remember
how scared we was to send her up to the Madam
an' how we stood in the hall, waitin' to hear the
fuss? An' Mrs. Cook bein' that brave until the
time come? 0' course the Madam took a likin'
to the child from the first, there's no doubt of
that; but I'm thinkin' Mrs. Gilbert helped it
on, she was so persistent that she must go—
an' them days the Madam liked no thin' better
than disobligin' somebody, an' Mrs. Gilbert
most of all, small blame to her!"
"You're right when you say things is dif-
ferent, Thomas," Rhoda agreed heartily. "Not
that the Madam's any fonder of Mrs. Gilbert,
but she's kinder—and we can thank the child for
it. It's my belief Mrs. Redfield was just eat'
up with loneliness before the baby came. I know
Cook says she was never cross nor cranky while
[32]


MISS MUFFET GOES
Mr. Redfield was alive, though of course that
was before my time."
Thomas looked out on the lawn, a wide smile
coining over his face as he watched Miss Muffet
and the dog racing up and down.
"And a smart little bit of a thing she is, too,"
he said. "Did I ever tell you the turn-up Miss
Valentine had with Mrs. Gilbert at lunch the
other day?"
"Ho," Rhoda assured him with undisguised
interest. "Mrs. Gilbert can't abide the child.
She's always pickin' on her."
"Eight ye are," Thomas assented. "But one
way or the other she mostly gets the worst of
it. The Madam ain't noways meek. This time
Mrs. Gilbert come in just as we was finishin'
lunch an' spies some maple syrup Miss Valen-
tine was eatin' on her bread. Now she's a queer
one about what children eats. Her butler tells
me she's bringin' hers up sci'ntific. They get
so many ounces of this an' so many ounces of
that, which they've got to eat, hungry or no,
till the maid that serves the nursery is fair dis-
tracted. So Mrs. Gilbert can't hardly wait to
say 'good-day' before turnin' on the child.
'Ye're eatin' syrup,' sez she. 'I never give it
to my little girls.' 'I yike it,' says Miss Valen-
tine, quite calm. 'So does Hermione,' Mrs. Gil-
'
[33]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
bert goes on, 'but it's bad for little girls. It
would disagree, with her.' Miss Valentine looks
up at her, serious and polite, like she always
is, an' sez she, 'But if I eats it, it won't give
Hermione a pain in her tummy—' an' she stuffs
her little mouth full."
"And what did the Madam say?" demanded
Rhoda eagerly.
"Nothin'," Thomas grinned, "except to tell
me to give Miss Valentine a little more syrup.
Then she smiled at Mrs. Gilbert an' asked her
how her youngest was gettin' over that bad rash
she had. Trust the Madam for pushin' a point;
an' she enjoyed it, I heard her tellin' the Colonel
at dinner an' they both laughed fit to bust them-
selves."
"I'm glad she got the worst of it. I don't like
Mrs. Gilbert nohow. She's forever puttin' in
her oar about things that isn't none of her busi-
ness, '' Rhoda declared."It's no wonder it makes
the Madam mad. But mercy me! this isn't get-
tin' through my work. Me, that's got a guest
room and its bath to see to before lunch." She
started to go into the house.
"Hold on a bit, Ehoda," said Thomas.
"Ye've real good brains or I wouldn't be speak-
in' of it to you; there's one or two things I've
been meanin' to discuss with ye this long while.''
[34]


MISS MUFFET GOES
"There's small sense, Thomas, in keepin' me
from me work with your blarney—Well, hurry
along then—what is it you want?"
"It's about Mr. Harry. I never made head nor
tail of that. At dinner they was as peaceable as
could be. The Madam was always fond of him
an' couldn't do enough for him; but before we
was anyway near finished our meal downstairs,
there comes a steady ringin' at my bell, an' in
the hall, I found Mr. Harry, as white as a ghost,
an' sez he to me: 'I'll send a man here tomorrow
to pack, Thomas—see to it he takes my things
an' nothin' else. No need to disturb Mrs. Red-
field about it.' He was hurryin' into his overcoat
—an' he beat it out o' the house as if the police
was after him. This house, mind you, that had
been home to him since his mother died ten years
back—an' he's never darkened the door since.
What's become of him I never heard, did ye?"
Rhoda was thoughtful. "Indeed I can't be
sure whether I ever heard anything or no—"
she began slowly. "It sticks in me mind of hear-
in' somebody say: "Harry's been daft about
mines this long while an' maybe this Klondike
business will cure him.' It's all vague-like and
perhaps I imagined it, though I couldn't hardly
have made it up, could I?"
"It sounds main like Mrs. Gilbert," Thomas
'
[35]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
commented. "Well, there's a sayin' that the
servants in a house know all that's goin' on—
and most times they do! But here we are with
two fine mysteries and none of us a bit the
wiser."
"What's your second mystery?" Rhoda
asked.
"The child, o' course. Haven't you ever spec-
erlated about her?"
"Often and often!" exclaimed Rhoda with
enthusiasm.
"Well, and what do you think?" demanded
Thomas, coming nearer and sinking his voice
to a conspiratorial whisper. Now Rhoda did
not wish to disappoint his evident confidence in
her perspicacity, so she wisely contented her-
self with clasping her hands together and look-
ing up at him appealingly as she burst out:
"Oh, Thomas! I know you've guessed it."
Her tone implied profound faith in his supe-
rior intelligence.
"Yes," agreed Thomas, "I may say I have."
Then assuming an oratorical attitude and mark-
ing his points with a blunt forefinger on a thick
palm, he went on: "Did it never strike ye as
strange, the Madam takin' that child in with-
out a murmur? She ain't one to be imposed on,
\
[36]


MISS MUFFET GOES
as I've said before. Now why did she swaller
this, like as if it was a lump o' sugar? I'll tell
ye. Because she knew all along whose child Miss
Valentine was an' was glad to get her."
Rhoda followed everything he said with ab-
sorbing interest, and gazed at him with admir-
ing eyes.
"Whose child is she?" Thomas paused for
effect.
"I know, I know!" Rhoda cried, inspired.
"She's Mr. Harry's, bless her pretty face."
"What?" Thomas was entirely unprepared
for this conclusion. "Mr. Harry's? Why he
wasn't never married."
"I can see it all now as plain as day," Rhoda
went on, scarcely conscious of Thomas's scep-
ticism. "It's like Lady Ermentrude and Sir
Roderick in the picture we saw last week. He
come to his cruel parent (which is Mrs. Red-
field) and sez he, 'I want to marry Miss So-and-
So. She's penniless but fair,' sez he. 'No,' sez
the cruel parent, 'I've decided on some one else
for your hated bride and I'll never give me con-
sent.' 'Then,' sez he, 'I'll be married without
it.' 'And where'11 you get the money?' sez she.
'I'll go to Californy' (or wherever this Klon-
dike is) 'and make me fortune,' sez he—and he
[37]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
That evening Colonel Cameron and Mrs. Red-
field made a final effort to elicit from Rhoda and
Thomas some definite information on the dis-
appearance of Miss Muffet. Again and again
the same questions were repeated and the same
uncertain answers were returned.
Mrs. Redfield paced restlessly up and down
the room. She knew it had crept in to fill an
empty heart, but the loss of the child emphasized
a thousand-fold her love for it and, now that it
was gone, she was wellnigh distracted, controll-
ing her emotion only in the hope of being a
help rather than a hindrance in this inquiry.
Rhoda, disfigured by tear-stains, could only
murmur over and over between sobs, "And the
very last words she sez to me was: 'I wants to
tiss oo, 'tause oo're so dood to me.' And there
I was, standin' doin' nothin', while they pick
her up and carry her off like she was an over-
ripe apple from an orchard. I'll never get over
it, that I won't."
"We have no idea of blaming you, Rhoda,"
Colonel Cameron said kindly. "Miss Valentine
has played on the lawn dozens of times and
none of us thought of any risk. Moreover, it was
not your duty to look after her."
"Ah, sir, as if I minded that," Ehoda broke
- >
[40]


MISS MUFFET GOES
in tearfully. "I'd ha' crawled after her on me
hands and knees, that I would, sir."
"Yes, yes. We know that; but try, Rhoda,"
urged the Colonel, "try hard to remember some-
thing to identify this man and woman by."
"Well, if it was the last breath of me body I
couldn't tell you more than I have," she said,
wiping her eyes on a very soggy handkerchief.
"The woman wore a long coat, which hadn't
no particular style to it unless you'd say a flour
sack had style. It was made of light stuff,
whether linen or pongee I don't know, but it
seemed slimpsy like pongee. She had on a small
hat with thick veils, and it must have fitted on
good and tight, for she never put a hand to it
and they was goin' like the wind.''
"How tall was this person?" asked Mrs. Bed-
field.
"About your size, I should say, ma'am."
"Taller, I think, madam," Thomas suggested
respectfully. "She seemed to stoop more than
ye have to to reach Miss Valentine."
"That would make her over five feet five
then," Colonel Cameron made a note on a pad
he held. "And what color was her hair 1''
"No one could tell that, sir. Her hat was that
close, let alone her veil."
[41]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
-
"Well then, how about the man? Thomas,
you tell us all you saw, and if Rhoda thinks you
miss anything she can interrupt you."
"Well, sir," Thomas began, "it's surprisin'
how little there is to tell. The man never stood
up, so I don't know, but I shouldn't think he
was very tall. Medium, sir, I should guess. He
had a duster on, which looked pretty clean, com-
parin' it with the machine, it bein' fair plastered
with mud, though where they got in such a state,
the weather bein' dry as a bone this four weeks
past, beats me."
The Colonel nodded his head thoughtfully and
made another note on his pad.
"Covered with mud," he murmured. "That
ought to help us to follow them. Looks like an
effort to disguise the car."
"That's the way it struck me, sir," said
Thomas. "The automobile didn't look natural
like, an' I should think there'd be lots of people
noticin' it along the road. Then the man wore
a queer-lookin' cap, with a sort of cape in the
back, to keep the sun off his neck, I'm thinkin'.
Anyway, it hid his hair complete. He had a
piece of plaster across his nose like as if he'd
been in an accident, an' nearly the only thing
I could tell about his looks was that he didn't
have no whiskers or mus-tache."
[42]
^


MISS MUFFET GOBS
"What was the cap made of?" asked the
Colonel.
"A sort of black and white plaid cloth,"
Rhoda volunteered eagerly. "I'm sure of that,
sir. I've got good eyes."
"An' they went east on the Boston Post
Road, sir," Thomas continued. "We was near
crazy till we got you on the 'phone, though I
done all I could think of doin'. I telephoned to
New Haven, an' to Hartford, an' Providence,
an' Springfield, an' Albany, an' Boston, an'
New York, thinkin' they might double back
somehow. I told the police to be on the watch
for 'em, describin' the outfit as well as I could;
an' then, sir, an' then, I just didn't know what
to do an' I couldn't a-bear to do nothin', so I
took a walk along the road up to the turnin' a
mile above here—an' that's where I found
this." Thomas exhibited two strips of plaster,
still crossed and adhering to each other. "These
was what he had on his face, sir. So I telephoned
again to the police sayin' his nose was probably
all right. There was nothin' else I could think
of, sir, until you came."
"You did very well, both of you," Colonel
Cameron assured them kindly; and, having no
further information to give, the two servants
were allowed to depart.
r
[43]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
Left to themselves, Colonel Cameron tried
his best to calm Mrs. Redfield, even while he
frequently consulted his watch.
"Surely it's time that detective was here,"
he said impatiently. "The train must have been
in half an hour ago. Well, we can only wait till
he comes."
"Wait!" exclaimed Mrs. Redfield, a nervous
catch in her breath. "We've been waiting for
hours and hours, wasting precious time doing
nothing, while my baby is in the hands of ruf-
fians."
"Don't worry more than you can help, Carol.
I'm certain my theory is correct and we have
only to sit here and the child will be brought
safely back to us. Children are not stolen for
the fun of the thing. Somebody in need of money
saw the chance and took it, if indeed this is not
the conclusion of the plot for which she was
sent here. In any event, your keeping Valentine
made a lot of talk; a demand for ransom is only
a matter of time. Whoever has her will com-
municate with us, never fear. Then you'll have
to decide what to do."
"What to do!" cried Mrs. Redfield passion-
ately. "As if there was any question of that!
Heavens, I'm no Spartan. I don't propose to
sacrifice my child for the good of the commun-
[44]


MISS MUFFET GOES
ity. No, not one instant longer than I can help.
They'll get what they ask as qnickly as pos-
sible."
"Well, well," returned the Colonel sooth-
ingly. "Perhaps you are right. At any rate I feel
sure the child is in no danger."
"How can you be so sure?" demanded Mrs.
Redfield. "Remember Charlie Ross! And there
have been plenty of others since."
"All children who have wandered away,
which we know Valentine did not do, or who
have been seized in hope of ransom. I'm sure
I'm right—"
At that moment Thomas knocked on the door.
"There's a man here, madam," he announced.
"Bring him in at once, Thomas," said Mrs.
Redfield a little breathlessly, and she seated
herself, trying hard to appear calm.
A moment later the detective entered and
both Colonel Cameron and Mrs. Redfield were
conscious of a feeling of bitter disappointment.
Here was no Sherlock Holmes with keen, hawk-
like eyes and observant face. This man looked
like a stupid groom out of a job, and, as he gave
a short nod intended to do duty for a bow, they
felt that he should have knuckled his forehead
instead. He stood, ignoring the chair Colonel
Cameron indicated.
'
[45]


MISS MtTFFET GOES
no good of it. But keep her here, don't let her
go out, and watch her mail, and she's as safe as
if she was under lock and key. And sooner or
later there's a chance of her givin' herself away.
That is, if she's in it, which ain't by no means
certain."
"I think you're right," said Mrs. Redfield.
"I will give orders at once that she is to stay."
The man cast a glance of approval at her:
"One more word and I'll be goin'! Keep it out
of the newspapers. No interviews and no more
information to the police. That's all, I guess."
"But, man alive!" cried the Colonel. "Don't
you want to hear our theories about this lam-
entable occurrence—this outrage—"
The detective shook his head.
"I '11 be goin'," he said slowly.'' What we need
is facts. I've the'ries enough of my own." And
he went out, closing the door softly behind him.
[47]


CHAPTER IV The Automobile
When Thomas had telephoned to Colonel Cam-
eron giving him the meagre information that
Miss Muffet had been "took away," that gentle-
man had gone at once to his lawyer for advice
and had immediately been put in touch with the
detective.
"Parkins is the man for you," said the lawyer
confidently. "He's not attached to any of the
agencies and, if you can get him, he'll do well
by you; but he's a queer beggar and won't
touch a case unless he's interested in it. He looks
on each as a test of his skill; a sort of game,
you might say. He works alone, only employing
another man now and then, when its absolutely
necessary. I think he's honest and I know he's
competent; which is more than can be said of
all the people you get from the established agen-
cies. . . . You remember he's the man who re-
covered the letters stolen from President
Blank's wife. You knew of that? No? Well, after
all, you weren't likely to, I suppose. The idea
was to sell the letters to the newspapers—and
very spicy reading they would have made, I
can tell you. But Parkins recovered them and,
"
[48]


THE AUTOMOBILE
by so doing, avoided an international imbroglio
of peculiar unpleasantness. You see, the thief
was—" The lawyer leaned over and whispered
confidentially to the Colonel, who showed his
surprise by exclaiming: "By Jove! You don't
tell me so?"
For all reply, the lawyer nodded his head and
went on:
"Then there was the case of Mrs. Suydam's
vanity case. (This is strictly confidential, you
understand. I only tell you to convince you that
Parkins is the right man for you.) Everybody
thought it was lost on leaving her box at the
Metropolitan; that is, everybody except Mrs.
Suydam and Parkins, who brought it back to
her and spared that lady much unenviable noto-
riety, to say the least. I could tell you a number
of other things he's done, but I've probably
said enough to satisfy you as to his ability. Here
is his address. However, you can get his tele-
phone number in the outer office and that may
save you a trip to the Bronx."
Forthwith the Colonel called up Mr. Parkins
who, after one or two questions about the case,
consented to take it, and arrived at Mrs. Red-
field's that same evening.
The next few days were a period of waiting,
during which Colonel Cameron watched Mrs.
[49]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
Redfield anxiously and noted that she grew more
pale and attenuated as the lagging hours passed.
The Colonel had a very sincere affection and
admiration for Mrs. Redfield, the result of an
intimacy enduring through all the years since
their childhood, and her controlled grief trou-
bled him.
Nor was the household less affected. Mrs.
Cook, who claimed a proprietary interest in
Miss Muffet, could scarcely restrain her tears
on all occasions; while Rhoda moved about
mournfully, grieving not only for the disap-
pearance of the child she had grown to love but
further chagrinned at the obvious attentions
Thomas paid to Elise, whom everyone else held
to be the main cause of their sorrow and hated
accordingly.
Thomas himself was unusually silent and pre-
occupied, often muttering to himself as he pot-
tered about the dining-room. One evening at
dinner an opportunity, for which he had evi-
dently been waiting, presented itself. Mrs. Red-
field was called to the telephone and he was left
alone with Colonel Cameron.
"Ye'11 excuse me, sir," he began; "but may
I have a word alone with ye in private ?''
The Colonel nodded, and Thomas came close
to him and bent over to speak directly in his
[50]
""V
"V


THE AUTOMOBILE
ear, dropping his voice to a confidential whisper.
"She came in an automobile, I've always be-
lieved; an' she went in one, as I saw with me
own two eyes—but, sir, it wasn't Mr. Harry as
took her, that I'll swear to!"
The Colonel started so violently as to dis-
lodge the glasses from his nose.
"Bless my soul! What are you driving at?"
he demanded. "Mr. Harry's in Alaska."
Thomas was painfully embarrassed. He was
not used to meddling, and only his conscience
had driven him to speak now.
"I'm not sayin' there's anything in it, sir,
ye understand—" he went on a little fearfully.
"But ye know how the maids will talk, sir, an'
they've got it into their heads that Mr. Harry
sent Miss Valentine to keep the Madam company
while he was gone; an' thinkin' of it that way,
Colonel Cameron, it ain't so unlikely, is it, sir?"
"But how would a strange child do that?"
asked the perplexed Colonel.
"We wasn't thinkin' it was strange. We was
assumin' it was Mr. Harry's, sir."
The Colonel understood at last.
"Nonsense!" he declared vehemently. "Mr.
Harry isn't married."
"No, sir. Not as we know of, sir, but—"
Thomas left the sentence unfinished.
'
[51]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
"Absurd!" the Colonel cut in.
"Yes, sir. So I tell the maids, sir," Thomas
agreed respectfully, and went about his inter-
rupted duties, relieved of a responsibility that
had worried him more than a little.
It was all very well for Colonel Cameron to
say "Absurd!" in that confident manner. By
the time he left the dining-room Thomas's sug-
gestion had taken root and, although he re-
peated his protest to himself, he kept turning
the thought over in his mind.
"Of course the thing's possible," he con-
fessed, "but absurd! Quite absurd."
On the other hand Carol's explanation of
Harry Waldron's sudden departure seemed in-
adequate in view of the wide speculation Thom-
as 's remarks induced.
"By the way," said the Colonel to Mrs. Red-
field later that evening, trying to speak non-
chalantly, "was Harry engaged to Eleanor
Eveleth?"
"Not actually," Mrs. Redfield answered, "he
was very much in love with her and it would
have been a good match from every point of
view; but this new generation is as casual in
its lovemaking as in everything else. I haven't
[52]


THE AUTOMOBILE
given up hope that eventually it will come to
something. Personally, I should like nothing
better, though I don't fancy her mother."
"Then there wasn't anyone else?" mur-
mured the Colonel casually, patting himself on
the back for his crafty way of obtaining the in-
formation he desired.
"Oh, no," Mrs. Redfield replied positively.
"Harry has been in love with Eleanor since his
early college days."
So the Colonel returned to his original theory
that Miss Muffet's disappearance was due to a
band of kidnappers who meant to hold her for a
heavy ransom. He anticipated that each suc-
ceeding mail would bring their demand.
As the days followed one another without
any communication either from the abductors
or from Parkins, the strain upon Mrs. Redfield
became wellnigh unbearable. She could think
of nothing else and she and the Colonel dis-
cussed the matter continually from every pos-
sible angle. One afternoon, as they were trying
for the hundredth time to decide upon the
advisability of employing other detectives,
Thomas entered and announced Mr. Parkins.
The instant relief was indescribable. Anything
was better than their maddening ignorance and
'
[53]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
-
they welcomed the man enthusiastically. He
nodded in his abrupt way as he came in, but
wasted little time on ceremony.
"I'll sit down, if I may," he began, selecting
a stiff chair. "There isn't much to report and I
haven't found the child, but I'm close to those
who took her and I want further instructions;
so I'll tell you how I've proceeded from the be-
ginning. It'll save repetitions."
"Tell us quickly," implored Mrs. Redfield, a
thin hand at her throat.
"Well," said Parkins, "there's some queer
things goin' on and, to speak the truth, I don't
make 'em all out. You may know somethin'
that'll fit the pieces together. Anyway, as I told
you at first, I had my own ideas an' I went to
work on 'em. First of all here was the motive.
Who would be glad to have that child out of the
way?"
At once Mrs. Redfield betrayed intense anxi-
ety.
"'Out of the way?' " she repeated in a whis-
per. " 'Out of the way?'"
"Yes, ma'am, out of the way," Parkins re-
iterated firmly. "Don't expect murder, if that's
what you're thinkin' of, only there's folks
who'd be better satisfied to have you livin'
[54]


