“To be sure, to be sure,” Mr. Roth nodded, brushing aside the matter of ownership as if it were of slight consequence.
Mrs. Covington had gone into the house for a coat. She reappeared and followed Mr. Roth, Flo and I down the trail to where the huge stone lay.
“Did you ever notice this rock?” I asked the mistress of Roseacres.
“Never,” she replied, “but then I doubt that I’ve walked this path since I was a child. Even in those days, it was quite overgrown.”
When we reached the stone, George Roth stooped to examine the carving, excitedly declaring that the carving was very similar to the marking of the Pitts stone.
“For all we know,” Mr. Roth said, “this rock may be one of the most valuable relics ever found in our state. From the historical standpoint, of course. The stone has no commercial value whatsoever.”
“I imagine the museum will want it,” I said. “The curator was quite excited about the discovery of the first stone.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” Mr. Roth turned toward Mrs. Covington to ask: “You would not object to the museum having this stone?”
“Why, no,” she replied. “It has no value to me.”
“Then with your permission, I’ll arrange to have it hauled to Greenville without delay. I’ll buy the stone from you.”
“The museum is entirely welcome to it.”
“There is a possibility that the museum will refuse the stone. In that event, you would have the expense of hauling it away again. By purchasing it outright, I can relieve you of all responsibility.”
Giving Mrs. Covington no opportunity to protest, the real estate man forced a crisp two-dollar bill into her unwilling hand.
“There,” he said jovially, “now I am the owner of the stone. I’ll just run down to Truman Kip’s place and ask him to do the hauling for me.”
The wind was chilly, and after Mr. Roth had gone, Mrs. Covington went back to the house, leaving Florence and me to await Roth’s return with the stonecutter.
“I knew something like this would happen,” I told Flo. “Now it’s Mr. Roth’s stone, and the next thing we know, he’ll be claiming that he discovered it, too.”
Florence nodded gloomily, replying that only bad luck had brought the real estate agent to Roseacres at such an inopportune moment.
“I have a sneaking notion he came here to try and buy Mrs. Covington’s house,” I said. “He thinks Roseacres would make a good tourist hotel.”
We waited patiently for over half an hour. Neither George Roth nor Truman Kip appeared, so at last, we decided it was a waste of time to remain longer.
I arrived at home shortly before the dinner hour. My father had arrived home ahead of me. To my surprise, he’d already heard about the discovery of the stone at Roseacres.
“Word certainly travels fast,” I said to my father. “I suppose George Roth must have peddled the story the minute he reached town.”
“Yes, he called at the Examiner office to report he had found a stone similar to the one unearthed at the Pitts farm.”
“He found it? I knew that old publicity seeker would steal all the credit. Florence and I discovered that rock, and I hope you say so in the Examiner.”
“I intend to say nothing at all about the stone in the Examiner,” my father said. “Roth let it drop that he will offer the stone to the museum for two hundred dollars.”
“Well, of all the cheap tricks,” I said, my indignation mounting. “He bought that rock for two dollars, pretending he meant to donate it to the museum. Just wait until Mrs. Covington hears about it.”
Then I told Dad how I had found the rock by stumbling against it in descending the steep path to the river.
“Roth always did have a special talent for making money the easy way,” Dad said. “I’ll be sorry to see him succeed in cheating the museum.”
“You don’t think Mr. Klein will be foolish enough to pay Mr. Roth hundreds of dollars for that rock? Where would the historical society get that kind of money?”
“I am afraid he may, although it seems unlikely that he’d get the full two hundred for it. However, Mr. Klein appears convinced that the Pitts stone is a genuine specimen, and I know for a fact that a few years back the Historical Society had a very generous bequest from an anonymous donor. I’m guessing George Roth knows it, too; otherwise he wouldn’t have considered setting his price so high.”
“You still believe the writing to be fake?”
“I do, I’d stake my reputation upon it. I said as much to George Roth today, and he rather pointedly hinted that he would appreciate it if I’d keep my theories to myself.”
“I guess he doesn’t understand you very well.” I smiled. “Now you’ll be more determined than ever to expose the hoax—if a hoax it is.”
Mr. Roth’s action infuriated me. I believed he had deliberately deceived Mrs. Covington. I immediately telephoned Flo.
“I’ve learned something you’ll want to hear,” I told Florence. “No, I’d rather not tell you over the phone. Meet me directly after dinner. We can go for a sail on the river.”
My father had a small sailboat which he kept at his summer cottage on the Grassy. Occasionally, he’d go for a sail, but his editorial duties at the Greenville Examiner occupied so much of his time that I got far more enjoyment from the craft than he did.
Florence agreed to a sail, and later that evening, as I drove Bouncing Betsy to the river with Flo in the passenger seat, she listened indignantly to my account of how George Roth would likely make a handsome profit at Mrs. Covington’s expense.