THE AUTOMOBILE
alone as you were doin' before the little girl
came along."
"Nonsense!" interjected the Colonel.
"No nonsense at all," said Parkins sturdily.
"I know you'll say there's people whose station
in life places them above suspicion, but my ex-
perience has taught me that you're safe in as-
sumin' the others is innocent only when the
guilty parties is in jail. Money is at the bottom
of most of the crooked work in this world and,
while this case may be different, there's ninety-
nine chances in a hundred that it's just the
same old story."
"You're on the wrong tack, man," protested
the Colonel vigorously.
"You won't think so later on," Parkins's tone
was confident. "So now let's see who are the
ones who will be benefited by the child's not
coming back—or who think they will, which is
the same thing so far as we are concerned.
"First of all are the Gilbert Redfields. There
ain't no doubt that they were main glad when
you an' your nephew fell out. They've got six
growin' reasons for not wantin' your affections
to be set elsewhere. They weren't noways fond
of the baby neither, from what I hear. Well,
then, there's them to keep in mind.
[55]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
-
"Then comes Mr. Harry Waldron—"
"Out of the question!" puffed Colonel Cam-
eron, much irritated.
"You and him is parted," Parkins went on
imperturbably, "an' he ain't in this country,
that I know; but, supposin' him to have found
it wasn't such easy sleddin' after he left your
house, he wouldn't be none disappointed to
hear that a child that had taken his place had
disappeared." He paused, then went on in a
level voice. '' There's two parties interested, in-
directly, as you might say, but it's the money
they're thinkin' of just the same.
"Then there's this Elise girl."
"Much more probable," interjected the Colo-
nel.
"I figured, of course, that it might be the job
of a band of racketeers," continued the detec-
tive, "an' that she was to work on the inside. I
may as well tell you right here that you can let
her go. Her lay was the plate an' jewels; but,
now that the house is watched, she wouldn't
dare take a brass collar-button."
"How did you discover this?" the Colonel
interrupted, sorry to hear his pet scapegoat ex-
onerated.
"Oh, easy enough," the man explained. "She
hasn't had much to do lately but write letters,
[56]


STRICTLT PBIVATE
a trolley, an' separate just as soon as they
conld get the child quieted down. They would
change her appearance with a different colored
dress, countin' rightly that there's lots of
women an' babies in the world; an' this proved
correct, for the police haven't seen hide or hair
of 'em."
"I suppose they could do that," said Colonel
Cameron thoughtfully.
"So I went after the machine," Parkins con-
tinued, as usual ignoring the Colonel's inter-
ruption, "though I confess I wasn't noways
sure that the chauffeur was in the game at all,
bein' as there's plenty of 'em willin' to put a
hundred in their pockets and ask no questions.
Anyhow, it was a starter, where there wasn't
much else to go on."
"And you found it?" asked Colonel Cam-
eron, unable to restrain his impatience.
The detective nodded: "Maybe you remem-
ber that the car was covered with mud? Now
the first thing that fella would do is to clean up.
Only he wouldn't go to no public garage,
knowin', as well as we do, that a muddy machine
in this dry weather would cause talk. His play
was to make for a brook or creek along a road
that wasn't much used and wash it hisself. So I
looked up one of these automobile guides an'
X

[58]


THB AUTOMOBILE
found a lane leadin' off the main road with a
ford marked on it where it crosses a little
stream. 'That's the place,' says I to myself, an'
went out there just to look about, an' there I
found a boy fishin'."
"Had he seen her?" Mrs. Redfield demanded
pitifully.
Parkins shook his head in the negative. He
was sorry for her. Being unable to express this,
he went on with his recital: "Now boys is queer.
If you treat 'em right they'll do anything for
you—an' vicy-versy; so I got interested in that
kid's fishin' right quick. Funny little cuss he
was—an' to make a long story short, I found
out just what I wanted to know. On the day the
little girl was took, this kid was fishin' below
the ford, same as he was then, when there
comes a great splashin' an' the water gets all
riley an' spoils his sport; so up he goes to find
out what's wrong. There's a fella at the ford
washin' off a machine, an' boylike, bein' near
crazy about automobiles an' thinkin' maybe to
make a nickel, he starts in to help.
"Now if that chauffeur had been a wise guy
he'd ha' give the kid a bit of a ride an' let him
toot the horn or perhaps steer a while, an'
handed him a quarter to finish off. After that
the boy would have lied for him till the cows
"
[59]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
came home. But this chap wasn't smart enough.
He turns on the kid an' drives him off, seel
Don't want no help from him. So the boy goes
into the woods, only, 'stead o' stayin' there, he
sneaks back and watches from some bushes
alongside the lane.
"From there he sees the fella change his
clothes, turn his cap inside out an' put a differ-
ent license plate on the back of the car; finally
drivin' away in a machine lookin' spick an'
span like it was just out of the factory."
"The villain!" exclaimed Colonel Cameron.
But the detective ignored the interruption and
went on:
"'What was the license, Bub?' I asked him
casual, an' would you believe it, he told me! He
was a smart kid an' I'd ha' tipped him a dollar,
only it would have made him suspicious maybe,
an' the ten cents pleased him all right. After
that, it was a cinch, only I had to send to Bos-
ton, for it was a Massachusetts license an' not
a New York one as I'd expected. Well, today I
found out all about the chap. Got his name from
Boston an' looked him up in New York, which
is his winter headquarters. He's what you might
call a public chauffeur. Owns his own car an'
makes his livin' out of it, rentin' it out to peo-
ple that wants to go tourin'. He's got a party in
'
[60]


THE AUTOMOBILE
New England now an' it's my idea to drop
down on him, because he's wise.
"Remember what I said at the beginnin'f If
we could connect up this fella with one of them
that's interested in havin' the child disappear
we'd be a long way toward solvin' our problem?
Well, before I go on, I want to know exactly
how things stand an' what you wish done with
the people who are at the bottom of this."
"Put them in jail!" cried the Colonel explo-
sively. "Hanging would be too gentle for
them."
"Very good, sir," Parkins tilted his chair
back on two legs and regarded the gentleman
benignly. "This chauffeur's name is Nelson."
Mrs. Redfield started upright in her seat.
"Nelson?" she repeated vaguely, as if the
name were half familiar.
"Yes, ma'am. Ed Nelson. He was Mr. Harry
Waldron's chauffeur for two years."
Mrs. Redfield stood up, trembling; then the
color dropped out of her face and she swayed
forward.
"Catch her, Colonel. She's goin' to faint!"
called Parkins, jumping to his feet.
i
[61]


MISS MUFFET IS OFF AGAIN
in the evidence tending to connect Mr. Waldron
with the abduction of Valentine, she does not
believe he had anything to do with it."
"Is that what you think?" Parkins demanded
pointedly.
The Colonel hesitated.
"After all," he replied finally, "what I may
or may not believe has nothing to do with it
either."
"You'll pardon me, sir, but it has something
to do with it," Parkins insisted. "At least
you've known the parties intimately for a good
many years, while I—why, sir, I don't even
know the reason Mrs. Redfield and her nephew
quarrelled.''
Again the Colonel hesitated, a fact that the
other noted and mentally commented on.
"As to that quarrel," the Colonel resumed
rather reluctantly, "it was purely a question of
business.''
"Money!" Parkins ejaculated, interrupting.
"If you like," the Colonel admitted with an
impatient jerk of his shoulders, "but not in the
sense you conceive it. Mr. Waldron has, or had,
quite a large fortune of his own. He was at that
time intimate with several men who were inter-
ested in a mining venture that, they assured
him, promised extravagant returns. Whether
r
[63]


MISS MUFFET IS OFF AGAIN
tective's supposition by pointing out this pos-
sible—as be dwelt longer on it—this probable
explanation; for clearly it would be entirely to
the boy's interest to have his own baby under
his aunt's roof. It was far more likely, he
thought, that some enemy of Harry's was at the
bottom of it. However, the Colonel decided that
without any evidence to corroborate this theory,
it was better not to complicate the matter by
telling Parkins what was in his mind.
"He said he had theories enough of his
own.'' he thought grimly.
Aloud he answered the detective's question
conservatively:
"Whether Harry Waldron has lost his for-
tune or not, we have no means of knowing. The
stocks and bonds of the company are not listed
and the entire property is in the hands of just
a few men. As a matter of fact, Harry may have
made a great deal of money, although I admit I
am sceptical."
"Well," said Parkins, after a long pause.
"This talk isn't gettin' us anywhere. That fella
Nelson is due in Boston tomorrow evenin'. All
I'm waitin' for is instructions. I have no means
of knowin' what may be learned from Nelson,
but I must be prepared for whatever turns up."
"Exactly 1" returned the Colonel. "And, Mr.
'
[65]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
Parkins, while we are trusting wholly to your
discretion, I need hardly point out to you that
Mrs. Redfield wishes all notoriety avoided. Fur-
ther, in addition to finding Valentine (which,
of course is still her chief concern), she is
hardly less anxious that the suspicion attaching
to Harry Waldron shall be cleared up. She will
not hear of the possibility of his having stolen
her child. Should you find further evidence
tending to corroborate your present suspicions,
I will take it upon myself to say that it must be
kept entirely out of the hands of the police au-
thorities. For the sake of the family, there must
be no scandal under any circumstances, you
understand."
"Understand perfectly," said Parkins, and
he did. He knew the Colonel was wobbling. "It's
a case of investigation, not prosecution; an',
Colonel," he went on, "I don't accuse Mr. Wal-
dron of anything, mind that! I'm entirely satis-
fied that the child was taken from here in Nel-
son's machine. That may have been an accident,
as you might say. Even he may not know a
thing about it criminally. Might be he was
simply hired for a day to do what he was told,
keep his mouth shut an' get well paid for it.
That's what I'm goin' to Boston to find out."
[66]


MISS MUFFET IS OFF AGAIN
About a week later Parkins walked into Colo-
nel Cameron's office in Wall Street.
"I'm reportin' here, 'cause it'll save time,"
he began at once. "May as well say that I
haven't got the child though I've almost had
my hand on it. I tell you, sir, it's gettin' inter-
estin'."
"Begin at the beginning," said the Colonel.
"Mrs. Redfield will want all the details."
"Very good, sir," Parkins put down his
shabby hat tenderly on the stenographer's desk
and seated himself, pulling up his trousers over
his knees with as much care as if they had been
newly pressed. He cleared his throat. "Picked
up Nelson in Boston. We're quite good friends
now, though he's a grouchy beggar as a general
rule. Tried to sell him a lubricatin' oil, buyin' a
can at a garage an' lettin' on to be a travellin'
salesman. But he turned up his nose at my oil,
sayin' it would ruin a good machine an' goin'
into details that gave me a hint."
"A hint of what?" asked the Colonel, but he
might as well have been silent.
"'S always good to find out what your man's
most interested in. It's his weak spot, as you
might say; an' with Nelson it was his automo-
bile. He fair loved it; when he wasn't runnin'
[67]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
it, he was fussin' over it every minute that he
wasn't sleepin' or eatin'. So I kept talkin' auto-
mobile, tellin' him candid that I didn't know a
thing about the oil I was sellin', but that I had
to make a livin' somehow; an', as he was a
stranger in Boston, he didn't mind havin' some-
one he could talk to while he wiped down the car
after his day's trip."
The Colonel nodded: "It gave you a chance
to get in with him. I see."
"Then I was always on hand durin' the eve-
ning my only friends there bein' out of town
on their vacation, as I explained to him; an' by
the third night we was such good pals that he
got to tellin' me how the oil could be improved
an' we began speculatin' about manufacturin'
a new kind an' makin' our everlastin' for-
tunes." He paused.
"Go on, man." Colonel Cameron was in a
hurry to hear the end of the detective's tale.
"I don't want to leave anything out," Par-
kins explained briefly. "Nelson didn't write nor
receive a letter while he was in Boston. Maybe
you think I was wastin' my time, waitin' round
hopin' somethin' would turn up; an', to tell you
the truth, I couldn't be noways sure I wasn't
myself; but I was lookin' for the man higher
"
[68]


MISS MUFPET IS OFF AGAIN
up, as yon might say, watchin' for a chance to
question Nelson without arousin' his suspi-
cions. There wasn't much doin', though I got
one hint finally that was really all I needed to
find the child. In the first place I was kind of
surprised when he mentioned that he was mar-
ried, he loved that machine so much. But when
he spoke of his wife, casual, why naturally I
was a married man too, so we drifted into
talkin' of kids, me havin' six by that time."
"'Have yon any?' I asks him.
"'No,' says he, kind o' stammerin', then he
adds, quick, 'Why yes, one.'
"'Boy or girl?' says I, without noticin' his
break.
"'Girl,' he answers, short; an', knowin' all
I wanted in that quarter, I switched the con-
versation. I was morally certain where the child
was then. All I had to do was to find Nelson's
wife—an' that was a cinch 'cause he'd told me
he lived in New York.
"You see this chap isn't a crook an' he isn't
noways suspicious; only grouchy, an' close-
mouthed by habit; so I made up my mind that
there wasn't much more to be got out of him by
just pumpin', an' I wanted to get the kid be-
fore givin' myself away on any third degree
[69]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
business, besides bein' by no means sure yon
could frighten him. So I says to him that last
evenin' we was together:
"'Is there any message I can give your wife?
I'm goin' to New York tomorra.'
"'Where'11 you be seein' my wife?' he asks,
kind o' grim an' surly; an' I laughed.
"'Not knowin' her, I ain't likely to meet up
with her unless you have a word to send.'
"Nelson shook his head; 'She's just movin'
into a flat in the Bronx,' he says, 'an' she won't
be ready for company.'
"Now you know I live in the Bronx, an' so
I told him (that bein' the first true statement
I'd made to him), inquirin' where they were
locatin', an' he gave me the address, sayin' he
hoped he 'd see me some time in the winter when
his business was slack. With that we shook
hands an' said good-bye, an' I caught the night
train. The next mornin', along about marketin'
time, I arrived at Mrs. Nelson's flat house
meanin' to make up a message from her hus-
band, seein' that he hadn't had good feelin'
enough to send her one himself. But I needn't
have bothered.
"When I got to the place there was a crowd
in front of the buildin' an' the police was in
charge. From the way the women was moanin'

[70]


MISS MUFFET IS OFF AGAIN
an' kind o' crookin' their fingers like they was
gettin' ready to scratch, I knew the trouble was
about some kid or other. I go in at once (the
cops knowin' me, o' course) an' by good luck
fell in with a Mrs. O'Donnell who was willin' to
talk to anybody who was willin' to listen—an'
I was more'n willin' the minute I heard the
name' Nelson,' which I 'd had a hunch it was goin'
to be as soon as I seen that crowd.
"The long an' short of it is this: The party
across the hall had just moved in that day, an'
the woman asked her if she would keep her key
in case of fire while she went to the bank for
more money; 'The movin' provin' so expen-
sive.' She had left her little four year old girl
locked in, it bein' rainy, an' she'd feel safer
with somebody on hand if anything happened.
"Mrs. O'Donnell offered to take the kid in
with her own, but this wouldn't do because the
child was just back from the country where
she'd been visitin' for the last six months an'
was strange yet. Beside, there'd been scarlet
fever where she come from; in fact, that was
the reason given for bringin' her away. After
that Mrs. O'Donnell didn't urge any more but
took the key an' promised to look after her if
need arose. Now I don't hardly have to tell you
that the woman who had just moved in was
[71]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
Mrs. Nelson. Who the child was you can easy
guess."
"But where is she?" the Colonel broke in ex-
citedly.
"Just be patient a moment," said Parkins.
"It's a queer tale. Mrs. O'Donnell hadn't any
any more than gone back to her work when a
young lady comes knockin' at her door, askin'
for Mrs. Nelson.
"'Sure, she was the Fift' Avenoo kind of a
lady,' was the way Mrs. O'Donnell described
her, an' when she told her Mrs. Nelson was out,
the lady said she had only wanted to see the
little girl. That bein' the case Mrs. O'Donnell
thought she might as well let her in, explainin'
that the kid was there anyway, which made the
strange young lady pretty sore on account of
the kid bein' left alone like that. She demanded
to have the door opened at once. An' she was
obeyed.
"'Me that's worked out in swell families
knows when they mean what they say,' Mrs.
O'Donnell told me. So she didn't stop to argue.
They found the kid sittin' on the floor, its face
smeared with tears, an' the minute it saw the
lady it ran to her, sayin' somethin' that
sounded to Mrs. O'Donnell like 'Take me to
[72]


MISS MUFFET IS OFF AGAIN
Auntie Tawie,' repeatin' it over an' over
again."
"By Jove, it's the child!" exclaimed the
Colonel. "She called Mrs. Redfield 'Auntie
Carol.'"
Parkins nodded and went on:
"Well, the upshot of it was that the young
lady, after soothin' the child an' tellin' Mrs.
O'Donnell that she didn't propose to have it
neglected any longer, as it was not Mrs. Nel-
son's, she only bein' well paid to take care of
it, picks up the kid an' carries it off to the auto-
mobile she come in, while Mrs. O'Donnell
looked on, dumb with wonder but not darin' to
say a word.
"In a little while back comes Mrs. Nelson
an' the trouble begins, gettin' worse an' worse
till the coppers come in; an' then Mrs. Nelson
seems a little sorry she made such a fuss,
though she insists the baby is hers, claimin' all
the time not to know a thing about the strange
young woman. Mrs. 0 'Donnell describes her as
about twenty-two or three, dark an' tall, an'
beautifully dressed, although too plain for her
taste. There is no doubt about her knowin' the
child nor who the child is, for Mrs. O'Donnell
volunteered the information that the stranger
[73]


STBICTLY PBIVATE
called her 'Mies Muffet,' an' the Md answered
to the name. I was in two minds about what to
do with Mrs. Nelson, but finally called off the
cops sayin' that it was my case. An' now I've
come to talk it over with you."
"But you might have questioned Mrs. Nel-
son," the Colonel said rather irritably.
"Yeah, so I might," Parkins admitted. "But
the police had done that an' got no thin' out of
her."
"You could have threatened to put her in
jail," suggested the Colonel.
"On what charge?"
"Abduction, of course," replied the gentle-
man exasperated. Really this detective was too
thick-headed.
"Umph-uh," Parkins pressed his lips to-
gether firmly, "not yet. We can't prove abduc-
tion."
"We certainly can," insisted the Colonel.
"We've traced Nelson and the abduction car,
and we find that his wife had the child. Noth-
ing could be clearer than that they took her
from Mrs. Redfield."
"Sure!" the detective conceded. "You're
right there. They took her from Mrs. Redfield,
all right; but that doesn't prove abduction. You

[74]


MISS MUFFET IS OFF AGAIN
don't abduct your own child when you take it
home to its mother, you know, an' Mrs. Nelson
says the kid is hers."
The Colonel started. This was an unwelcome
suggestion.
"I don't believe it!" he declared, after a
moment's pondering. "Everything about the
baby speaks of good breeding and cultivated par-
ents. I don't believe she is the Nelsons' child."
"No more do I," Parkins agreed, "but you
see until we know who the real parents are,
we'd better go slow. Any false move would spill
the beans—an' then look out for the newspapers!
That's what I meant when I said the case
was gettin' interestin'."
The Colonel got to his feet and paced the of-
fice restlessly. "Interesting" was not the word
he would have used.
"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed at length,
rather helplessly. "What can we do?"
"The first thing is to discover who Mrs.
0 'Donnell 's lady friend is. I have a man at work
on that now, an' I told him to telephone me here
when he found her. It won't be difficult."
"But who can she be?" demanded the Colo-
nel.
"She might be the real mother," said Par-
[75]
r


STRICTLY PBIVATE
-
kins, and at that instant the telephone bell rang.
Two minutes later the detective hung up the
receiver.
"We've found her," he said. "She's a Miss
Eleanor Eveleth."
"Good God!" muttered the Colonel, clutch-
ing at the side of his desk as he fairly staggered
under the blow. "Why, man, she's—"
"Yeah," Parkins cut in. "I know. She's a
great friend of Mr. Harry Waldron."
[76]


CHAPTER VI Cross Purposes
Miss Eleanor Eveleth descended the stairs
briskly, only to pause irresolute at the door of
the breakfast-room. Arguments that were very
convincing while she was in the privacy of her
own apartments seemed to lose force when the
moment came to face her mother. Yet she had
no doubt in her own mind. Her actions were en-
tirely justifiable under the circumstances.
She was a little angry at the thought of the
criticism that had resulted, and this spurred
her determination to settle the matter without
further delay or temporizing. That the step
she had taken might be termed hasty she was
willing to admit; that was as far as she would
go; her mother's high-handed measures were
ridiculous.
She turned the knob of the door, satisfied that
the very righteousness of her cause would arm
her with arguments for the impending fray.
Immediately came reaction, partly of relief that
the dreaded moment was to be postponed,
partly of annoyance that the period of uncer-
tainty was to be continued for the room was
empty. Mrs. Eveleth had not yet come down.
[77]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
Eleanor picked up the bundle of letters lying
on the table at her place and looked them over
idly. There were several bills, an advertisement
or two, an invitation to play bridge, the an-
nouncement of a wedding of which she already
knew the details, a few words about some Jun-
ior League activities and—she had reached the
bottom one. Hastily she tore it open, reading
through it rapidly, and finished just in time to
replace it in its envelope and tuck it inconspicu-
ously under the others as her mother entered
the room.
Mrs. Eveleth attacked her mail without en-
thusiasm. Had her daughter been less preoc-
cupied with her own affairs she might have no-
ticed her obvious worriment.
"Dear me," said the lady fretfully, "people
seem to think I am an institution for the distri-
bution of money. The last demand was from a
man who wanted ten thousand dollars to fur-
ther the adoption of neglected cats into good
families. And," she went on after a pause, al-
lowing for comment from her daughter, which
did not come, "this is from a woman who asks
me to lend her money to start a turkey farm.
She says she 'has lived a sedentary life and
understands that turkeys would supply much
needed exercise.' Now I could understand a
[78]


CBOSS PURPOSES
woman wanting to raise sedentary turkeys,
but—" Mrs. Eveleth shrugged. It was rather
hard work making conversation while her
daughter was in this mood. "And as for these
starving baby charities, I get tired of opening
their envelopes." She ended with a sigh as of
exhaustion.
"You ought to have a secretary," Eleanor
suggested casually. The mention of babies of-
fered an opening, but her mother's expression
warned her that the moment was not propitious
for mentioning the subject uppermost in her
mind. Yet the letter from Harry Waldron which
she had just received made it imperative that
the matter should be settled, and soon.
Breakfast arrived, and under its soothing in-
fluence the atmosphere grew less menacing.
Eleanor decided that the time had come.
"Mother," she began hesitatingly, her heart
in her mouth.
Mrs. Eveleth looked up with a frown.
"What is it?" she asked.
"I suppose you will say that it's the same
old story," the girl replied, plunging into the
matter desperately. "Harry is coming back."
"You certainly don't expect me to rejoice
over that?" Mrs. Eveleth returned with acerb-
ity. "We are hardly settled at home, and I sup-
'
[79]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
pose I must prepare for another period of exile.
That is, unless you can be persuaded to hear
reason."
"I am entirely reasonable, mama," Eleanor
replied. "And you needn't travel on my ac-
count. Things are just as they were before we
went to Egypt. The great Tut-ankh-amen didn't
alienate my affections from Harry, if that was
what you expected when you insisted on start-
ing for a place neither of us wanted to see."
"Don't be flippant," her mother returned
sharply. "I am doing my best to keep you from
making an unsuitable match. And very little
thanks I get for it.''
"No thanks at all, mama," Eleanor amended
blandly. "We quite agreed about Harry's suit-
ability before he quarrelled with his aunt. That
quarrel has thrown a new and lurid light, to
your eyes, on all the poor boy's imperfections."
"Certainly it did," her mother agreed
readily enough. "It opened my eyes to many
things, and I was thankful it was not too late.
Extravagance and recklessness that are harm-
less when indulged in by the heir of an ex-
tremely rich woman have an entirely different
aspect when he becomes penniless. Harry Wal-
dron has all the faults of a millionaire and noth-
ing to support them on."
-v
[80]


CROSS PURPOSES
Eleanor shrugged her shoulders elaborately.
Such arguments served no good purpose since
neither of them was prepared to give an inch.
"Anyway," she said, "I prefer his faults to
the gilded charms of Allie Van Camp or Jim-
mie Harrison, for instance. However, it wasn't
about Harry that I wanted to talk, although you
must see that his return makes it imperatively
necessary for me to know where that child is."
"Eleanor," her mother began a trifle sternly,
"out of respect for your innocence, I have
stood a good deal on this subject and have re-
frained from pointing out to you certain con-
clusions that would be obvious to anyone who
knew a little more of the world. I consider that
Harry Waldron aimed the deadliest insult at
you when he pretended to entrust that child to
your care."
"I'm not absolutely a moron, mama,"
Eleanor colored hotly. "Perhaps it would be
better if you cease hinting and tell me what
you mean in good, plain Anglo-Saxon."
"I mean just what I say," Mrs. Eveleth re-
turned with spirit. "I can make allowances for
the folly of a young man, but I draw the line
when my daughter is forced into contact with
its consequences. And so would she if she had
any proper pride."
[81]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
Eleanor was so far from sharing her moth-
er's suspicions that her words meant nothing;
still, sensing that some serious charge was in-
tended, she faced it unflinchingly.
"I suppose I'm very dense. You'll have to
speak out. I cannot fathom what you mean,"
she said.
Speaking with apparent reluctance, Mrs.
Eveleth yet framed her reply to be as telling as
she could make it.
"Do me the justice to believe that I speak un-
willingly, Eleanor. If Mr. Waldron's return
didn't make brutal frankness necessary, I
should prefer to trust to time to cure you of
your infatuation. Since nothing short of the
naked truth will satisfy you, I'll put it plainly.
Harry Waldron committed a gross outrage on
your credulity when he asked you to look after
his illegitimate child!"
For a second Eleanor stared at her mother
aghast. Then she burst out laughing. She was
distinctly relieved to find her mother's accusa-
tion based on an impossible supposition.
"Oh, mama!" she exclaimed, her spirits re-
bounding elastically. "I know who has been fill-
ing your head with that nonsense. It's that gos-
sipy Mrs. Gilbert Redfield. I don't see how you
can stand her. She's one of the people who are
^
[82]


CBOSS PURPOSES
always seeing where their friends' duties lie.
She always did hate Harry, only now that he
has ceased to rival her stupid children, one
would expect her to stop short of slander."
"I do not need Mrs. Redfield to point out
anything so obvious—"
"This story is made out of the whole cloth,"
Eleanor interrupted. "No matter who told you,
it's absurd even to deny it, when I've assured
you already the child is Bat Sheldon's little
girl."
"I know you told me so," Mrs. Eveleth re-
plied unmoved. "I haven't forgotten; but a less
innocent person than you are would have seen
from the beginning that it was the easiest thing
in the world to place the paternity of a child at
the door of a man who has gone to South Af-
rica and is never likely to return. Even you
would not expect Harry to admit to you that the
child was his." Mrs. Eveleth paused.
Eleanor said nothing, and her mother went
on, hopeful of the effect she was making:
"And why, I ask you, did he quarrel with his
aunt if it was not over this unfortunate affair?
If the little girl is Mr. Sheldon's daughter, why
did no one ever hear of his marriage? Why isn't
she entrusted to some of his people? Where is
the mother? These and many other unanswered
'
[83]


CROSS PURPOSES
ourselves places us beyond the suspicion of
avarice."
Left alone, Eleanor reviewed the situation
with a buzzing head.
Could it be true that the child was Harry's?
She tried to remember what he had told her
of it. Little by little their brief final interview
came back to her.
Harry had said that he had just had to find
a new home for Bat Sheldon's kid because its
other nurse, a very superior sort of person, had
married and moved away from New York. To
Oklahoma, she thought he had said. He had put
it to live with his chauffeur's wife, who was
supposed to be used to children. But he was not
quite satisfied. He knew nothing against the
woman, except that she was of an inferior class
to its first attendant, and wanted Eleanor to
look them up now and then to see that every-
thing was all right. The kid was so young he
didn't suppose it mattered much so long as it
was well fed, and he would make other ar-
rangements on his return. It was a cute young-
ster and they called it "Miss Muffet," which
seemed to suit it "down to the ground."
Of course he would not think of bothering
her only he had quarrelled with his aunt, so

[85]


STRICTLY PBTVATE
there was no one else he could trust, and he
wouldn't have anything go wrong with the child
for the world. That was about all the conversa-
tion they had had on the subject, that last inter-
view being devoted to other more intimate con-
cerns.
Eleanor had consented, of course, meaning to
go promptly and make certain of the child's
welfare, but her mother, regardless of her as-
surance that Harry had gone west, started for
Europe with her before she could redeem her
promise.
The little girl had been on her mind, and im-
mediately after reaching home she had driven
to the address Harry had given her, only to find
that the chauffeur's family had vacated their
flat. Unwilling to let the matter rest, she hunted
up the movers and, at a price, located the Nel-
sons in the Bronx, whither she went at once.
There she had found an obliging Irish woman
and a neglected child; so, being young and hot-
headed, on the impulse of the moment she had
taken it away with her.
The baby was fascinating, not at all like a lit-
tle girl brought up by "that sort of people"; as
she drove along she made plans to keep her un-
til Harry's return.
But she had made her pretty plans without
[86]


CBOSS PURPOSES
considering her mother's probable attitude in
the matter. Mrs. Eveleth would listen to neither
argument nor explanation. Eleanor's density
was incredible. If her daughter did not know
enough to protect her own reputation she had a
mother who could be trusted to do it for her.
In truth Mrs. Eveleth had considerable justi-
fication for the course she insisted on.
Some years previous while her parents were
on a trip around the world, Eleanor, then
seventeen, had made a success in school theatri-
cals that went straight to her head. She had
seen herself as nothing less than a second Duse.
Knowing that she could expect no sympathy
from either her father or mother, she had run
away from school and for more than seven
months, under the stage name of Eve Leth, she
had worked hard and without startling success
in a small town stock company. Finding a wide
gap between amateur and professional require-
ments, convinced that her ambitions would
never be realized, thoroughly disillusioned and
quite cured of her love for the stage, she had
returned home. There was no fatted calf killed
for this prodigal. She was received with an in-
sulting disbelief in her story until it had been
thoroughly investigated.
Her mother's reference was to this episode,
[87]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
which had had two results. Her father had al-
tered his will, with the thought of protecting
Eleanor from her own impetuosity, and her re-
lations with her mother had remained strained;
for in all their intercourse there was always at
the bottom of Mrs. Eveleth's thoughts that
little cold fear that her husband and she might
have been deceived—that they had not discov-
ered all there was to know of their daughter's
escapade.
Hence this baby, of an age to be embarras-
sing, was a blow the weight of which Mrs. Eve-
leth concealed even from herself. She dared not
think whose it might be. The child must be dis-
posed of at once—it must be cared for suitably,
of course, but no one—no one!—must be able
to connect it with her daughter.
That headstrong young lady was angry and
would not acknowledge that her mother had a
particle of right on her side, reminding herself
that Mrs. Eveleth's objections to Harry had
been active before she had even heard of the
existence of Miss Muffet, who simply was being
made an excuse for the most aggressive opposi-
tion. In consequence, she doggedly refused to
give the name or address of the people from
whom she had taken the little girl; whereupon
her mother had flared up and had swept Miss
[88]


CBOSS PURPOSES
Muffet out of the house into her waiting motor.
Eleanor had characterized this as a "bit of
bluff," but Mrs. Eveleth had returned without
the baby and since then had remained deaf to
all entreaties and questions.
That was the situation, and the suggestion
that the little girl was Harry's daughter put a
different complexion on the matter. To herself,
Eleanor was obliged to admit that it was un-
usual for a man to take such an interest in an-
other man's child. On the other hand, if it were
his own, why had he not told her? And then she
blushed furiously as she realized the difficulty
in the way of his confiding in her. Harry had
been devoted to her even when she was a school
girl, and Miss Muffet, at a guess, was between
three and four years old. Could it be possible
that, while he was making love to her he was
married to another girl? Or—not married?
Eleanor put her fingers in her ears as if she
would shut out the suggestions this line of
speculation brought trooping. She shook her
head vigorously. She would not believe it of
Harry!
Still, she could now better understand her
mother's attitude. Mrs. Eveleth rather prided
herself upon being a woman of the world, and
her daughter had heard her say, with no very
[89]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
definite appreciation of its meaning: "Boys
will be boys, a man must sow his wild oats."
Her mother would be the first to credit such a
story; and, alas, the first to condone, if the sin-
ner were suitably covered by a golden cloak.
The girl's thoughts crowded in upon her hap-
hazard, yet in the end she found her faith in
Harry unshaken. He was hot-tempered but, she
was sure, incapable of the baseness her mother
attributed to him. He was no coward. If the
child were his, he'd say so and expect in some
way to make his peace with her.
More was needed now than her loyalty and
confidence in him, which would not have the
slightest weight with Mrs. Eveleth, who had
absolute control over Eleanor's fortune. If she
married without her mother's consent and ap-
proval before she was thirty she might be cut
off without a cent. And the girl realized bitterly
that neither she nor Harry had received the
sort of training to fit them for a life of com-
parative poverty.
This thought led her naturally to a recollec-
tion of Mrs. Redmond Redfield and her break
with Harry, and it flashed over her that what
her mother had said of that quarrel must be
true. Mrs. Redfield, too, believed this wretched
story, and Harry had scorned to deny it, which
[90]


CROSS PURPOSES
would be exactly what might have been ex-
pected from him.
Eleanor, having doubted him for a moment,
longed to do something for the absent Harry
that would prove her faith in him to herself as
well as to others, and she determined to put the
facts of the case before his aunt. If that brought
about a reconciliation, her mother's objections
to their marriage would melt like snow before
a south wind.
Meanwhile what was she to do about the
child? She must know where it was before Har-
ry's arrival, that much at least was plain; and
with the intention of forcing her mother to tell
her its present whereabouts, she went upstairs
to face another unpleasant interview.
Mrs. Eveleth glanced up from the paper she
was reading, apparently with absorbing inter-
est, as her daughter entered the room.
"What do you want now, Eleanor?" she
asked irritably.
"I only came to say that while I don't be-
lieve a word of that story about Harry, I can
understand your point of view. This does not
alter the fact that I must know where Miss
Muffet is. You place me in a ridiculous position.
Whether she is Harry's or not, nothing could
justify me in concealing her from him."
[91]


CROSS PURPOSES
The girl's tone was resolute, and Mrs. Eve-
leth sighed.
"Am I never to hear the last of this?" she
murmured.
"Yes, mama," her daughter answered. "Just
the moment you tell me where I can find the
child. I will agree not to interfere in any way
with any arrangements you have made, so you
need not worry on that score. You'll acknowl-
edge that I can't be compromised so long as I
don't even go to see her. Furthermore I will
promise not to marry Harry till this suspi-
cion is cleared up. I'm too proud not to feel that
it must be explained in justice to him. I am
simply asking you to let me know where the
baby is so that I can give him that much in-
formation when he inquires. Surely you can
have no good reason for refusing."
Mrs. Eveleth groaned. The strain of days of
anxiety was telling on her nerves. She would
have liked nothing better than to have made the
compact which Eleanor suggested, but it was not
in her power. When she spoke, therefore, it was
with peevish acerbity and an assumption of stern
authority.
"Eleanor, I forbid you to mention this mat-
ter to me again. When Harry Waldron comes
back you may refer him to me. Meanwhile I am
^
[92]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
too busy to be harassed about so trivial a mat-
ter."
Feeling that she had acted generously,
Eleanor was genuinely angry, and a bitter reply
was on the tip of her tongue, when a servant
knocked at the door.
"The man has come, madam," he announced.
"I will go down at once, James," Mrs. Eve-
leth said, rejoiced at an excuse for retreat while
she could still claim the honors of war; and,
passing through the doorway she left her
daughter without another word.
[93]


CHAPTER VII A Bird in the Hand
Parkins watched Colonel Cameron intently as
he recoiled from the broad hint that Eleanor
Eveleth and Harry Waldron were the parents
of Miss Muffet. It was part of the detective's
procedure, whenever the chance offered, to sur-
prise those who were in any way connected with
his cases, always keeping in mind his funda-
mental principle that no one was above sus-
picion.
Therefore he strove to give the recital of each
discovery as much dramatic force as he could,
who was a very undramatic person, and, without
permitting himself to be unduly influenced by
appearances, carefully noted the effect pro-
duced. In this particular instance he recog-
nized immediately the sensation that would re-
sult from a suggestion of the hypothesis that
Miss Eveleth might be directly concerned in the
matter, and did not scruple to make the most
of it.
Colonel Cameron paced the room in silence,
his thoughts whirling chaotically from one pos-
sibility to another, but Parkins was forced to
^
[94]


A BIKD IN THE HAND
admit that his distress and amazement were
wholly genuine.
Presently the Colonel was able to control
himself sufficiently to put his thoughts in order
and at once began looking for facts to combat
this monstrous suggestion.
"To suppose for an instant that Eleanor
Eveleth is the child's mother is utter nonsense,"
he burst out finally. "I've known the girl since
she was born." He added this as if the simple
statement were all-sufficient proof.
Parkins shook his head.
"Don't see it," he said positively. "Lots of
girls you've known must have had babies. Look
the thing in the face, sir. Even you will agree
that the child is not the Nelsons'. Why, his
break in Boston was enough to satisfy anybody,
when we add to it what we know for sure al-
ready. Well then, along comes a strange young
lady to see the kid. (Not to see the Nelsons, mind
you. She's not their sort.) An' she gets so huffy
at findin' it neglected that she ups an' makes
off with it, declarin' at the same time that it
ain't the Nelsons' anyway.
"An' let me tell you Mrs. O'Donnell believes
her no matter what Mrs. Nelson may say. Now
who do you think would take that much interest
in a baby except its mother?"
'
[95]


STBICTLY PBIVATE
"It might be a friend of its mother's," pro-
tested the Colonel without conviction.
"Well, for the sake of argument, we'll admit
that," Parkins conceded. "But what are we to
think when we find this young lady's a very par-
ticular friend of Mr. Waldron's? Nelson took
the child. There's no doubt of that, an' he's
Waldron's chauffeur. Anywhere we look, we get
back to him. Maybe Miss Eveleth isn't the
child's mother, you can't deny it looks as if
Waldron was its father."
"Hold on!" the Colonel broke in, finding com-
fort in a sudden idea. "That doesn't agree with
your theory that Harry wanted to get Valentine
away from his aunt on account of his interest
in her money. Don't you see that if she were his
daughter, he would wish above all things to have
her stay where she was?"
"By no means I don't see it," returned Par-
kins. "If Mr. Waldron is broke, an' that's
what's likely, you can bet he'd be pleased to
be back on the old footing with his aunt. Plenty
of money in his pocket, an' all that. Now, as-
sumin' that the child is his, why ain't it natural
for him to argue that, in order to get it back,
Mrs. Redfield will be willin' to take him along
with it? He's countin' on her fondness for the
kid to bring about a reconciliation, an' I guess
[96]


A BIRD IN THE HAND
he's hit it off pretty well. In another month
she'll be beggin' to double his allowance if that
will give her possession of the baby."
"Then are you supposing that he had the
child left with her in the first place?" demanded
the Colonel, determined to give no hint that this
hypothesis was not entirely new to him.
"Why, sure!" said Parkins, "I've been
thinkin' that from the start."
The Colonel shook his head vigorously in the
negative.
"You're all wrong," he said, "and also
you're taking it for granted that Mrs. Redfield
knows that it's Harry's child."
"And what makes you so dead certain that
she doesn't?" queried Parkins.
"Because—because—" the other floundered
helplessly.
"Because you think she'd have told you all
about it?" Parkins finished the sentence for
him. "Maybe she would an' maybe she wouldn't;
but, Colonel, didn't it never occur to you that
Mrs. Redfield swallowed that plant surprisin'
meek, without even a squeal, as you might say?
Her, who was never thought to be over-fond of
children, picked this one up off the step an'
never asked who it was or where it come from.
IVe a notion she didn't have to ask."
[97]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
Colonel Cameron got up and started to pace
the office once more, now and then shaking his
head disconsolately. He began to fear that back
of all this mystery there lurked some miserable
intrigue. He was growing to loathe this stupid-
looking detective and his calculating, unemo-
tional way of putting two and two together.
Almost he was ready to wish they had never
seen or heard of poor little Valentine.
"Well," Parkins resumed calmly, "it ain't
sure that Mrs. Redfield knows the child is Harry
Waldron's, an' I wouldn't advise your sayin'
anything to her yet. Only, as soon as he thinks
his aunt is sufficiently worked up, he can let her
know where the baby is. That much it's safe to
bet on."
"I can't believe it of the boy!" Colonel Cam-
eron burst out passionately. "It may be his
child. It begins to look as if it were. What I can't
believe is that he is capable of sitting back and
torturing her in cold blood. He was always
straightforward, that I'll swear."
"All right, let's say it's his wife, he bein'
out of the country."
"He isn't married," the Colonel protested.
Parkins shrugged as he got to his feet and
picked up his dusty hat.
"Of course we don't know that, but have it
[98]


A BIRD IN THE HAND
your own way. Say the child's mother is at the
bottom of it, if that sounds better to you. The
result's just the same. It's Miss Eveleth who has
the kid. Anyway, I'm wastin' time. I'll be
goin'."
"You understand," the Colonel faltered,
"under no circumstances are such facts to be
given to the public. I don't dare think what
horror you may dig up next; but keep it out of
the papers, for God's sake! There will be plenty
of money for any purpose. Remember, you've
only two things to accomplish. Get the child,
and clear Harry Waldron of these suspicions—
if you can.''
Parkins wandered toward the door of the of-
fice where he turned back.
"By the way," he said casually, "do you hap-
pen to know where Miss Eveleth was about four
years ago?"
"Why, at school, of course," replied the Colo-
nel. Fortunately for his peace of mind he had
never heard of her theatrical experiment,
which both her family and the Framingham
school had made every effort to keep secret.
"Boardin' school?" queried the detective,
with a sidelong glance at his shabby hat.
"Yes."
"Whereabouts?"
'
[99]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
"Some place in New England. I've forgotten
the name of it, if I ever knew it," the Colonel
answered as if even this meagre information
was forced from him. He didn't know what the
man was driving at, but he distrusted him, or
rather, he dreaded to hear his worst suspicions
confirmed by this unfeeling investigator. In
truth, Parkin's next remark was not consoling.
"Hum," he murmured, "hum! And Mr.
Waldron was at Yale about the same time.
Hum.'' He moved slowly out of the office, mut-
tering confidentially into his hat.
Colonel Cameron made no attempt to delay
him. He was sunk in his chair, pondering how
much of this conversation he ought to repeat to
Mrs. Redfield. Certainly he would not be the one
to tell her that her nephew was strongly sus-
pected of being Valentine's father, nor did he
believe, in spite of the arguments the detective
had brought forward, that this idea had ever
occurred to her
Finally, he concluded that the less said about
Parkin's suspicions until they were corrobo-
rated, the better. There was no use in harrowing
Carol's feelings unnecessarily. Anyway, these
hints about Eleanor Eveleth and Harry were ab-
surd, but—but, they might be right after all.
Youth was an explanation and an excuse for
[100]


A BIRD IN THB HAND
much, and times had changed. He would like to
put the question of the marriage beyond dispute
before it was mentioned to Caroline and he
wished very much indeed that he could have
five minutes talk with Harry. Finally he rose
with a gesture of helplessness. He had suddenly
recalled Mr. Eveleth's will. If that detective
knew that Eleanor would lose her fortune if
she married without her mother's consent, he
would see a motive for the concealment. Money
was at the bottom of everything—
"Damn that man Parkins!" the good Colonel'
exclaimed fervently.
Meanwhile the detective walked along Wall
Street, so deep in thought that he was scarcely
conscious of the people passing him. Suddenly
he came to himself with a start as he heard his
name called.
"Ah, Parkins, just the man I want to see!"
The speaker was a prominent attorney, to whom
the detective had been useful on several oc-
casions. Parkins called him "a woman's law-
yer, '' rather scornfully, although one or two of
the most "interestin'" cases he had ever
handled had come to him through this gentle-
man's influence.
"My social secretary must ha' overslep',"
[101]


A BIRD IN THE HAND
Parkin's stolid face betrayed no sign of it,
but since the mention of the client's name his
apathy had changed to eagerness.
"Don't see how—" he began, and then, with
assumed reluctance, "well, I'll go to see her
tomorra mornin', though understand, I'm doin'
it just to oblige. I'm so busy, you know."
"That's all right, I appreciate the favor,"
the other interrupted, "and I'm grateful to you.
I'll let her know you'll be up in the morning,
so there'll be no chance of your missing her.
What time? Eleven, say. Here's her address.
Number Park Avenue. Good-bye." And the
lawyer, having shifted his responsibility, went
off to other business.
So that is how it happened that Mrs. Eveleth,
glad that the servant's interruption had termi-
nated an uncomfortable interview with her
daughter, hastened downstairs and confronted a
slightly fat, insignificant looking man dressed
in baggy clothes, who gave her a curt nod as
she entered.
She paused. This was not the sort of person
she had expected to see. In a crowd no one
would have looked at him twice. An invaluable
asset Parkins found this, yet assuredly he was
not the detective of fiction, and Mrs. Eveleth
knew no other.

[103]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
"You can't be the man who recovered Mrs.
Story's ruby pendant?" she began rather
brusquely, her low estimate of him only too ap-
parent.
"Yes, madam," Parkins returned humbly.
His voice surprised her. It was pleasantly low
and firm. Indeed, he desired intensely to put
Mrs. Eveleth into a calm and confiding frame of
mind.
'' And did you find Mr. Gibbon's Bible?"
"Yes, madam," Parkins replied again; then
thinking a little modest volubility would not be
amiss, he went on: "Can't claim much credit
there. It would have been returned pretty soon
anyway. The people who took it only wanted to
make a nice forgery. It's the only Bible of the
kind known to exist, so while Mr. Gibbon's copy
was lost they couldn't figure on discoverin'
another one. See what I mean? It had to be in
his possession again. After that there would
have been plenty of collectors just crazy to pay
anything for a duplicate."
It is to be regretted that, in the interests of
truth, it is necessary to record that Parkins had
invented this explanation on the spur of the mo-
ment to give his prospective client confidence in
him The facts were far otherwise and involved
[104]


A BIBD IN THE HAND
a particularly charming woman whose trust in
the detective was not misplaced. Mrs. Eveleth,
indeed, was much impressed without knowing
exactly why.
"I understand," she said graciously. "That
is most interesting. Now before I tell you the
details of my own difficulty, I must have positive
assurance of your absolute secrecy. Actually I
wake up in the night trembling, having dreamed
that one of these miserable little pictorial
papers has been publishing goodness knows
what horrors about it. You understand that this
is an unusually delicate matter?"
"It generally is a delicate matter when a lady
is the client," Parkins responded. "You can de-
pend on me, ma'am. I get my bread an' butter
by listenin', not by talkin'."
"Then," Mrs. Eveleth plunged desperately
into her recital, "my daughter, in an excess of
mistaken philanthropy, brought a child here,
and I've—I've lost it!"
Parkins set down his hat with tenderest care,
took a little memorandum book out of his pocket
and, finding a blank page, made an entry.
"Date, name, sex an' age?" he asked, and
wrote the answers.
"Go on," he said, without looking up.
'
[105]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
"That isn't the worst of it," Mrs. Eveleth
continued, with a moan. "I've no desire to see
the child again; but it's got to be found because
its father is coining back and he will demand to
know where it is."
"You said its name was Muffet—who is its
father?" asked Parkins, still busy with his note-
book.
"The father is Mr. Harry Waldron," Mrs.
Eveleth answered promptly and authoritatively.
That he did not start was proof positive that
Parkins was devoid of nerves.
"Where an' when was Mr. "Waldron mar-
ried?" he queried, poising his pencil over the
notebook.
"I did not say that he was married."
"Hum! My error. You have no doubt that this
is his child?"
"Certainly not. He says it is another man's,
so of course it must be his own!" replied Mrs.
Eveleth with unanswerable logic.
"And who is its mother?" Parkins gazed
straight at the woman before him, forcing her
to meet his eyes. For a moment Mrs. Eveleth
was a trifle disconcerted, a fact which the de-
tective observed, although he made no note of
it in his little book.
"Really, I have no idea who its mother is,"
[106]


A BIRD IN THE HAND
returned Mrs. Eveleth irritably. "Some folly
of his college days, I dare say; but that has
nothing to do with us."
"Certainly not," agreed Parkins. "Now how
did the child come to be lost?"
"Well, this is the whole story," resumed Mrs.
Eveleth, who, as she proceeded, began to ex-
perience a huge sense of relief, due partly to
the comfort of the confessional, and partly to
the thought that to this man, who made a busi-
ness of such matters, her little problem would
be child's play. "My daughter is young and
quixotic. She foolishly made a promise to look
after the little girl while Mr. Waldron was away
and, having found that it was neglected by the
people who were paid to care for it, she brought
it here! Think of it! Here, of all places! Con-
ceive the innocence of a young girl who could
do a thing like that. But I foresaw only too
clearly the gossip that would arise from the in-
troduction of an unexplained—an unexplain-
able child—this child in particular—into our
house."
"Why this particular child?" Parkins inter-
posed the question. He was curious as to how
she would evade it.
Mrs. Eveleth hesitated for some seconds and
at last decided on the truth.
'
[107]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
"Because of my daughter's intimacy with Mr.
Waldron. They were once practically engaged
to be married."
"I see," Parkins nodded. "What did you
do?"
"Do!" cried Mrs. Eveleth. "There was only
one thing to do. I clapped the child into my car
and drove to the Woman's Christian Union to
inquire if they knew of a suitable place to board
her. What other course could I have taken? My
daughter absolutely refused to tell me where
she had found her or I would have sent her back
(with a reprimand, of course for their negli-
gence), but in my ignorance, I was forced to
act as I did. I am perfectly willing to pay her
board until her father returns, you understand,
if you recover her."
"Go on with your story," Parkins gently led
her back to the business in hand.
"Then the queerest thing happened," Mrs.
Eveleth told him. "I left the child in my limou-
sine while I went in to see the secretary—and
when I returned she was gone! I don't know
when I've had such a shock. The footman and
the chauffeur are both reliable, and they told me
that a lady had come along the street and
stopped immediately when she saw the baby at
the car window. Evidently she knew her inti-
[108]


A BIRD IN THE HAND
mately, for the little girl seemed glad to see her
and begged to be taken to 'Auntie.'"
"What did she look like?" asked Parkins.
"This woman, I mean?"
"The men insist that she was a lady and, fur-
ther, that she must have been an acquaintance
of mine because they remember having seen her
before, although we were not sufficiently inti-
mate for them to know her name.
"This being the case and concluding, not un-
reasonably I think, that the child had referred
to me when she said 'Auntie,' the footman
opened the door of the car and let her go. To
further confirm this belief of theirs, the lady
took the child into the Woman's Christian Union
building, where I was, 'to look for' me, as they
supposed; but I never saw them, nor did any-
one else about the place."
"That's queer," the detective grunted.
"Very strange," agreed Mrs. Eveleth. "You
can understand that I was in a panic when I
found the child gone. I didn't dare to tell even
my own men the circumstances of my having
her, and I had to be most guarded in my in-
quiries among the employees of the Union. In
fact, I was obliged to invent the most awful lies
on the spur of the moment; for they were all
stirred up over the thought of an abduction;
'
[109]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
and finally I wrote them that the little girl had
been recovered, a message for me having been
left with my footman, who was too stupid to
understand it. You can appreciate my position,
can't you? Here I was, looking for a child of
whose antecedents I knew nothing and of which
I dared not talk. What could I have said to a
newspaper reporter? Heavens, the agony I have
endured, expecting momentarily to be con-
fronted with a yellow journalist demanding
facts!"
Mrs. Eveleth stopped, quite out of breath and
much agitated. The recital of her experiences
had ended by vividly recalling her anxieties.
Parkins sat silent, making notes in his little
book. He rarely looked at these notes afterward,
but he found the process useful when he wished
to think uninterruptedly; also it had an impres-
sively businesslike look. At the moment he was
wondering how much Mrs. Eveleth was conceal-
ing from him. It was quite possible that she was
telling him everything she knew; on the other
hand, if she was aware of it, she would certainly
not reveal that her daughter was the baby's
mother.
"All that I wish you to do," Mrs. Eveleth's
words broke in upon the man's thoughts, "is
to find the whereabouts of the child. I don't
[110]


A BIRD IN THE HAND
want to see her or have anything to do with her
further than that, and remember," she added
impressively, "I have no interest in your theo-
ries or anything you may discover beyond that
simple fact. You can write me, so there will be
no need of your coming here again. I have noth-
ing further to tell you, and I don't want the
servants catechised. Only find the child and hold
your tongue. That is all I ask of you—but be
quick about it!"
"I'll do the best I can, ma'am," Parkins said,
as he took leave of her, "it's a more difficult
case than you appear to realize."
On the avenue he dropped into a slow, uncer-
tain step, turning over in his mind this latest
information he had received.
"Nelson's got the kid back," he said to him-
self. "Only hold on! Mrs. Nelson ain't a lady
an' she ain't likely to be acquainted with Mrs.
Eveleth—though of course her footman might
be mistaken about that."
He looked at his watch.
"Guess I'll spend the rest of this day just
thinkin'," he murmured, and headed for the
subway.

[Ill]


CHAPTER VIII Parkins Finds a New Job
One evening a day or two later Parkins "hap-
pened" to encounter Ed Nelson. The detective,
having learned that the chauffeur had returned
to New York, had been loitering about the neigh-
borhood, hoping to arrange a "chance" meeting
and finally had succeeded.
"Why, who'd 'a' thought of seein' you!"
Nelson exclaimed with, for him, excessive
cordiality.
"Well, well," said Parkins, shaking the
other's hand. "You ain't a mite more surprised
than I am; though, now I come to think of it,
you did say you was goin' to live out here in
the Bronx. But I didn't know you was expectin'
to get here so soon."
"I didn't expect to," Nelson explained. "But
that party of mine had to cut down their trip
all of a sudden and return by train. Man's father
got sick and they thought he was goin' to kick
off. It didn't cost me nothin' though. They paid
for the time they'd engaged and I get 'em again
in the Fall. Oh, they was white folks all right,
but—" he scowled, "I got back to find I'd lost
more'n I'd made, along of havin' a fool wife."
[112]


PARKINS FINDS A NEW JOB
"How was that?" Parkins asked innocently.
Nelson immediately became his usual taciturn
self.
"That's my business," he grunted, and then
added in a burst of indignation: "But I ain't
done with it yet, not by no means. I know where
to look for what I've lost."
"Come an' have a drink," Parkins suggested,
thinking it as well not to seem to press the sub-
ject for the time being.
"Well, I don't mind if I do," Nelson con-
sented rather ungraciously; but a little later
as they sat at a table each grasping a mug of
beer, he became more genial.
"Still sellin' that bum grease?" he inquired
after a desultory talk.
"Yeah," admitted Parkins with assumed dis-
content. "Yeah, I'm still at it, but there ain't
no money in it an' it's far from excitin', I can
tell the world. I'm thinkin' of quittin' if any-
thing else turns up. Do you suppose I could
learn chauffeurin'?"
Nelson looked dubious. "I don't know," he
said. "You've got to have the feelin' for your
machine. It ain't like drivin' a horse. Just any-
body can't do it, though there's plenty thinks
they can."
"Oh, I wasn't lookin' to be a dab at it like
'
[113]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
"You can," Nelson asserted positively, "so,
if you're ready to take it up, I'll give you the
whole story."
"Fire away," Parkins replied, and the two
men seated themselves in the parked automobile
where Nelson launched out on his revelation.
"I don't quite know how to tell you all this.
I never had the gift of the gab; but it began by
my bein' Harry Waldron's chauffeur. Mr. W.
was a rich young fella, a real swell, mind; and
he treated me fine for the twenty months or so
I was with him. About a year ago he calls me
up, givin' orders to meet him at an office buildin'
downtown and, when I seen him, he tells me he's
goin' away at once and I bought his car then and
there, this very one we're sittin' in."
"Did you have the money?" asked Parkins,
feeling some display of interest necessary.
Nelson nodded: "Oh, I had the money. I'd
been savin' for just such a chance. Well, he
doesn't say much, only anyone could see he was
pretty broke' up about some thin'—an' I knew
his goin' that way was sudden, because he'd
been plannin' a long trip to Canada. And I'd
had an idea he was thinkin' of gettin' married
pretty quick. (One reason I wanted my own car.
No woman ain't goin' to boss me.) Maybe I was
too suspicious about that, later on I kind o'
"
[116]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
me some money, promisin' to send more shortly
and off he goes."
"Leavin' the kid on your hands," Parkins
commented.
Nelson ignored this and went on with his
story:
"Now, of course, I wasn't fooled by what he
told us about her. I made a pretty good guess
that its father in foreign parts was Mr. Waldron
himself, which didn't make any difference to me
and the wife, though we did talk about it once
and again, wonderin' who its mother might be."
"Had you no notion?" inquired Parkins.
"None in the world," answered Nelson, "and
it wasn't a bad kid, as kids go. He called it
'Miss Muffet,' a name out of a book, my wife
says, and to this day I don't know any other
name for it unless it's Waldron.
"Well, as I said, he left us some money,
promisin' to send more; but when months went
by and no word from him, why we began to
wonder what was up? Just about then the panic
comes along and people wasn't spendin' a great
deal on auto rides, let me tell you."
"Times was hard," said Parkins.
"Times was pretty hard for a while there,"
Nelson assented. "And what with the car
needin' repairs, and the wife needin' clothes
v
[118]


PABKINS FINDS A NEW JOB
and—well, as I said, the car needin' repairs, I
began to grudge the cash that went for the
child's keep.
"Now, you see, I knew all about Mr. Waldron,
'cause I was drivin' him every day, and I knew
he had a rich aunt out in Ridgelands, Connecti-
cut—the one he'd quarrelled with—and I
didn't see no reason why she shouldn't be payin'
the expenses of Mr. Waldron's kid for him in-
stead of me. She could afford it better."
"Sure," interjected Parkins.
"At first I was for tellin' this aunt the whole
story; but my woman was against that, say in'
that it might make mischief, while if Mr Wald-
ron come back and found his aunt real fond of
the baby without her knowin' whose baby it
was, why he couldn't be very mad about it. It
wasn't human to get fightin' with a rich rela-
tion and havin' your supplies cut off for a
reason like that. In the end I agreed with her,
so we decided we 'd just leave the kid there and
let it do its own talkin'. It wasn't more'n three
and couldn't talk enough to hurt, which was all
the better, to my way of thinkin'."
"It was a good scheme," Parkins conceded.
"Anyway, I fixed up the machine so no one
would know it, and the wife blew in a lot of
money quite unnecessary to my mind, for some
[119]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
extra fine dresses, she washin' them up to look
like they was used every day, as they had to,
if they was to deceive 'em and make the old aunt
think the child belonged to rich people—and we
put them in a little bundle for the kid to carry."
"That was smart!" said the detective ad-
miringly and quite in earnest. "A foundlin' they
might send away; but they'd stick to one of their
own kind.''
"That's what my wife thought," said the
chauffeur briefly. "She told Miss Muffet what
to do and one day we left her at the house and
beat it again before anyone could make us out
even if they saw us, which I don't believe they
did. And there we were rid of the child, and a
good job too, we thought then."
"Kids is an awful nuisance," Parkins volun-
teered from the depths of his imaginary experi-
ence. "I've got enough of 'em to be a judge.
Wish I could get shet of a few o' mine like
that!"
"Well, six months went by," continued Nel-
son, with an assenting grunt, "and we was be-
ginnin' to forget there'd ever been a child in the
house, when one mornin' we got a letter from
Mr. Waldron. He enclosed a big check to pay
for the kid's keep and said he was comin' home,
rich as cream, and that if he found the baby all

[120]


PARKINS FINDS A NEW JOB
right he'd give us a thousand dollars apiece."
"What luck!" exclaimed Parkins, trying to
sound envious.
"Luck!" snarled Nelson, "with the child
gone? You ought to've heard my wife carry on!
You're married and you know how it is, I sup-
pose; but if it had been a million Mr. Waldron
had promised she couldn't have made more fuss
about it. Of course she blamed me for sendin'
the baby away, though she was near as anxious
for that as I was at the time. Then she began
tellin' me what she could buy with that thou-
sand, and the long and short of it was I deter-
mined to get the kid back again just the way we
left her."
"Kidnappin'?" Parkins said, as the other
paused for an instant.
"By no means,'' Nelson protested.'' Don't you
see that's where we're safe as safe? It wasn't
no crime to let the kid visit her aunt for a while,
and if we took her back when we thought she'd
stayed long enough, why we had a perfect right
to do it. Anyhow, that's what we done. Picked
her up and off with her at sixty miles an hour.
We took some chances that time, 'cause the
butler and one of the girls saw us, but we had
to risk somethin'. Afterward, my woman leaves
me and goes to New York by train havin'
[121]


STBICTLT PBIVATE
changed the kid's clothes, and I hiked up to
Providence to pick up that party I had with me
in Boston when I first saw you. I had just done
the trick then."
"You don't tell me!" said Parkins, with ex-
actly the right shade of laudation.
"Well, having pulled off that job, I hadn't
a thought of any trouble," Nelson went on,
"though we did expect more or less of a row
in the newspapers; and to this day, I can't make
out why nothin' was heard of it. So far as I
know, they didn't lift a hand to find the kid.
Fact is, we was all right until my wife had to
be foolish and go and lose her again."
Parkin's surprise was excessive. "You don't
say!" he exclaimed incredulously. "You don't
mean to tell me she lost the child?"
"Yes, sir, she lost her. A kid worth all that
money." Nelson affirmed with deep disgust.
"It was the day she moved into the new flat.
Instead of takin' the kid with her, she goes
gallivantin' out, leavin' her alone (a kid worth
two thousand, mind you!), givin' the key of our
front door to an Irish lady across the hall. While
my wife was away, along comes a swell young
dame and walks off with the brat, sayin' we ain't
takin' proper care of her. And that's the last
we ever seen of her. Gee, if I hadn't been a
>
[122]


PARKINS FINDS A NEW JOB
gentleman, I'd ha' knocked my woman for a
loop when I heard it."
"An' I wouldn't 'a' blamed you," said Par-
kins, full of sympathy. "You got her back again
though, didn't you?"
"No," Nelson insisted. "It's a fact we ain't
laid eyes on her since, and it's to find the kid I
want your help. She was stole from us and I
think I'm justified in takin' her back any way
I can, don't you?"
"You sure are," Parkins agreed, after a mo-
ment's thought.
"I'm glad you feel like that," Nelson went
on again, "because I didn't want to ask you to
do anything you might think was a crime. I've
got a pretty good notion where the kid is, but
I haven't time to hang 'round makin' love to
chamber-girls and such; so if you'll give up this
grease business, I'll learn you how to run a ma-
chine for no thin' and pay your expenses while
you're on the job. If we get hold of her in time
—well, I won't be mean."
"I'm your man," said Parkins promptly.
"Good!" cried Nelson, and the two shook
hands on the bargain.
"Now," he resumed, "I'm thinkin' you'll
find the kid in the possession of Miss Eleanor
Eveleth. Harry Waldron was goin' to marry her
[123]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
until he had the flare-up with his aunt. Then her
mother wouldn't hear of it, but it came mighty
near happenin' anyhow. You see I knew what
was goin' on. All the time I was with him, he
used to take Miss Eveleth out in the machine
and to the theatre and what not, and me there
drivin'."
"He had another girl, hadn't he?" suggested
Parkins.
"No, I'd ha' known it quick enough if there
was anybody else," Nelson shook his head, "and
there wasn't, not in my time; he was straight,
was Harry Waldron. He came near runnin' off
with her in spite of her mother. But there was
somethin' against it, though I couldn't be sure
what it was, only catchin' a word or two of their
talk now and then. I guess it was money comin'
to her that she wouldn't get if she married with-
out her mother bein' willin'."
"It's always money!" grunted Parkins under
his breath.
"Anyway, when I got back from that trip, I
looked up the Irish neighbor who let the swell
skirt into our flat, and from her description of
the car she come in, I'm certain it was Miss
Eveleth. It ain't so unlikely he'd tell her about
the kid, wantin' her to keep an eye on it, only
[124]


STRICTLY PBIVATB
"No!" said Nelson, with explosive emphasis.
"I've thought of that all right, but Mr. Waldron
won't be back for some time yet, so you don't
have to hurry, and I don't know what a real
'busy' might think of it. Why, they're kind of
policemen and you can't trust 'em. Beside, this
is an easy job, just findin' a little kid. No, you'll
do. I don't want a real detectuv."
"Maybe it's safer," Parkins agreed. "I'll
do the best I can for you."
*
[126]


CHAPTER IX As Others See Us
Rhoda's "day out" was always a time for much
planning and anticipated joy, but this particu-
lar holiday was of more than usual interest. It
was not a matter of the day alone, for Mrs. Red-
field had given her permission to spend the
night with her married sister Emily, and Rhoda
had important news for her. Emily, because
she had made a good match, was distinctly
patronizing to Rhoda. She was given to putting
on airs, boasting about her house and her gar-
den as if the little village of Hazel, Long Island,
had been established for her special benefit.
Furthermore, she took every possible occasion
to point out the sort of man her younger sister
should marry, and was so prodigal with her ad-
vice that Rhoda had ceased her monthly visits,
preferring to struggle along unaided by the
other's superior wisdom.
Now at last Rhoda's day of triumph had come.
Thomas had surrendered at discretion and they
were engaged. Moreover, Thomas was a most
desirable match. Fifteen years of service in
"the best families"; and careful, not to say
prayerful, investment of the proceeds, had in-
[127]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
creased his bank account to figures many might
envy. Not that Rhoda was mercenary. Being in
love, she would have taken Thomas without a
penny, yet she was conscious of the satisfaction
to be had out of telling Emily of the house they
were going to buy and the other glories in pros-
pect. Rhoda would not appear exultant; cer-
tainly not! She meant to take it all as a matter
of course and to sympathize with dear Emily
a little.
Her preparations that morning were exacting
and minute, but at last her toilette was com-
pleted and it was still early when she tripped
downstairs, well content with the result of her
efforts, and bent on giving Thomas a treat.
On the way she met Fluffy Ruffles, who begged
to be taken along, knowing well the meaning of
hats. The sight of him dulled the keenness of
her joy. He always made her think of the baby
and wonder sadly where she was. She leaned
down and patted the dog.
"No, Fluff, I can't take you with me today,"
she said, then consolingly: "They don't like
little dogs on the cars; but, when I come back,
you shall have a long walk." He followed her to
the pantry where Thomas, seeing a shadow on
the face of his lady-love, hastened to dispel it.
"Turn 'round 1" he commanded, with undis-
[128]


AS OTHERS SEE US
guised admiration. "Sure ye've no need to look
like ye'd lost yer last friend. Em'ly won't never
have such a gown as that—no, nor such a figure
inside it!"
"I was thinkin' of Miss Valentine, wonderin'
would we ever see her again," she returned.
Thomas's own face became grave at once:
"I'm hopin' we'll have her back before long,"
he said. "The Madam ain't the kind to give up.
Never mind that today," he went on, intent on
bringing back Rhoda's smiles. "You go and
show Em'ly what a real good-looking girl looks
like."
"Get away with your blarney, Thomas!"
exclaimed the blushing Rhoda. "You know
Em'ly's handsome. Many's the time you've said
so yourself."
"And so I have," Thomas acknowledged,
"but I never thought she was a patch on you."
A little later, after a surreptitious kiss, Rhoda
left him, all smiles.
It was a long trip from Ridgelands, Connecti-
cut, to Hazel, Long Island, and Rhoda had plenty
of time to think on the way. Naturally Thomas
and her future occupied the foremost place in her
mind; but, as she sat in a crowded cross-town
car, her thoughts reverted to Flufly Ruffles.
"'Tis a pity I couldn't take him with me,"
[129]


STRICTLY PEIVATB
she said to herself. "The poor little dog's that
lonesome with no one to play with him."
This brought Miss Muffet to mind again and
when she finally stepped from the train at Hazel
she was more than ever depressed.
"Sure, I've give' up all hope of ever seein'
the precious baby again," she murmured to her-
self, as she started off to walk to her sister's
house on the outskirts of the little town. So en-
grossed was she in her dismal thoughts that she
scarcely noticed what was going on about her
and, when she heard her name called, it made
only a vague impression. She stopped, however,
puzzled for a moment.
"I must be goin' crazy," she said to herself,
"I heard the child callin' 'Whoda!' as plain as
plain. I must be goin' crazy," she repeated, and
started off again.
"Whoda, oh Whoda! P'ease turn to me."
This time there was no mistaking the genuine-
ness of the appeal. Rhoda turned, scarcely able
to contain herself, for she knew the voice too
well to have any doubt of its origin.
"Where are you, dear?" she called anxiously.
"Wight here, Whoda. Oh, tate me to Auntie
Tawol."
Ehoda looked down and saw, pressing a tear-
stained face against the palings of the fence,

[130]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
its abductors know that she had discovered its
whereabouts, nothing would be more likely than
that it would be hurried to some other place of
concealment where there would be small chance
of finding it again. She looked around her ap-
prehensively. There was no one about, the vil-
lage was apparently deserted at that time of
day. Rhoda decided that there was but one thing
for her to do—she must take the child back to
Mrs. Redfield. She could depend upon her mis-
tress to fight any battles that might arise in the
future as a result of her action.
"We won't ask anybody whether we can go
or not, my dear," she whispered to the child.
"Come to the gate and we'll be off."
"Tan't open ve date. Nobody tan wivout ve
tey," Miss Muffet replied dolefully.
"Do you mean that they lock you in, my pre-
cious lamb?" asked Rhoda.
"'Es, tan't open it wivout ve tey."
"Then you'll come over the fence," said
Rhoda determinedly.
At that moment a delivery wagon turned the
corner and came rattling toward her. She pre-
sented her back to it, waiting until it had dis-
appeared, a block away, whirling around an-
other corner in a cloud of dust.
"Come now, dearie," she said tremulously,

[132]


AS OTHEES SEE ITS
reaching over the fence. But this was not such
an easy matter as it looked, and it was not until
she had wedged her foot between the palings
that she could raise herself sufficiently to grasp
the child and lift her over. Her task was ac-
complished at last, and, with a huge sigh of re-
lief, she set the baby on the pavement beside
her.
"Now as fast as you can, dearie," she urged,
taking the small hand in hers, and together the
two hurried away.
It need hardly be said that Rhoda had given
up all thought of visiting her sister. With the
child in her possession, her one desire was to be
quit of the neighborhood before Miss Muffet was
missed and then, of course, to make her way
back to Ridgelands. But her chief need for haste,
as she thought, was to get away from Hazel. It
did not make any difference where she went and,
remembering having crossed some trolley
tracks on her way from the station, she hurried
back the way she had come. Here Fate was kind
to her for, as she reached the intersection of
two streets, a trolley car drew up and a minute
later they were inside it and rapidly widening
the distance between themselves and possible
pursuers.
Rhoda, Miss Muffet by her side, settled down
[133]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
with a comfortable feeling of contentment. Now
that she had escaped from the immediate neigh-
borhood of Hazel she was certain that her
troubles were ended and that the chances of
anyone catching her were few; indeed, the com-
forting thought had come to her that Miss
Muffet's kidnappers would not dare pursue pub-
licly. She did not know where the car was taking
them and, after all, it did not make any differ-
ence now that the necessity for haste was over,
so she decided to stay in it until it reached the
end of the line. It was little past noon, there
was plenty of time and nothing to worry about.
And how Thomas would praise her for finding
the baby! She glowed at the thought.
Miss Muffet also was quite content. That she
looked like a small boy troubled her not at all.
Her dear "Whoda" was beside her. She was on
her way back to "Auntie Tawol," her cup of
happiness was full.
After a ride of a number of miles queer
shapes began to appear in the distance and with
a start, Rhoda guessed where they were. This
was Coney Island! A place of enchantment she
had never visited before, although Em'ly had
urged her many times. They left the car with
the other passengers and a moment later she
and Miss Muffet were a part of the restless,

[134]


AS OTHERS SEE US
eager crowd pacing up and down the main
thoroughfare of that unique city of entertain-
ment.
The strange sights and amusements had an
equal fascination for rescuer and rescued. The
latter trotted along beside a guardian not much
older in her feelings, and there was a constant
exchange of "Oh, Whoda. Look at vis!" with
"Oh, dearie, look at that!" They wandered
about, an easy prey to the enticing words of
the barkers; munched salt-water taffy and pop-
corn and were as happy as all the other people
seemed to be. It is not to be wondered at that
Rhoda had small idea of the passage of time.
After all, for all that she was the first chamber-
maid, she was not much more than a child her-
self, and, having no fear that she could possibly
be traced from Hazel, she felt no pressing need
of immediate return to Conneticut. Yet she
started with surprise when she discovered that
it was nearly five o 'clock and she was still four
hours or more from home.
"Goodness me!" she exclaimed. "Where has
the day gone?"
Even then it took a little time to find the place
the train left from, and next, there was a wait
until the starting hour. Altogether, it was quite
a good deal later when they were really off. Miss
f
[135]


AS OTHEBS SEE US
Rhoda gasped as it dawned on her that she
was the kidnapper the police were seeking. She
caught her breath as the fear of discovery
seized her. police guard all approaches to the
city! She read the ominous words again and
shuddered as she realized that the train was
hurrying her to certain capture.
"Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?" She
murmured, looking down at the baby. And the
child, as if answering the question, opened her
sleepy eyes for a moment and said: "Tate me
to Auntie Tawol.''
[137]


CHAPTER X Another Client
Paekins was sitting on a bench in the Bronx
Zoological Park watching the people wandering
slowly from one exhibit to the next. It was late
in the afternoon, time, in fact, to be thinking
of going home; but the detective stayed where
he was, puzzling over the case of Miss Muffet.
He liked to have a crowd around him when
there was a serious problem to be solved. He
was a frequent visitor to the Zoo, not to look at
the caged animals, in which he had little inter-
est, but rather at the two-legged ones. Some of
the latter he had seen in cages themselves at one
time or other, and he often wondered what was
passing through their minds as they stood gaz-
ing at the imprisoned beasts. He thought it
curious that so many men and women who had
"done time" should be found there; not with
any criminal purpose, be it understood, but ap-
parently drawn to the place by an inexplicable
fascination. The psychology of the matter in-
terested him mightily, although he was old-
fashioned and did not phrase it in quite that
way.
He had lost track of the missing child abso-
[138]


ANOTHER CLIENT
lately. Since it had disappeared from Mrs.
Eveleth's motor not a hint of it could he come
by. It was gone as completely as if there never
had been such a child, and all the while his vari-
ous clients clamored to know what he was doing
about it! Mrs. Redfield and Colonel Cameron
reminded him many times each day that their
patience was nearing exhaustion. Mrs. Eveleth
wrote nervously, asking "Why have you not ad-
vised me where the child is?" Nelson, whom he
was forced to see every morning, sarcastically
told him, to his face that he was "a peach of a
detectuv."
As Parkins sat there, rather detached from
what was going on about him, his attention was
attracted to a small wizened-faced individual
who, catching the detective's eye, pointed to his
own exotic waistcoat as if to ask: "Am I the
one you're after?" Parkins shook his head
negatively, but, on second thought, motioned
the man to come and sit beside him.
"Well, now I know you're here, Hobbs, you'd
better be good or you won't be 'appy," he said.
The man laughed cheerfully as he seated him-
self.
"You don't 'ave to tell me that," he returned
easily, "this is me 'olid'y, you know. I halwuz
spends 'em with the hanimiles. Me hold father
/
[139]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
was a trynor and I feel at 'ome with 'em. Be-
sides," he added, "be-sides, I've reformed—"
"Yeah. They all do," Parkins rejoined
laconically.
'' No, but honest,'' Hobbs insisted.'' Blyme me,
if this ain't on the square! You remember
Molly Burns?"
"Sure!"
"When she turned 'oly and sent her own
brother and Ted Joram up for ten years, some
of us was pretty sore on Molly. If she'd a' 'eld
'er tongue we'd 'a' got 'em hoff, per'aps; for,
as you know yourself, it was 'er peachin' did
the job. Well, we was meanin' to get Molly one
w'y or 'nother, thinkin' she was bein' p'yed
for it, see? But we was wrong. She didn't do hit
for 'erself. 'Their poor bodies is in j'yl,' sez
she, 'but hit's their himmortal souls I'm
a-syvinV 'Er meanin' every word; an' that
kind o' myde it different in a w'y." Hobbs
paused, as if expecting some word from the de-
tective.
"Go on," Parkins grunted.
"There ayn't nothin' more to be said. Molly
married a mechanic, nyme o' Warnick. She did
well, too, 'im mykin' good wyges an' 'er syvin',
till now they've got a fine little 'ome on Long
Island, with a bit of garden and a kid to top hit

[140]


ANOTHER CLIENT
hof with. Molly's as respectable as 'ell, she is."
"I know that, what I was lookin' to have you
tell me is about your gettin' reformed," said
Parkins, his scepticism apparent. Hobbs showed
signs of embarrassment.
"It's Molly," he confessed. "I was by w'y of
bein' kind o' fond o' 'er hin the hold d'ys but
after the trial, I skipped hout for a while—an'
when I come hon again she was married. Well
—'bout a year ago, she picks me hup in the
street, tellin' me to come and see 'er—an' I
went. It didn't please 'er 'usband none, but
that don't faze Molly. She's after my himmortal
soul, and blyme me if she ayn't pretty near got
hit!"
He paused and lit a cigarette. Parkins said
nothing and he began again.
"Anyw'y, leavin' me hout of it, she's mykin'
good. With what s 'cieties of one kind or 'nother,
she's hassociatin' continual' with swell wemen
who ayn't got nothin' else to do but syve souls.
Nothin' ayn't too good for Molly, an' blyme
me, hif one of 'em ayn't brought 'er a kid to
bring hup, p'yin' for its keep an' all. Molly
ayn't no fool, let me tell you, an' she's stryght
all right—but she mykes it p'y!"
Parkins indulged himself in an unobtrusive
smile.

[141]


ANOTHEB CLIENT
"Gee!" he exclaimed, "the time does go in a
place like this. I'm late. You keep on lettin'
Molly reform you, 'cause you need it; but—look
out for Warnick!" And, with a laugh, Parkins
hurried off.
At first he walked rapidly toward the nearest
exit from the Park, gradually his steps grew
slower and slower as he pondered the informa-
tion that had come to him so unexpectedly.
"I've got it at last!" he said to himself, for
he was entirely convinced that the child in Long
Island was the one he was in search of.
"Hum," he soliloquized. "So this is where
Mrs. Gilbert Redfield comes into the game with
her 'Katie Kerry.' She's after the money—al-
ways has been, which ain't no surprise—only
how did she get hold of the child? S'pose she
must ha' been the lady the footman thought
he'd seen before. Hum, I wonder if she knows
whose it is? Maybe, maybe? It's a queer case,
an' what I've got to do now is to see Molly.
Hum! Suppose she won't give it up? Hum,
who'll I give it to if I find it? Nelson's got the
best right to it—but then, he left it with Mrs.
Redmond Redfield. And there's the Eveleths;
only they don't want it—at least the mother
doesn't want it an' maybe the daughter doesn't

[143]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
dare. Hum! My troubles ain't done when I get
it, I'm thinkin'. I ain't no Solomon. Anyway,
me for Long Island."
Parkins accelerated his pace and was soon
at the subway, waiting to board an express.
His eyes lit on the evening edition of a news-
paper and the staring headlines made him
pause.
"MYSTERY IN THE KIDNAPPING CASE
MRS. WARNICK REFUSES TO NAME THE
PARENTS OF THE LOST CHILD
ADMITS IT IS NOT HER OWN
POLICE WATCH ALL TRAINS AND
FERRIES. ARREST EXPECTED
SHORTLY"
Muttering an oath, Parkins bought a paper
and read the latest account. There could be no
doubt that he had again missed Miss Muffet,
and he decided that there was no immediate
need of his going to Long Island. The police
were in the case now, which was the last thing
he had wanted; and to keep his distinguished
clients out of it, he must keep out of sight him-
self. With a gesture of disgust, he turned his
steps in the direction of his own home. Arriving
there, he found a message from the president of
a prominent bank, desiring him to call upon
[144]


ANOTHEB CLIENT
Mrs. Gilbert Redfield on the following morning
at quarter of eleven.
"Hum!" muttered Parkins to himself.
"Here's another one. Wouldn't it be swell if
there weren't so many good guys with work for
me?" And even as he said it there was a knock
at his door. He seated himself heavily in his
only armchair.
"Come in!" he shouted.
The door opened and a very perfect expres-
sion of the tailor's art at its best stood on the
threshold. Mr. James Harrison said with pride
that he paid his tailor bills because he could af-
ford to, but that should he lose his money, he
would be able to get all the clothes he wanted
for nothing, as it made any tailor's fortune to
be able to boast that Mr. Harrison was his cus-
tomer.
"I'm looking for a Mr. Parkins," Mr. Har-
rison said with some hesitation.
"That's me," Parkins acknowledged grudg-
ingly, "an' if it's business, shut that door—
tight." The detective was frequently conscious
of a sense of antagonism when he came into con-
tact with people of Mr. Harrison's world, and
he had an old-womanish fear of drafts; a min-
gling of which motives, rather than a sense of
caution, had drawn forth this remark.
[145]


STBICTLY PBIVATE
"Aw, really," said Mr. Harrison, "I didn't
know, you know.'' But he shut the door.
"Well, sit down," Parkins grunted. "What
do you want?"
Mr. Harrison felt injured. His patronage was
usually considered a boon.
"I—aw—came to put a certain case in your
hands professionally, but perhaps you are too
busy to be interested.''
This was pretty good for Jimmy Harrison.
It almost indicated that he might have a rudi-
mentary backbone; for the detective was very
obviously idle. Parkins reddened.
"I'm busy all right," he said; "maybe you
won't understand it, it's my brains I work with.
I can do that sittin'. So fire away. You didn't
come up all those stairs to hear me talk."
"You've been recommended to me—"
"Sure!" Parkins interrupted. "You can cut
all that part out. Who sent you?"
"No one sent me exactly, but when previously
I had need of a—aw—person with your—aw—
qualifications I remember you were suggested
and I paid you a thumping bill. For Made-
moiselle Rosette de Soie, I mean—"
"Never heard of the lady," said Parkins.
"Do you mean to say you don't recall re-
[146]


ANOTHER CXIBNT
covering her little sister's letters for her just
before she married Willie Sturtevant?"
"Oh, pshaw!" exclaimed the detective. "Is
it Rosie Silk you're talkin' about? Why didn't
you say so? Sure, I got back the letters she was
fool enough to write to Dutch Jake. She never
had a sister, big or little. Don't tell me you fell
for that hooey. Why even Rosie didn't think you
was that innocent. Wouldn't have charged her
a nickel for doin' the work. She was raised next
door to us down on the East Side when the
Bronx was woods."
"Well, she stung me for your bill, all right,"
Harrison informed him a trifle grimly.
"Don't you make any mistake about that,
young fella," Parkins shot at him aggressively.
"Rosie Silk was a lady, even before she made
that Ziegfeld show a success. I got every penny
of your money. Says she to me: 'There's a poor
sap just dyin' to pay your bill for me. It'll be
something nice for him to remember after I'm
married to Sturtevant, so let's make him happy,
Willie!'An'we did."
"Then those are not your usual charges?"
demanded Mr. Harrison. "I came to you be-
cause I thought you'd never have the nerve to
ask such prices unless you were pretty good."
""
[147]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
"Make your mind easy," Parkins told him.
"I'd not stick you, even to oblige an old friend.
Now get down to business."
"It's a serious and confidential matter—"
Mr. Harrison still hesitated.
"And it concerns a lady," Parkins suggested.
"Now how did you guess that?" asked Mr.
Harrison, intrigued at once.
"A lady you are in love with," went on Mr.
Parkins, his stock rising with his client every
minute.'' She is very handsome.''
"She's a pippin!" said Mr. Harrison feel-
ingly, "and I really believe she'd have me if
Harry Waldron were out of the way. At any
rate, her mother says she would."
Mr. Parkins liked to think that nothing ever
surprised him, but it was with difficulty that he
suppressed a start when young Waldron's name
was mentioned.
"You see," Mr. Harrison resumed, at last
fairly launched upon his tale, "her mother ap-
proves of me and she doesn't approve of Harry
Waldron. She'd approve of him even less if she
knew all that I know."
"What do you know?" demanded the detec-
tive like a flash. "What do you know about him
that Mrs. Eveleth doesn't?"

[148]


ANOTHER CLIENT
Mr. Harrison's mouth fell open, an unflatter-
ing likeness to a dying fish becoming more ap-
parent.
"How did you find that out?" he asked. "I'll
swear I never mentioned her name, and I never
meant to."
"Never mind," said Parkins, brushing his
question aside. "It's my business to find things
out. What is it you want me to do?"
"Just this," Harrison told him, eager to note
the effect of his information. "As long as you
know so much, I may as well say that Eleanor
Eveleth thinks Harry Waldron never looked at
another girl in his life; thinks he's a sort of
Sir Galahad sort of chap, if you see what I
mean; and a man who has been a little gay
perhaps" (Floss Brandon, the Flamingo Sex-
tette, the Charcot Revue girls, Caroline Barry-
man, the Vanities chorus, mused Parkins to
himself, running over a well-known list,)
"doesn't stand any chance against him. Now I
don't want to take any unfair advantage of him,
but I don't believe he's a saint even if he does
look like the good-looking one of what-do-you-
call-him's 'Apostles.' All I ask is to start even
with him; then I flatter myself her mother and
-~
[149]


ANOTHER CLIENT
After a moment's thought, Parkins signified
his consent:
"I'll take your case," he said, "but remember
I warned you that I don't believe there's any-
thing in it."
r
[151]


COLD OOMFOBT
man's arrival, going over in her mind the facts
in the case with a view to presenting them in
the most favorable light.
She found no fault with herself for what she
had done. Yet she was conscious that spiteful
people, of whom the world was full, might at-
tribute selfish motives to her perfectly reason-
able actions should the part she had played
become known. She congratulated herself on
her forethought in telling Molly Burns under
no circumstances to reveal how she had come
into possession of the child. So far, Molly had
followed instructions; but she felt certain that
unless something were done to quiet the police,
they would find means to force the truth, or as
much of it as Molly knew, out of her.
Mrs. Gilbert sat with her eyes riveted on the
clock. She had given orders that the man was to
be shown to the reception room immediately
and she waited impatiently, albeit she could not
disguise a certain nervous apprehension of what
the interview might bring forth.
At last the chime striking the quarter sounded
and, almost simultaneously, there was a tap at
the door, followed by the entrance of a shabbily
dressed man with a stolid, inexpressive face.
"Mrs. Redfield?" he said interrogatively.
"Yes, I'm Mrs Gilbert Redfield," she re-
[153]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
sponded. "You, I presume, are Mr. Parkinsf"
The man nodded an affirmative and for a mo-
ment there was silence, broken at last by the
detective.
"You sent for me?"
"I did," returned Mrs. Gilbert, in the tone
of one making a grudging admission, and again
there was silence.
"What is the nature of the case?" Parkins
persisted.
"I have lost something, and I thought you
might help me to recover it," answered Mrs.
Gilbert, scarcely attempting any disguise of her
scepticism concerning this man's ability.
"Very well," said Parkins, "but I've got to
know more about it. Is it jewels or a reputation?
Usually I'm called on to save one or the other."
He knew exactly why Mrs. Gilbert Redfield
had sent for him, and the facts that she might
impart were of little real value after all, so he
was quite indifferent whether she stated her
case or not. Further, she was unnecessarily un-
civil in her manner, had not so much as invited
him to be seated, and Parkins resented it, so
that his tone toward her was hardly respectful,
and Mrs. Gilbert was not the woman to permit
that to pass unrebuked.
"Are you the man who recovered my friend
[154]


COLD COMFORT
Mrs. Suydam's vanity case?" she demanded
haughtily, "because, if you are not, I won't
trouble you further. I will instruct the butler to
pay you for your time.''
Parkins stepped toward the door.
"I'm the man who found the vanity box,"
he countered, "but I don't think I care to take
your business. People who employ me trust me,
and criminal cases reely ain't in my line. I'll bid
you good-day."
Seeing him about to depart, Mrs. Gilbert cast
a retrospective eye over the helplessness of her
position. "Criminal cases!" She must have
someone to depend upon. The banker had as-
sured her of Parkins's ability; adding, more-
over, that in employing him one could rest
assured that they would not be troubled by
future blackmail. She decided to conciliate
him.
"I think we have both been a little hasty,"
she said to Parkins, with a forced smile. "You
can understand that I wanted to be sure."
The detective came back and this time seated
himself, unasked.
"Better be sure than sorry," he returned
rather ungraciously. "Now," he went on, "let's
get down to cases. You've lost the child, and
you want me to find her for you; that's it, eh?"
[155]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
Mrs. Gilbert gasped. Here was her secret
being shouted from the housetops.
"Is it in the papers?" she whispered fear-
fully, pulling at her necklace as if she felt it
constricting to the point of suffocation. (Heaven
help her, what was the penalty for abduc-
tion?)
Parkins watched with detached interest,
knowing well what was in her mind.
"There, there," he said. "Don't lose your
nerve. Nobody knows it but me. Now tell me ex-
actly how it happened."
"It was entirely unpremeditated—" she
began.
"'Most always is," Parkins agreed genially.
"You saw a chance and you took it, without
considerin' what might come of it. Anyway,
that's always the story—but go on."
"It is necessary, in order that you should
understand the situation to begin at the be-
ginning."
"All right," the detective assented, settling
back in his chair.
"My sister-in-law, Mrs. Redmond Redfield
was seriously endangering the stability of
character of our nephew, Harry Waldron, by
overindulgence. Consequently Mr. Redfield and
[156]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
^
fectly wooden face. "I don't belong to any of
the agencies, which is perhaps a disadvantage
in a case like this."
"I know nothing about that," Mrs. Gilbert
resumed testily. "There has been a great deal
of mystery connected with the efforts of my
sister-in-law; and the persons they have em-
ployed must have been singularly stupid and
bungling, for weeks have passed and they are
still without any definite news of the child.''
"It may not have been so easy to find her,"
suggested Parkins meekly.
"Perfectly easy," affirmed Mrs. Gilbert. "My
idea is that the detectives don't want to kill the
goose that lays the golden eggs. To return to
my story: If her infatuation were not so silly,
I should have been inclined to pity Mrs. Red-
field. She actually grew thin. Had it been her
own baby she could not have made more fuss
over its disappearance. Her physician even for-
bade my speaking of it to her, though I was
doing my best to make her see that her affection
must be of the most vicarious sort and that, in
fostering it, she was encouraging a purely senti-
mental attachment without natural foundation
and really ridiculous in a woman of her age. I
have never failed in my duty, Mr. Parkins, and
I should have cured her of this morbid affecta-
[158]
-N


COLD COMFORT
tion; but, as I said, the doctor forbade me to
mention the subject."
"Maybe she's really fond of the child," sug-
gested the detective.
"Nonsense!" contradicted Mrs. Gilbert bit-
terly. '' She never cared for children. That was
plain enough from her treatment of mine, who
could have been lost forever without her shed-
ding a tear. There was of course, no depth to
her affection, it was an amusing pose and made
her an object of sympathy—but to get back to
my own slight connection with this troublesome
matter. When the child was first missing, I was
on my way early one afternoon to a meeting of
the Shop Girls' Improvement League that was
to be held at the Woman's Christian Union—"
"Do the shop girls get off early in the after-
noon to go to the meeting?" inquired Parkins,
ingenuous for once.
"Oh, no, we know what improvement is
needed and we settle everything for them.''
"To be sure," muttered Parkins gravely, "I
might ha' known."
"Standing in front of the building was a
limousine with two men in livery, and at its
open window was the missing child. I can hardly
believe it of myself now, but being momentarily
weak and impulsive, my first thought when I

[159]


STBICTLY PBIVATE
^"
spoke to her was to take her at once to my sister-
in-law, and with that idea in mind I had her
lifted out of the car and went directly into the
Union Building with her. It occurred to me at
once that it was not fair to inflict a restless,
spoiled child upon the Board during a business
meeting, so I went straight through and out at
the side door, where I hailed a taxicab and
started for the railroad station to take the little
girl to Ridgelands." She paused.
"But you did not go to Ridgelands," Parkins
reminded her.
"Before I reached the Grand Central, I re-
pented of my hasty action," Mrs. Gilbert con-
tinued smoothly, intent on demonstrating her
rectitude. "Mrs. Eedfield was becoming accus-
tomed to the child's absence. At any rate, it was
not my duty to pander to an unnatural affection.
The baby was evidently well provided for where
she was, the type of car attested that, so I or-
dered the taxi-driver to return to the Union
Building. When we got there—can you think
of anything more unfortunate?—the machine
was gone; and naturally, I did not care to make
inquiries about it. So there I was, with a child
in whom I had no interest on my hands."
"That was tough," grunted Parkins, not add-
ing for whom.
[160]
>


COLD COMPORT
"You may well say so," Mrs. Gilbert's tone
was injured. "For the longest time I couldn't
think what it was best to do; but at last I re-
membered a woman who had every reason to be
devoted to me. Now that she is decently married
and has a son of her own I can say in all sin-
cerity that she owes me everything. So I placed
the child with her."
"Whose child did you tell her it was?" asked
the detective curiously.
"I was forced to give some explanation, of
course. I told her that its father and mother
were dead and I wanted it to have a good home.
I also promised to send its clothes, having a lot
of Hermione's outgrown things that would do,
so it was quickly settled. The child was safe and
would be well cared for. Also she was again in
the sphere to which she belonged.
"Later, when she had forgotten Ridgelands,
I planned to send her to an industrial school,
which is what my sister-in-law should have done
in the first place. I suppose because I suggested
it, she had absolutely refused to consider such
a plan. After all, I had the satisfaction of seeing
the little girl suitably situated, knowing in my
heart that everything turns out for the best and
that I could be quite easy in my mind about the
whole affair."
^
[161]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
"And then," said Parkins, "the child was
stole' and you were upset again. Too bad!"
"Not at all, you don't understand," returned
Mrs. Gilbert rather shortly. "I was not worried
about the abduction. I looked on it as an inter-
position of Providence in my behalf. You can see
for yourself that it relieved me of any further re-
sponsibility in the matter, indeed there was no
reason to doubt that the people who took it had
some right to it. That was not what worried me,
but the fact that I learned from an old nurse of
ours that the baby is Harry Waldron's."
"Your own nephew's?" exclaimed the detec-
tive with exaggerated surprise.
"My husband's nephew's," Mrs. Gilbert ac-
knowledged rather snappishly, and hurried on:
"It seems that Mary Shuttle's niece married
Mr. Waldron's chauffeur, and when he went
away he left the child with them. Strangely
enough, it was stolen from them—or they say
it was. I'm inclined to think their story might
be questioned. At all events—I'm sure of just
one thing—they always knew the child was
Harry's. Now you can see why I sent for you
and why I am alarmed. At first I suspected that
it was Harry Waldron himself who planned to
leave the baby with his aunt. I've learned noth-
ing to confirm my suspicion. In fact, I'm nearly
[162]


COLD COMPOET
sure he expects to find her with the Nelsons. But
I do know this. He is just the stubborn sort of
fool who will move heaven and earth hunting
for that child. In the end, the woman with whom
I left it will be forced to tell how it came into
her hands. That will place me in a most awk-
ward position. You can see that?"
"That's as plain as the nose on your face,"
agreed Mr. Parkins heartily.
"I don't know the best light to put it in," Mrs.
Gilbert looked at him almost appealingly.
"You wouldn't," Parkins's tone hardly sug-
gested sympathy.
"I'd like your advice—"
"You'd not take it." The detective shook his
head.
"I certainly would," Mrs. Gilbert affirmed.
"Well, you've no defense, you know; it might
save you money and—and a bad time generally,
if you told your nephew the truth before he finds
it out for himself."
Mrs. Gilbert recoiled.
"But that's what I sent for you for!" she ex-
claimed. "I expect you to save me from such a
necessity."
"I gave you no promise to do miracles,"
Parkins stared at her sourly. "Women usually
can be trusted to make out a good case for them-
[163]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
selves, so confession's their best bet. But go on.
Let's hear what else you have to say."
Mrs. Gilbert looked aghast. "But nothing I
can say now—" she stammered, "nothing—will
convince my sister-in-law of the purity of my
motives or that I was right in not returning
the child to her. She will use it as a pretext to
disinherit my innocent children and will even
take a vindictive pleasure in making me as un-
comfortable as she can. I am sorry to say she is
not of a forgiving nature, even where her griev-
ance is a fancied one. You must see that it is to
forestall just this contingency that I sent for
you. You are to go immediately, find the child
and take it to the Nelsons, who are the people
Mr. Waldron placed it with. They will not be
likely to say anything to him of its having been
temporarily out of their possession. Once with
them again, I hope we will hear no more of it.
That is certainly the best solution of the diffi-
culty, only you will have to be quick about it
Mr. Waldron is expected back any day now."
"Hum," grunted Parkins thoughtfully.
"Hum. It's a queer case. Have you any theory
who left the child at Mrs. Redfield's in the first
place?"
"Of course I haven't any theory," replied
Mrs. Gilbert petulantly. "What difference does
"
[164]


COLD COMFOBT
it make? I am not interested in the child or what
may become of her, except in so far as it in-
volves me. It is quite possible, as I said before,
that Harry gave orders to have her left with his
aunt to effect a reconciliation."
Parkins bent his eyes to the floor, where they
rested lovingly on his disreputable hat, and it
was several minutes before he spoke again. Mrs.
Gilbert fidgeted uneasily. She had nothing more
to say to the man. He had his instructions and
she wished he would go.
"Did it ever occur to you," the detective be-
gan deliberately, "to consider whether you were
justified in taking that baby away from the
luxury in which you found it?"
Mrs. Gilbert reddened. This man was taking
her to task.
"I thought the little girl was being placed
suitably for her station in life," she rejoined
with a toss of her head.
"What makes you so cock-sure of her station
in life? How do you know you didn't steal her
from her own parents or grandparents ?''
"That has nothing to do with the case," Mrs.
Gilbert returned with rising anger. "I hired you
to find her, not to ask me questions."
"You hired me to keep you out of jail!" Par-
kins retorted, and the woman before him cringed.
i
[165]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
^
"What do you mean by that?" she demanded,
a tremble in her voice.
"Exactly what I said. What right had you to
grab that child out of that automobile and hand
her over to anyone else? What will you have to
say for yourself if I find you've taken her from
her own mother?"
"I never thought of that," she confessed. "I
always looked upon Valentine as coming of
common people—and I'm sure she does!"
"Do you call your nephew, Mr. Harry Wald-
ron, 'common'?"
"No, but remember the mother; what must
she have been?"
"I don't know, no more than you do,"
answered the detective, "which isn't neither
here nor there. The mother may be as good as
you or any of your family, for all you know.
Your thinkin' as you do won't make a very
strong defense for kidnappin'—and that's a
more serious crime than you seem to realize.
However, I'll do the best I can. I suppose, if I
see they're on your track, you'd rather skip the
country?"
Mrs. Gilbert straightened in her chair, shak-
ing with agitation.
"Leave the country—leave the country!" she
repeated, "and desert my family?"
[166]
>


COLD COMFORT
"They could go with you," Parkins reminded
her calmly. "No one'd be tryin' to stop them."
"Oh, this is awful!" Mrs. Gilbert, her nerve
shaken, collapsed utterly. "I'm not a kidnapper.
Kidnappers mean to keep the child or to make
money out of it." She gulped into her hand-
kerchief.
"Well, you'll have to prove all that," said
Parkins pitilessly, "you've got to face it.
There's no use blinkin' facts. And, by the way,
this woman you put the child with—she's a
respectable person in every way? Good woman
to rear a kid? Poor but honest, eh? That might
count with a jury if worst came to worst."
Mrs. Gilbert shuddered. "I have every confi-
dence in her," she murmured. It did not sound
convincing.
"Who is she?" asked Parkins, not averse to
rubbing it in.
"Well, she was Molly Burns before she was
married, but she's entirely reformed and—"
"Molly Burns! And you put an innocent child
to be brought up by a member of the Burns
gang?" he exclaimed with exaggerated surprise.
"I can tell you that won't help you much with
a jury." He paused a moment to let this sink
in, then went on: "I'll do my best for you,
though I've got no heart in it." And without
i
[167]


STRICTLY PBIVATB
another word he left the room. As he walked
away from the house he spat deliberately.
"And she calls herself a lady!" he muttered
to himself. "I guess maybe I was a brute, but
I got even for that dirty crack about detectives
that's lookin' for the child. Anyway, a woman
like that needs a lesson, once in a way. It would
take a microscope to find her heart."
X
-
[168]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
wandering, she has had a hasp and padlock put on the
front gate. This was found locked as usual. The fence
is practically new and rather above the usual height,
so that it is impossible that little Katey could have
crawled through or climbed over it. This the police
determined at once; but that the child was stolen in
broad daylight is further proven by the testimony of
James Crawford, the local butcher. He is the only one
who is able to throw a ray of light on the mystery, but
fortunately he saw the woman who stole the child a
few minutes before the abduction took place, and gives
an accurate description of her.
"I was going by Mrs. Warnick's in my new red'de-
livery speed wagon, which I was driving myself," Mr.
Crawford told the police. "The man who usually
drives happened to be sick today, so I had to take the
route. Being short-handed, I was in a hurry, but as I
passed the Warnick house my attention was drawn to
a woman standing talking to the little girl, who seemed
to be crying. She was evidently urging the child to do
something which she was unwilling to do. I noticed this
person especially because, while she was well-dressed,
she had a most repulsive countenance. I flatter myself
I am something of a judge of character, I had a sus-
picion something was wrong the minute I saw her; but
I was in a hurry and never imagined anyone would
dare to carry off a child at that time of the day. I went
on without stopping, which I now deeply regret."
Mr. Crawford has given the police a detailed de-
scription of the woman and they are confident that
V
[170]


A FRIEND IN NEED
before twenty-four hours have passed she, with other
members of the gang who have been seen lurking in the
neighborhood, will be in custody. Every exit and en-
trance to the city is being watched, while Long Island
itself is being gone over with a fine-tooth comb.
When last seen, the little girl was wearing a white
knit cap and a white sweater, blue rompers, white
stockings and brown shoes, rather scuffed. She has
curly golden hair and is well-grown for her age, which
is almost four. The police of New York and Brooklyn
agree that it will be next to impossible for the kidnap-
pers to carry her off Long Island without being appre-
hended, as every avenue of escape is being carefully
guarded.
At first Rhoda was dazed at the prospect be-
fore her. The thought of being arrested fright-
ened her inexpressibly. What would Thomas
think of a sweetheart who was a jailbird? Little
by little she recovered sufficiently to take a
calmer view of the situation—and then she be-
gan to wonder how she might escape the
vigilance of the police. Naturally, the first thing
that occurred to her was the possibility of
changing her own as well as the child's appear-
ance. Merely to have something to do gave her
courage.
With every evidence of necessary haste she
picked up Miss Muffet and thrust her head out

[171]


A FBIEND IN NEED
all right now, ain't you, sonny?" she ended, ad-
dressing Miss Muffet, who was quite wide awake
again after her little nap.
"Es, I'm all wight, Whoda," she replied seri-
ously, though of course she had not been sick
at all.
"What was that the child called you?" asked
the woman, who had put aside her paper and
appeared to be intent on finding amusement.
For an instant Rhoda was puzzled at this sud-
den interest in her and her charge. Then a nerv-
ous fear seized her. As the recollection which
had alarmed her strengthened, her heart seemed
to stop beating. Suppose the woman were a de-
tective? She had heard of female detectives.
Thomas had even suggested that a woman might
have been quicker and more cunning than the
man the Madam had engaged. Anyhow, whatever
this forward acquaintance might prove to be,
Rhoda's instinct told her that it would not do
to be anything but nice to her.
"He calls me that because my name is
Rhoda," she explained. "You see, he hears his
father say it and he won't take to 'momma.'"
"Well now, ain't that funny?" cried the other
genially. "There's some sense in callin' you by
your first name, though. But many children's
queer when they take a notion. There's my sister
^
[173]


STRICTLY PBIVATB
Fanny's boy—he won't call his mommer any-
thing but 'Kitty'! Think of that, just like she
was a cat, which she ain't. She tried to spank
him out of it, but it ain't no use, 'Kitty' he will
call her in spite of anything; but where he got
it beats me!"
Thus the two women kept up a desultory con-
versation until at length the stranger said:
"Well, we'll soon be in now," which drove
Rhoda to her feet, intent on further disguise.
"I want to make the boy look as tidy as I
can," she explained, " 'cause his father's that
particular when he's on the street with us; so
I'll say good-bye," and she marshalled her
charge up the aisle to the little dressing-room
in the front of the car.
There she quickly removed the large brown
veil she was wearing to protect her new hat
from the dust of travel and, fastening it neatly
around her neck, she covered up the pink silk
waist of which she was so proud, where it
showed between the lapels of her coat. Next she
took off the hat and wrenched at an ornament
on one side (not without a little sigh, because
Thomas had said it was so becoming and
stylish) but, tug as she would, the trimming
held, and she was forced to pin the brim up at
the front, which was by no means an improve-
^
[174]


A FRIEND IN NEED
ment, as she noted in glancing at her reflection
in the smudgy mirror. This was all she could
do to change her own appearance; so she turned
her attention to Miss MufFet, bent on making
her look as much like a small boy as possible.
Her first thought was to throw the little
sweater out of the car window after the cap,
but the day was cool and she did not dare to
leave the baby without extra covering now that
evening was approaching. Instead she quickly
slipped it off, unfastened the rompers, put the
sweater on again and buttoned the rompers over
it with the telltale garment entirely hidden. She
would have liked to cover up Miss Muffet's curls
and made the experiment of tying a handker-
chief over them, which somehow made her look
more like a little girl than ever, and, after doing
her best to make a part on one side, Rhoda de-
cided to risk leaving them exposed.
At length the dreaded moment arrived, the
train stopped and the transfer to the ferry be-
gan. Rhoda waited as long as she dared, hoping
to evade her inquisitive acquaintance of the
seat behind, in which she failed.
The woman, whether or not she lagged delib-
erately, was there to greet her as she got off the
car.
"Well, I don't see your man nowhere," she
[175]


STBICTLY PBIVATE
said cheerfully. "After your fixin' yourself
like that tool"
Rhoda's wits were sharpening under the
stress of her anxiety.
"Yes, that's the way," she returned. "I make
myself look like a guy to please him and then he
don't show upl Maybe he's on the other side,
though he ain't never to be depended on."
The strange woman grasped Miss Muffet's
hand quite as a matter of course, and together
the two, with the baby between them, boarded
the ferryboat.
The trip across the river was a period of
agony to Rhoda. She tried to keep up a conver-
sation with her unwelcome companion, yet all
the time she suspected her of not being the inno-
cent old gossip she appeared to be—and her
apparent desire to stay close to them added ma-
terially to this suspicion. Rhoda grew convinced
that the moment they were on the New York
shore the woman would show her true colors and
denounce her to the first policeman they saw.
But she talked as bravely as she could, chatter-
ing about one thing or another till the boat tied
up at the slip.
Again there was a period of agonizing sus-
pense and Rhoda caught her breath as above
the clanking of chains, the rumble of trolley
1
[176]


A FRIEND IN NBED
cars, the bustle and hurry of the crowd, she
heard the shrill cries of the newsboys:
"Extry! Extry! Full account of the kid-
nappin' on Long Island! Extry!"
The girl trembled with nervousness as she
walked off the boat.
"Now you must look for your popper," the
stranger said to Miss Muffet as they stepped
ashore. "I know you want to see him."
Miss Muffet shook her head decidedly.
"No. Want to see Auntie Tawol," she de-
clared positively.
The woman looked to Rhoda for an explana-
tion and the latter laughed a trifle hysterically.
"He's talkin' about his Aunt Clara," she
fibbed. "He's fair petted on her. She lets him
do just what he wants an' his father's awful
strict, so—" she left the sentence unfinished.
"I say there's such a thing as bein' too
strict," the woman remarked sympathetically.
"I believe in makin' your children love you."
"So do I," agreed Rhoda, "but I'm so easy
that it makes my husband mad."
"All men's cranks," the other spoke philo-
sophically and without rancor. "I've got one
waitin' for me this minute 'way out in Harlem.
He'll be as cross as two sticks."
At that instant a heavy hand was laid on
[177]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
Rhoda's shoulder. She gasped with fright and
it was with difficulty that she repressed a shriek.
The time had come! The woman had led her into
a trap. She had evidently given some signal and
arrest was at hand. The girl stopped, confront-
ing a square-shouldered young man in plain
clothes who opened his coat to display what she
instinctively knew must be a police badge.
"I want to know about that child," he began.
"Step over here out of the crowd."
Rhoda turned a white face to her travelling
companion, her fear and helplessness apparent.
Then with the baby between them, the two women
followed the detective to the outskirts of the
moving throng. The girl's mouth was dry and
her tongue felt stiff as if it were unused to
speech, so it was with a sense of almost over-
powering relief that she heard her unknown
friend ask composedly:
"Well, now we're here, what do you want?"
Indeed there was a militant aspect about her
that gave Rhoda courage. The officer answered
categorically:
"First; How did this child come into the pos-
session of this woman? Her name, age, resi-
dence—"
"Oh, the stupidity of these men!" the woman
interrupted with scorn. "How does a child
[178]


A FRIEND IN NEED ^
usually come into the possession of his own
mother, I'd like to ask you? Or do the p'lice
think the stork brings 'em? And it ain't a 'her'
but a 'him,' as anyone with eyes could see. And
what business is it of yours, anyway?"
Undoubtedly the man was impressed at once
by this attack on his mere masculinity. He be-
came apologetic.
"Well," he said, "I'm on in this kidnappin'
case. We've traced the child to Coney Island,
an' we're watchin' for her to come into the city.
We were told to keep our eyes peeled for a little
girl with golden hair.''
"And is this what you call 'golden'?" the
woman parried with a laugh. "Sure, you're
color blind if you can't see it's an honest Irish
red. What they need in a case like this is women
on the force. But I suppose you want us to go
with you to see you make a laughin'-stock of
yourself, bringin' in a boy when you're sent
lookin' for a girl? So hurry up, we can't spend
all night waitin' on you. The child's asleep on
his feet, as anyone but a man could see, an' it's
a far cry to Harlem."
The officer perceptibly wavered in his re-
solve.
"If I had any proof of what you say—"
'' Proof ?'' the woman cut in,"I 'm Mrs. Martin
[179]


A FBIEND IN NEED
came into the overwrought girl's eyes and rolled
down her cheeks.
For a moment the detective hesitated.
"Well, let's see if the conductor knows you,"
he conceded rather reluctantly, and together
they passed through the gate to the waiting
train. Fortunately the conductor identified
Rhoda, thus in a measure satisfying the officer.
"At any rate, I'll know where to find you if
I want you later," were his parting words; but
Rhoda smiled at him happily, having no dread
of anything that might happen once she was
back under Mrs. Redfield's protection, with
Thomas at hand as well.
The conductor, seeing how worn out the two
travellers were, helped them to a seat.
"Is there anything else I can do for you?"
he asked in a kindly way.
"Oh, yes," sighed Rhoda. "Telegraph to the
coachman to meet this train. His name is John
Nash. I couldn't never in the world carry Miss
Valentine up the hill tonight."
Later, as they entered the driveway to Mrs.
Redfield's grounds, Rhoda gently shook Miss
Muffet into consciousness. That young lady,
having had another refreshing nap, sat up
cheerfully.
"We're 'most home," said Ehoda, with a
r
[185]


CHAPTER XIII Another Client
The return of Harry Waldron caused a con-
siderable amount of anxiety in several quarters.
The Nelsons waited for his appearance in fear
and trembling until, driven desperate by her
failure to invent a satisfactory story, Mrs. Nel-
son went off into the country alone and the
chauffeur was left behind prepared to perjure
himself by explaining that they had thought it
best for the child's health that it should leave
the city for a while.
Mrs. Gilbert Redfield, shuddering with the
dread of exposure, gazed mournfully at her
children, destined, she feared, soon to be de-
prived of her fostering care.
Mrs. Eveleth, leaving her daughter to the
chaperonage of an innocuous cousin, retired
with great presence of mind to Dr. Madison's
private sanatorium. Sheltered behind her physi-
cian's positive instructions that she must not
receive visitors or answer any questions over
the telephone that might give her annoyance,
she settled down to a quiet life of bridge, new
novels, a daily drive in the park with her nurse
and the enjoyment of an excellent cuisine. After
f
[187]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
the anxiety she had suffered on account of
Miss Muffet's disappearance this state of quie-
tude represented ineffable peace. Also, while
she could not avoid admitting to herself that
her retirement was in the nature of a retreat,
yet it pleased her to think that strategically at
least, her move gave her command of the situ-
ation, and that, at the end of a masterly inac-
tivity, she should be able to emerge triumphant
whenever Parkins reported the whereabouts
of that annoying infant.
Miss Eleanor Eveleth was perhaps the most
sincerely concerned of all, with the exception
of Mrs. Redmond Redfield. Her mother's de-
parture without leaving her a word of informa-
tion about the baby put her in a most embarrass-
ing position; still, her problem was of the
simplest. She had lost the child and of course
she must confess it promptly, trusting to
Harry's generosity and looking forward to the
aid he would give her toward its recovery. She
had notice in advance of his coming and she took
measures accordingly with her chaperon, Mrs.
Wistar.
"Oh, Cousin Bunny," she said casually as
she rose from the luncheon table, "if you'll take
my advice, you'll retire to your room this after-
"
[188]


ANOTHER CLIENT
noon with an improving book and a most
£ee-rific headache."
Mrs. Wistar raised her gentle, popping eyes,
eyes that had helped to earn her her nickname,
from the plate she was loading with cakes and
fruit in case she should feel inclined to nibble
during the hours before dinner time.
"Wby should I do that, Eleanor?" she asked.
"For my sake," Eleanor assured her sweetly.
"I want you to think I'm a nice-minded, refined
retiring, shy, young girl, don't I? Well, I know
that any nice-minded young girl spares her offi-
cial chaperon the sight of ardent embraces
exchanged between her and her lover or lovers
—and Harry Waldron is coming home to-
day."
"Eleanor!" gasped Bunny. "What will your
mother sayf She will not approve of this at
all—"
"You think not?" Eleanor lifted her brows
dubiously, but there was a steely glint in the
eyes beneath them. "Of course one always hopes
for improvement in a patient at a sanatorium,
but, at that, you may be right. So I suggest the
headache and seclusion as something in the
nature of an alibi for you—"
"But, Eleanor, I really do not think you
r
[189]


STBICTLY PBIVATE
should see Mr. Waldron here in your mother's
absence."
"You think not?" Eleanor again said, her
eyes flashing a trifle dangerously. "Very well,
if that is your considered opinion, I won't. I've
no idea of antagonizing my chaperon, you un-
derstand. I'll just go and stand quietly beside
the traffic policeman on the corner, and when I
see Harry coming I'll get Officer Cassidy to blow
his whistle, no matter what the lights—he's
quite a friend of mine, he'll do that much for
me—and I'll hurl myself on Harry's neck be-
fore all of Park Avenue. And, while I'm about
it, I'll make a good job of it, I hate slovenly
work. I'll 'phone to the Sunday papers to have
photographers there to take swell pictures for
the rotogravure sections, of the great sporting
event—Return of Mr. Harry Waldron from
Klondike and announcement of his engagement
to Miss Eleanor Eveleth, member of the Junior
League, member of this that and the other thing,
a popular debutante of two seasons ago. I
might even put in a line such as 'despite the
opposition of her mother, Mrs. Richard Eveleth,
the well-known society leader, the course of true
love admits of no snag!'"
"If you did, it would simply kill your
[190]


ANOTHER CLIENT
mother," Bunny asserted solemnly. "It would
simply kill her."
Eleanor laughed.
"Don't worry. She'd have died on a dozen oc-
casions if she'd expired every time she threat-
ened to because of my misdeeds. Indeed, Bunny-
kins, I've arrived at the conclusion that the
elder generation in spite of a cultivated appear-
ance of fragility, is really pretty tough.
"But I'm not anxious to stage an act in the
middle of Park Avenue, so if you'll be a good
little Bunnykins and creep into your hole when
I suggest it, I'll promise you that not a breath
of scandal shall pass these doors until Mama
returns."
"But I must protest—" Mrs. Wistar began
weakly. She was forced to live on rather narrow
means, and was enjoying her stay in what she
described in highly original terms in writing to
her friends as "the lap of luxury."
"No, no, no!" Eleanor interposed briskly.
"That's just what you must not do. You're not
my keeper. You can't be expected to have your
eyes on me every minute of the day. So long as
you don't know anything about it, how can you
protest? And how can you be held responsible
for what you don't know?"
[191]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
The full beauty of this argument appealed
to one of Mrs. Wistar's peace-loving disposi-
tion. She could always say that she had taken
all that was said for some of Eleanor's wild talk,
which was meant to shock the older generation
but didn't mean a single thing.
"Perhaps, my dear, you're right," she con-
ceded, and carrying her little refection with her,
she went obediently upstairs.
Eleanor, looking after her, suppressed a smile
and a wild desire to ask her if she wouldn't
prefer a carrot and a few cabbage leaves.
"She's such a rabbit!" she said to herself.
After all, her meeting with Harry passed off
without dramatics.
"How are you, old thing?" he asked, with his
hands on her shoulders.
"Oh, Harry, you do look fit!" she exclaimed,
but her face was glowing and each knew what
the other was feeling so fully that there was no
need of more words.
At length, however, Eleanor, unable to forget
her responsibilities, broached the subject she
could not forget.
"Harry, I've lost the baby!"
With his heart and mind full of her, he looked
at her vaguely.
'
-
[192]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
"We ought to be able to discover where she
is, Harry. And when we find her, it would serve
Mother right to hide her from her until she is
thoroughly scared!" she went on eagerly. "It
can't be hard to find a child. It isn't a thing you
can mislay as you might a thimble or even a
diamond necklace. Of course you have to know
how to do it. I tried a little detectiving on my
own account—you never knew such a frost! I
got into the car and told Gibson to drive me to
the place Mother had taken the child, pretending
that I had forgotten the address. And where do
you suppose he took me? To the Woman's
Christian Union! Naturally I felt myself the
perfect ass, for how could anyone forget that
address? As a lady sleuth I must admit I'm a
fizzle. But why do you suppose Mother took the
baby there?"
"Wanted her to join the Union, of course,"
replied Harry cheerfully.
"Don't be flippant," Eleanor suppressed a
laugh. "How can you joke about anything so
serious? We must find that poor, abused child."
"Oh, I don't imagine she's abused." returned
Waldron easily, too happy to worry over any-
thing. "Surely you do your mother the justice
of believing that the kid is well cared for? And
she's a cheerful little tyke, if I remember right.
[194]


ANOTHER CLIENT
Can get along with anybody. There's no terrible
rush, but we '11 have to look her up pretty soon
because Bat's coming home and I suppose he'll
want her, although he never seemed to care
for her much. • The red-headed terror,' he called
her. I fancy he hates red hair because he
has it."
"Red-headed!" exclaimed Eleanor indig-
nantly. "My dear sir, you don't know what
you're talking about. That child's hair is won-
derful, and you might walk up and down the
Mall for hours without finding another young-
ster half so good-looking.''
"Gosh, have it your own way," said Harry,
smiling at her vehemence. "Personally I prefer
other colors for hair. For instance, I admire
dark chestnut that changes to a sort of ma-
hogany when the light strikes it. Would you
mind moving a little nearer the window?"
"Harry! Do try to be sensible. "What ought
we to do to find her?"
"We'll have to get one of those story-book
detectives," Waldron answered with mock-
seriousness, perfectly sure that Mrs. Eveleth
would not refuse to hand over the baby to him.
"That's what I thought you'd say," Eleanor
responded, taking him to be entirely in earnest,
"so, to save time, I went to Mother's lawyer.
/
[195]


ANOTHEB CLIENT
then he'll mutter: 'Oh, where is "Watson? See,
see! It is an imported one. It is slightly flat-
tened. It is a Prince Imperial. Oh, Watson,
Watson, I am too late. The child is gone. She
smoked no others.' ''
"Harry, you're a goof!" Eleanor exclaimed,
laughing in spite of herself. "I'm sure he isn't
that kind at all. He does the most wonderful
things. Mother's lawyer told me that Constance
Ward's Aunt Harriot went to the Courtland
ball last year and the next day she missed her
ruby pendant, which honestly is the most su-
perb stone I ever saw. She's a cantankerous old
party, you know, and at once accused all the
servants and insisted on clearing them out of
the house immediately—which made Constance
and her mother half frantic, because it's almost
impossible to get anyone to live with her. Then
this man Parkins was sent for and he'd hardly
been in the place two minutes before he asked
Miss Harriot if she had the gout. Now Miss
Harriot prides herself on being sound in wind
and limb, although she's seventy at least.
"'Of course I haven't the gout,' she snapped.
'There's been something in my slipper all day
but I've been too much upset to bother looking
what it is.' 'Look now,' said Parkins, in such a
masterful way that she actually did as he told
r
[197]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
her—and there was the ruby! It had fallen into
her morning slipper when she undressed the
night before. That will show you what kind of a
man he is."
"Suppose there had been only a tack in the
slipper?" Harry suggested sceptically.
"Oh, of course you can belittle anyone's
achievements, if you choose," Eleanor retorted.
"Anyhow, I think it was marvellous. It cer-
tainly showed that he has remarkable talent,
for even you must admit that it is easier to find
a thing that is lost than one that isn't."
"Angel child," said Harry, surrendering,
"your logic is unanswerable. The man is a
genius. I am sure of it. I can hardly wait to see
the gentleman with the veiled glance. It was
'veiled glance' you said, wasn't it?"
Eleanor's reply was interrupted by the an-
nouncement that Mr. Parkins was waiting to be
"shown up," and a moment later he entered the
room.
In half an hour he was gone, and Eleanor
turned to Harry.
"If you laugh," she said seriously, "I'll be
a dutiful daughter and break the engagement."
"I feel more like crying," Harry assured
her.
[198]


CHAPTER XIV Shaken Faith
After reviewing the situation in all its differ-
ent phases, Eleanor decided that she would try
to act as peacemaker between Harry Waldron
and his aunt. She had suggested to Harry that
he ought to call on his aunt and pointed out that
the success of his mining venture robbed such a
visit of any hint of a mercenary motive. Wal-
dron had received this very stiffly for him.
"You don't understand, Eleanor. Aunt Carol
hurt my feelings very much and I shall not
make the first move. If she sends for me, of
course I'll gladly go. Otherwise not."
Eleanor saw that he was determined and said
no more about the matter. But his refusal set
her thinking and she concluded that the expla-
nation for the quarrel was not so obvious as
everyone had supposed. Certainly, now that
Harry was quite well off himself, he had no
need of the allowance Mrs. Redfield had made
him and if, as was rumored, the whole trouble
was a financial one, Harry was of too generous
a nature to harbor resentment. She surmised
that there must be another reason, and she re-
verted to the one suggested by her mother's
[200]


STEICTLT PBIVATE
mon interest. There was no mention of Harry
Waldron, and Eleanor began to fear that she
would be obliged to introduce that topic herself,
if it was to be broached at all on this occasion.
At length she mustered her courage and made
the plunge.
"I've a secret to tell you, Mrs. Redfield," she
began with just the slightest shade of embar-
rassment.
At once Mrs. Redfield leaned forward and
took her hand in the most kindly and sympa-
thetic way.
"I wonder if I can't guess it," she said. "You
and Harry are engaged? I see I'm right. Tell
me all about it. It's what I always have most
hoped for the boy."
The way made easy, Eleanor told her of
Harry's return and of her mother's positive
refusal to countenance any engagement, and of
the latter's control over her fortune if she mar-
ried against her wishes.
"Harry has made a great deal out of his
mine," she added proudly, "and if Mother
doesn't give in pretty quickly we'll be married
whether she consents or not."
"I don't understand your mother's attitude
in the matter," Mrs. Redfield's brow contracted
in puzzlement. "Harry is certainly placed be-
[202]


SHAKEN FAITH
yond suspicion of being a fortune-hunter. He is
of good family, his position is assured, and, so
far as I know, he has no bad habits. A hasty
temper is the worst fault that can be laid at his
door."
Eleanor nodded agreement, then plunged
bravely into what she had to say:
"It is none of those things now, Mrs. Red-
field. When I tell you about it you will see how
absurd her objections are. You must have heard
Harry speak of Bat Sheldon, one of his college
friends? Well, Bat went off to South Africa all
of a sudden and left his little girl, just a baby,
you know, boarding with some people who
broke up their home and went West to stay. Bat
had asked Harry to keep an eye on the baby, so
when these people went away, he had to find an-
other place for it to live. As you know, Harry
left on the spur of the moment to go to Alaska,
and he asked me to look after the child. Now
Mother, having heard of this, refuses her con-
sent to our marriage because she has taken the
notion that Harry is its father."
The girl paused, almost afraid to look at Mrs.
Redfield.
"That's a curious story," remarked the older
woman gravely. "I should like to hear a little
more about it. Whom did Bat Sheldon marry?"
[203]


SHAKEN FAITH
Bat Sheldon?" Mrs. Redfield demanded, lean-
ing forward eagerly.
"I don't know now," Eleanor answered re-
luctantly. "Harry expected him home by the
last boat. A letter came instead, explaining that
he had been offered another position at an enor-
mous salary and was going 'up-country' for he
didn't know how long. He's some sort of engi-
neer."
"That is exactly what I expected," asserted
Mrs. Redfield. "I don't think you'll see Mr.
Sheldon in America till the whole matter of this
child is forgotten; or, if he does return, that we
shall ever hear of him."
"Why, you're worse than Mama!" Eleanor's
tone was desperate. "You don't give Harry the
least consideration and assume at once that
what he says is untrue. I don't think it's fair!
Certainly he would have told me if it was his
own child."
"That's the last thing he could have done, my
dear," Mrs. Redfield was so positive of what
she was saying that she fell little short of being
convincing. "Can't you see that? Caring for
you as he does, you would be the one person to
whom he could not tell a story such as that. I
have no doubt that no one regrets the circum-


[205]


SHAKEN FAITH
"My dear, believe me, I should have wel-
comed the thought of a legitimate child. You
have no conception of the loneliness of my
existence. Where is she now?"
"It's simply exasperating that I don't
know," Eleanor replied. "Harry and I are try-
ing to find out. Mother took the baby away from
me because she said it would compromise me in
some way, and now she refuses to tell me where
she's left it. Of course it's quite safe, but we
want to know where it is." She had risen to go,
when Mrs. Redfield stopped her.
"A moment, Eleanor. I hope you won't let
this make any difference in your feeling toward
Harry. I'm sure your love is all he needs to
make a fine man of him."
"I don't know," the girl rejoined a little
sadly. "I must have time to think it all out for
myself. Of course I know it's awfully 1890 and
old-fashioned to mind; but if it's true—and
both you and Mother feel so sure it is—it can't
fail to make a difference, can it? You see, Harry
was my lover, was pretending that I was all he
cared for in the world, when that baby's mother
was alive. Even if she's dead now, I can't forget
that, can I? No, things will never be quite the
same again."
[209]


STBICTLY PBIVATE
of gossip just who Miss Muffet was. Eleanor
was right in asking that much.
He filled a pipe and sat down to consider the
situation. What was it that Sheldon had written
him about the kid? As nearly as he could re-
member, Bat had asked him to look up the little
red-headed devil and find a place for it to board,
because the people with whom it had been living
were moving away. Money was no object since
Bat had no way of spending the substantial
sums he earned in South Africa.
Before that Waldron remembered vaguely
hearing something about "Bat's kid." Other-
wise, he told himself, he would have been more
surprised when he read that letter.
It must have been an everyday sort of affair,
nothing very remarkable, yet he had a feeling
that Bat had been rather admired on the child's
account. Why? It wasn't usual for college men
to be married, nor were they particularly in~
terested in small babies. He knew he had heard
something else about it, but it escaped him
whenever he tried to pin his memory down to
definite facts. His only certainty was that the
mother was dead. Who she had been, he had not
the faintest idea.
Then he counted back over the years to the
probable date of the child's birth, calculating
[212]


SHAKEN FAITH
watching each day for some newspaper head-
ing to proclaim to the world her connection
with a sordid kidnapping case, little Miss Muffet
was always within easy reach.
Rhoda, to her own delight and the baby's had
been made nnrse.
"Is 'all have to teach oo Fwench, 'tause nurses
are Fwench, oo know," the latter said gravely
when informed of this arrangement.
Mrs. Redfield had tried to gather from the
child some history of her adventures; but Miss
Muffet had a very confused idea of what had
happened. "Ve lady" and "ve over lady" and
"ve man who stood and held ve pussy-tat"
(which was guessed to be an automobile rug)—
these were complicated with vague remarks
about "Zhimmy," who evidently was a favorite.
Once there was a mention of "ve nice, pitty
dirl," but her impressions had been too varied
and fleeting, and she was much more interested
in being safe back with "Auntie Tawol."
One day Rhoda came to Thomas with a tale
that troubled them both for a while.
"I don't know should I tell the Madam or not,
Thomas, but Mrs. Gilbert had a hand in stealin'
the child."
"What do ye mean?" asked the butler, star-
tled out of his usual wooden composure.
[215]


CHAPTER XV An Old "Personal"
Colonel Cameron, whether wisely or not, had
not confided to Mrs. Bedfield his suspicions in
regard to Miss Muffet 's parentage. That Harry
was the child's father he was now convinced,
and, from this premise, he argued that Eleanor
Eveleth was its mother: the one supposition
including the other to his way of thinking. Yet
why, if there had been a marriage, had it been
kept secret? The only answer he could give to
that was the very disquieting one to him that
there had been no marriage. And this conclu-
sion forced him to the belief that Harry Wald-
ron was a scoundrel.
The good Colonel was very unhappy over the
affair but, try as he would, he could solve the
problem in no other way and he resolved not to
be the one to break it to Mrs. Redfield if (and
of this he was by no means certain) she did not
know about it already.
All these tangled threads were before him as
he sat with her on the evening following Eleanor
Eveleth's visit.
"I heard the most astounding bit of news to-
day," she announced at once.

[218]


STBICTLY PBIVATE
"I shall be glad to have a sister for Valen-
tine—" Mrs. Redfield began.
"Good Heavens, are there two?" the Colonel
burst out.
"Two?" murmured Mrs. Redfield. "Two?
What do you mean?" Then an expression of
delight slowly dawned on her face. "Is it pos-
sible," she cried, "that this child Eleanor spoke
of and my Valentine are the same, and that,
without knowing it, I have taken in Harry's
baby? Oh, that would make me almost too
happy! Tell me, is that what you're hinting?
Do you think it's possible?"
The Colonel instinctively avoided a direct an-
swer.
"I know nothing of the child you speak of,"
he floundered.
At once Mrs. Redfield proclaimed her intoler-
ance of such prevarication.
"You know something that you are conceal-
ing from me," she declared, staring at him
fixedly in an attempt to read his secret. "It isn't
kind. So long as I am in this uncertain state
about Valentine's parentage I can have no
peace of mind. I am told I can't adopt her with-
out the consent of her guardians or her father
and mother if they are living, and I am in con-
stant dread of someone appearing and demand-
[220]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
to you that Mrs. Eveleth may have thought you
the proper person to have charge of her and
may have sent her here in the first place, with-
out wishing to appear openly in the matter?"
the Colonel suggested seriously. "I believe it to
be the same child, and further, that Harry is
its father, but I can't prove it, and proof is
what you want."
When the Colonel had answered all the ques-
tions that poured forth on this, Mrs. Redfield,
being eager to be convinced, was entirely satis-
fied that the end of all difficulties was in sight.
"Now she'll always be mine and I need never
fear that some day I shall have to give her up.
I can't think of anything that would have
pleased me more."
"But we will have to obtain absolutely in-
contestable evidence," the Colonel warned her.
"Harry will furnish all the proofs neces-
sary," returned Mrs. Redfield easily.
"Hardly," objected the Colonel. "He has
denied the child, for some reason or other."
"His reasons are perfectly plain and entirely
natural," interrupted Mrs. Redfield. "He wants
to marry Eleanor and fancies the child would
not help in that direction. And he's quite right.
I shouldn't be surprised if she broke the engage-
ment—a young girl can't be expected to wel-
[222]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
"Well, never mind him," Molly went on,
"I'm here, a happy mother with a good husband
and a good home, instead of doin' time as I
might have been. It's on the boys' account I
sent for you."
Parkins frowned. "Thought it was this kid-
nappin' case," he said irritably.
"Now don't get excited. The kid's in it al-
right; but you'll have to let me explain it my
own way. It all dates back to the trial of Billy
and Tod. I confessed, seein' it would pay best,
and since then I've found out it costs less in
lawyers' fees and you ain't troubled so much
other ways when you're honest. So I've cut out
the crooked work, as you know. Well, at that
trial there was a lot of holy Joes and such
waitin' 'round to save a soul here and there,
and maybe you remember the lady that lit on
me? She was a caution and that's a fact."
"Nope," said Parkins.
"Her name was Mrs. Gilbert Redfield and
they say she's a great swell—but excuse me! She
can put on airs enough for a queen and she has
about as much feeling' for anybody as a block of
ice. But she went 'round doin' good to beat the
band, and you ought to hear her tell how she
saved me from seven different kinds of hot
places."
[226]


STRICTLY PBIVATB
"'Nothin',' says she, sharp. 'I see no occa-
sion to suppose the child is not in good hands
and with people who will treat her kindly. There
are others who have more reason to be interested
in her than I have, and we'd better close the
matter and forget it. I shall not disturb myself
further for the ungrateful child,' says she, as
if it was the baby's fault she'd been stole.
"'If they ask a ransom for her, shall you pay
it?' I asked her.
"'You needn't think it,' says she, lookin' at
me very sharp and suspicious.
"Well, she talked a lot, not forgettin' to warn
me again about not sayin' a word of her to the
police—and—she paid for it and I came home,
not knowin' what else to do but feelin' mighty
sorry for the kid. Gosh, Parkins, because they
want to go to Heaven, such women believe all
Hell can't keep 'em out, they're born so su-
perior!
"Now we're comin' to the real business I
sent for you about. That same night my husband
brings in a pile of old newspapers, some of 'em
two or three years back, to look up 'data,' as
he calls it, but what it's all about I don't know.
Anyway, he's keen on improvin' himself with
correspondence schools and the like, and so he
gets these old papers, 'makin' comparisons,'
-
[230]


AN OLD "PERSONAL,"
he says. After a while, when I'd finished my
darnin', I picked np one of 'em to look at the
Personals. They're interesting no matter how
old they are.
"As I was runnin' through them, me eye
lights on a picture in the Lost and Found col-
yum. Now you don't often see pictures there,
so this one struck me hard. It was the drawin'
of a gold collar—and that same collar was
'round the neck of the child that was lost! There
ain't no doubt of it, Parkins. I can't be mis-
taken in a thing like that. I've got the paper
and you can see it for yourself. There's a big
reward offered for it."
The detective grunted unintelligibly, but he
took the paper Molly gave him and looked at it
with interest.
"Are you sure of this, Molly?" Parkins
asked.
"Positive," she answered. "You couldn't
forget it if you'd once seen it. It's a funny
thing. While it looks awful solid, it's all hollow
and don't weigh no more'n a bunch of feathers.
It wouldn't pay no one to melt it down, and per-
haps that's why it wasn't took off of her. It may
be there's more 'n one of 'em, but you can take
it from me this thing the child was wearin' was
exactly like the picture."
[231]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
kid's neck all the time an' me spendin' the best
part of three years lookin' for it. Well, I'm off
to St. Louis anyway—but what I want to know
is, am I a detectuf or what am I?"
[234]


CHAPTER XVI A Satisfactory Message
Tbtje to his promise, Colonel Cameron jour-
neyed to the Bronx quite early the next morn-
ing. He disliked the prospect of an interview
with the detective, dreaded the possible sug-
gestions that might be forthcoming from that
distrustful individual, yet it was the only way
of finding out definitely what Mrs. Redfield and
he were both most anxious to know. As he
mounted the stairs he decided that he might
have spared himself much by writing the man,
hence it was not entirely a matter of regret with
him that, upon knocking at Parkins's door, he
should receive no answer. He rapped again,
however, to make certain and was about to go
away when a woman's voice from the lower
hall hailed him.
"Is that a gent for Mr. Parkins?"
"Yes," replied the Colonel.
"Well, if you'll look inside the slate you'll
find a message for you."
A door below slammed and the Colonel opened
the folding slate hanging on the jamb of the
door and read the following words:
r
[235]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
hammered at the door again. From the floor be-
low a woman shouted:
"Is that a gent to see Mr. Parkins?"
"Yes, and I want him quick," Nelson shouted
back angrily.
"There's a message for you on his slate,"
returned the woman, "I ain't keepin' him from
you!" and retired into the fastnesses of her
own apartment.
Nelson opened the slate and read what was
written there with much satisfaction.
"Well, he's doin' somethin', anyway," he
muttered to himself. "Guess he's all right, after
all. It ain't as if he was a real detectuv, I oughtn't
to expect too much. I'll just leave a word to
stir him up."
His first thought was to write on the slate.
Finding no slate pencil, he was forced to hunt
about in his pockets until he brought forth the
stub of a lead pencil and the back of an en-
velope.
"Make all possible haste." He scribbled. "Mr.
W. is in town. No child, no money! See? N."
This he pushed through the crack under the
door.
"That ought to stir him up," he muttered, as
he hurried down the many steep steps.
A little later still that morning another
[238]


STRICTLY PBIVATE
tion Harry, but she did want to know all about
the baby's parentage at once. And she had un-
derscored "all" twice, and "at once" three
times, so that he would understand that it was
urgent. Then she stuck it under the door and left
the place with a lightened heart.
For some days previous, Mrs. Eveleth had
been growing tired of her enforced seclusion.
To begin with, her partner at bridge had de-
clared herself cured and had gone away. This
Mrs. Eveleth felt was neither kind nor con-
siderate, and she was surprised at Dr. Madison
for permitting it. Then the lobster farcie at din-
ner the night before had distressed her. It was
no help to her when Dr. Madison declared that
it was prepared from a special recipe of his own
that was never known to upset the most delicate
stomach. She needed no physician to tell her
when she had indigestion. But what worried her
most of all was Eleanor. The meek creature she
had left with her as chaperon would no more
dare to interfere than would a white rabbit, and
Mrs. Eveleth had plenty of leisure to conjure up
all the situations that might arise when there
was no one near to curb the quixotic tendencies
of her headstrong daughter.
As a sort of inspiration came the thought that
^
[240]


STBICTLY PKIVATE
urgent haste is absolutely essential. Every moment's
delay is dangerous."
Mrs. Gilbert regarded this effusion with con-
siderable satisfaction.
"I wouldn't believe that I'd written that,"
she thought. "And I'm sure it's quite uncom-
promising, except perhaps that 'dangerous,'
Only I must impress it upon him that there is
no time for delay." She stuffed the note under
the door and departed.
As if there had not been enough people
already to tax the patience of his obliging
neighbor, still another visitor arrived for
Mr. Parkins that day. Molly Burns, with
little Jimmy beside her climbed the stairs ex-
pectantly.
"Maybe he'll tell us where she is, and if he
does, I'll manage to take you to see her," she
promised the boy.
"I've brought her 'blamentine,'" he said.
"Perhaps he'll send it and then she'll know I'm
thinkin' about her. 'Cause I did give it to her
for keeps, not just Injun givin' the way you do
sometimes."
Molly knocked at the door and waited hope-
fully. Then she knocked again and yet again
[248]


A SATISFACTOEY MESSAGE
This information, like the rest that had ac-
cumulated during his absence, brought a smile
to Parkins's round and rather stupid face on
his return.
"I guess," he said to himself, "maybe it's
kind of lucky for some people I wasn 't at home
that day—but it would 'a' been fun to have had
'em all there together."
[251]


CHAPTER XVII The Invaluable Parkins
"Mystery solved. Parkins"
This laconic telegram from St. Louis had
reached the detective's various clients and cre-
ated as many different impressions. Strangely
enough, each accepted the message as a con-
firmation of his or her particular belief or hope,
and accordingly all were well pleased.
The Nelsons began at once to quarrel over the
way in which the two thousand dollars Mr.
Waldron had promised should be spent. Natu-
rally the chauffeur bent all his energies to ac-
quiring his wife's share, on the plea of the
increased income to be derived from two auto-
mobiles to hire instead of one. They argued the
matter far into the night, reaching no definite
decision. Mrs. Nelson was a good deal like her
mother, a resemblance her husband remarked
on unfavorably as a great disappointment to
him.
Mrs. Gilbert Redfield heaved a sigh of relief
and promptly readjusted her approving con-
science. In fact, a short contemplation of her
position, viewed from the standpoint of the

[252]


THE INVALUABLE PARKINS
child's recovery, gave her a fine sense of per-
sonal sacrifice. All this worry and anxiety had
heen endured for her children's sakes. Only one
regret marred the completeness of her satis-
faction. By the very nature of the case, no one
could know of her martyrdom; but her house-
hold, though not understanding the cause, felt
immediately that something had been added to
her usual air of lofty superiority.
To Harry Waldron the telegram meant that
once more he and Eleanor might be on the old
footing. He decided, however, to wait until Par-
kins's return before making any move. That
delay would only add to the pleasure of their
reconciliation.
Eleanor, too, was quite satisfied that her
mother's ridiculous theory of the child's par-
entage was about to be disproved and rejoiced
accordingly; even while she thought it right to
make assurance doubly sure before sending for
her lover.
To Mrs. Eveleth, the message was a godsend.
She had her belongings packed immediately and
departed from Dr. Madison's sanatorium
forthwith. It would be long before she would
forgive that lobster farcie, but even so, she
thanked heaven fervently that Eleanor's affair
with Harry Waldron would now be at an end,

[253]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
Mrs. Eveleth and her daughter were the only"
ones who, even for a moment, hesitated over
what answer to send to Mrs. Redfield; eventu-
ally they accepted, each arguing that of all
places in the world they were least likely to
meet Harry Waldron there. That gentleman,
however, little knowing whom he would en-
counter, was more than glad for the chance to
end what he had begun to realize was a trivial
and unnecessary misunderstanding. Mrs. Gil-
bert Redfield signified their pleasure and ac-
ceptance, and of course Jimmy Harrison was
delighted to come.
When the evening set arrived the others were
there waiting for Mr. Harrison. To be sure, it
was not a genial party. There was a certain
stiffness and reserve noticeable in the attitude
of these old friends toward one another, which
Mrs. Redfield found it difficult to dispel, and she
wondered, as she moved about among them,
whether it would not be wise to postpone her
explanations until after dinner, when everyone
was likely to be in a more expansive frame of
mind. It was just at the moment that Mrs. Red-
field had come to the conclusion that this would
be, after all, her best plan that the drawing-
room door was gently pushed open and a small
voice called softly:
[256]


THE INVALUABLE PABKINS
"Auntie Tawol, I've dot on my pinky pajamas
and I tan't find on'y my b'oo s'ippers."
And into the room shuffled Miss Muffet,
tousled as to hair, sleepy as to eyes; but a
child once seen never to be mistaken for any
other. At the unexpected sight of the assembled
company she stopped for a moment, but, being
a sociable soul and free from any trace of false
modesty and, moreover, having been cut off
from society of late, she bestowed beaming
smiles upon those about her and came forward
unhesitatingly. Mrs. Eveleth, had she known all,
might have sympathized.
"Dood mornin'," Valentine said impartially
to all and sundry, then turned to Mrs. Redfield.
"Do oo fink F'uffy Wuffles eated up my pinky
s'ippers too? Ve white ones made him so
sick.''
Had Mrs. Redfield planned this diversion
nothing could have happened more opportunely.
Before she could take advantage of it or even
note the effect upon the others in the room, all
of whom were visibly affected, the door opened
again and Parkins entered, followed meekly by
a small, white-haired little man with a nervous
habit of peering to right and left and a funny,
trotting gait.
The detective bobbed his head, his version of a
[257]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
graceful bow. If he was disconcerted at sight of
the company he did not show it.
"Orders was to come at once when I'd estab-
lished facts," he announced to no one in par-
ticular. "Written reports on satisfactory termi-
nation of cases will always be submitted to all
clients." More than one in that select party
gasped. "This gentleman can tell you more than
I can of what you want to know," he ended,
addressing himself directly to Mrs. Redfield.
The stranger came forward uncertainly.
"The necklet—where is the necklet?" he
asked, all anxiety.
"Around the child's neck," Parkins an-
swered.
"To be sure," said the old gentleman. "Take
it off!"
At a nod from Parkins, Mrs. Redfield re-
moved the gold collar from Miss Muffet's neck
and placed it in the stranger's imperious hand.
To everyone's surprise, he snatched at it with
no thought of polite restraint. Then he looked at
it long and earnestly, took a magnifying glass
from an inner pocket and peered at it anew,
heaving an audible sigh of contentment as each
separate disk proved to be uninjured. At length
he produced a velvet-covered box in which he
carefully placed the ornament and, snapping
[258]


STRICTLY PRIVATE
house in St. Louis. You will appreciate that it
is too precious to be separated from the rest of
the collection." Again he started for the door.
"Hold on," Harry had begun, when Parkins
whispered in his ear:
"This is Mr. Pierre La Vallette, sir, the great
collector from St. Louis." Waldron nodded.
"Mr. La Vallette," he began again, a trifle
less imperiously, "before you leave I hope you
will give us more details of this child's parent-
age. There has been some controversy about it.
Who was Carola de Riviere?"
"Carola was the daughter of a neighbor of
mine. We had known each other from infancy.
Still, he took a liberty in making me his daugh-
ter's guardian without my consent—" The old
gentleman paused, looking around him vaguely.
"Where did she marry Bat Sheldon?" Harry
persisted.
"Dear me," Mr. La Vallette murmured fret-
fully, annoyed at being pressed. "The name
wasn't Sheldon—at least—no, I'm sure it
wasn't Sheldon. ... I feel I made a serious
mistake in not bringing my secretary with me.
He's a wonderful man and quite used to talking
to people. He doesn't mind it at all."
"You certainly know whom your own ward
married?" Colonel Cameron suggested.
[260]


THE INVALUABLE PARKINS
"Yes, yes," Mr. La Vallette agreed testily.
"Of course I know, and so must you, sir. It was
not a secret marriage. Carola married Hugh
Grannis a year or so before this child was
born—"
"Hugh Grannis, why he was Bat's particular
pal!" Waldron burst out.
"Don't attempt to interrupt me, sir," said
Mr. La Vallette sharply. "How can I keep my
mind on these extraneous matters if you disturb
my train of thought? Let me see, where was I?
Ah—my ward married Hugh Grannis—in New
York, I fancy. Yes, I'm certain of that, for she
was staying with a school friend at the time."
He looked around, mildly triumphant at the ex-
cellence of his memory, and resumed, "She
died, you know, and so did her husband. It was
very sad. I gave orders to have the child cared
for—I myself know nothing of child culture, it
is not my subject. And just at that time, you un-
derstand, I was in great distress. I had missed
the Aztec necklet. It was not until later that I
learned that my ward had taken it. It was a mis-
understanding. I thought she had asked for a
piece of modern goldsmithy which I did not
value.
"Even in as large a collection as mine, it is
extraordinary how its absence remained so long
[261]


STBICTLY PRIVATE
Mr. La Vallette tapped the floor with his foot
irritably, only in the end to give a grudging con-
sent.
"I will send the child a replica," he agreed.
"I cannot run the risk of losing the original
again by permitting it to leave my hands. It is
absolutely unique, you know. Nothing else like
it in the world. Superb—wonderful—and—ah,
yes, the child—I was forgetting ... I have a
workman I can trust. He makes necessary re-
pairs for me under my own eye, and I will in-
struct him to copy it." And, without more ado,
Mr. Pierre La Vallette, one hand pressed close
against the pocket containing his cherished pos-
session, trotted out of the house.
Parkins glanced at the group surrounding
Miss Muffet and smiled. It only lacked Mr. Har-
rison and Nelson to make it perfect.
"It's turned out pretty well for all con-
cerned," he said.
"It has for us," Eleanor and Harry assured
him in chorus, beaming on each other.
"I want the details," Mrs. Redfield put in.
"All in the written report, ma'am," the de-
tective promised her imperturbably.
"But about Mr. Waldron's—" Colonel
Cameron whispered behind his hand.
"That's it, sir. Only it ain't," Parkins re-
[264]


THE INVALUABLE PARKINS
turned, nodding at Miss Muffet. "All in the
written report.''
As lie moved to go out of the room, he met the
appealing glances of Mrs. Gilbert Redfield and
Mrs. Eveleth.
"Least said soonest mended," he murmured
cryptically as he passed them, and each lady
took it to heart.
"There's a boy, Jimmy, ma'am. He's main
fond of the child and he sent her this," produc-
ing the valentine, the detective stopped on the
threshold to address Mrs. Redfield.
"Oh, it's my blamentine!" exclaimed Miss
Muffet. "Tan't Zhimmy tome to see me, Auntie
Tawol?"
"Certainly he can," replied Mrs. Redfield, in
a mood to consent to anything, so joyful was
she. "You'll arrange it, won't you, Mr. Par-
kins?"
Mr. Harrison was ushered in a moment later,
entirely satisfied for the moment by the mes-
sage Parkins had whispered to him when they
passed each other in the hall, and, the party
being complete, Thomas announced dinner.
To which Miss Muffet returned reproach-
fully, "But Thomas, how tan I do to dinner in
my pinky pajamas wif boo s'ippers?"
[265]


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