“Perhaps Mrs. Covington still can claim ownership of the stone,” she suggested.
“Not without a lawsuit. She sold the rock to Mr. Roth for two dollars. Remember his final words: ‘Now I am the owner of the stone.’ I’m convinced he intended to trick her right from the start.”
We turned into the private dirt road which lead to my father’s cottage. A chill breeze came up from the river, but we’d prepared by dressing warmly.
“It’s a grand night to sail,” I told Flo as we took the narrow path down to the small boathouse. “We should get as far as Roseacres if the breeze holds.”
We launched the dinghy, and Florence raised the sail while I took charge of the tiller. As the canvas filled, the boat heeled slightly and began to pick up speed.
“Now use discretion,” Florence admonished me as the dinghy tilted farther and farther sideways. “It’s all very well to sail on the bias, but I prefer not to get a dunking.”
During the trip up the river, we were kept too busy to enjoy the beauty of the night. However, as the boat approached Truman Kip’s shack, the breeze suddenly died, barely providing steerage way. Holding the tiller by the pressure of my knee, I slumped into a half-reclining position.
“Want me to steer for a while?” Flo asked.
“Not until we turn and start for home. We’ll have the current with us then, which will help, even if the breeze has died.”
Truman Kip’s cabin was entirely dark. High on the hillside stood the mansion at Roseacres and there, too, no lights shown from the windows.
“Everyone seems to have gone to bed,” I said. “It must be late.”
Florence held her watch so that she could read the figures in the bright moonlight and observed that it was only a quarter past ten.
“Anyway, we should be starting for home,” I told Flo. “Coming about.”
Florence prepared to lower her head as the boom swung over, but to her surprise, the maneuver was not carried through. Instead of turning, the dinghy kept steadily on its course.
“What’s the idea?” she demanded. “Isn’t there enough breeze to carry us around?”
“I was watching that light up on the hill,” I explained.
Florence twisted in the seat to look over her shoulder.
“What light?”
“It’s gone now, but I saw it an instant ago. There it is again.”
The moving light was far up the hill. As we w
atched, it seemed to approach the dark mansion and then receded.
“Probably someone with a lantern,” Florence remarked indifferently.
“But why should anyone be prowling about Roseacres at this hour?”
“It does seem strange.”
I steered the sailboat toward the beach.
“I think we should investigate,” I said. “Everyone knows Mrs. Covington lives alone. Someone may be attempting to break into Roseacres.”
Chapter Nine
“Oh, Jane, there must be a perfectly good reason for that moving light,” Florence protested as the boat grated on the sand. “You only want an excuse for prowling about Roseacres yourself.”
“Perhaps,” I admitted. “Jump out and pull us in, will you please?”
“My ankles are nice and dry, and I like them that way,” Florence protested. “If it’s all the same, you do the jumping. It was your idea to beach in such wretched spot.”
“All right, I don’t mind—much.” I gingerly stepped from the dinghy into shallow water. I pulled the boat farther up onto the shore so that Flo could climb out without wetting her feet. Together we furled the sail and removed the steering apparatus, which we hid in the nearby bushes.
“I don’t see a light now,” Florence protested after we had secured the boat. “Must we climb that steep hill and fight all those bushes? It was hard enough going in daylight.”
“It will be better this time,” I insisted. “We beat a lot of the undergrowth back.”
“Did we? I didn’t see your machete.”
“We must go up,” I insisted. “Something may be wrong at Mrs. Covington’s, and we ought to find out about it.”
“You just love to investigate things. You know as well as I do that there’s not likely to be anything amiss.”
“Someone may be prowling about the grounds.”
“Well, there will be certainly be at least two people prowling the grounds if we make it to the top of the hill.”
“My feet are cramped from sitting so long in the boat,” I persisted. “Prolonged inactivity is murder on one’s circulation. What we need is exercise. It is vital to pay careful attention to one’s health.”
Flo gave up.
We followed the crude trail leading up the river bank, which soon joined the trail we had traveled earlier. We climbed until we were within a hundred yards of the mansion at Roseacres. We emerged from the bracken and fought our way through an overgrown clump of lilac bushes until we finally had an unobstructed view of the yard.
“There’s the light,” I whispered to Flo. “See! By the old wishing well.”
I thought we had approached in silence. However, the person who prowled in the yard seemed aware of our approach. As we watched, the lantern was extinguished. Simultaneously, the moon, which had been so bright, moved under a dark cloud.
For several seconds it became too dark to make out the shadowy figure by the well. When the moon again emerged, the figure had disappeared.
“Whoever was there has hidden,” I said to Florence. “After we leave, he may attempt to break into the house.”
“What ought we to do?”
“I think we should warn Mrs. Covington.”
“The house is dark,” Florence said dubiously. “She’s probably in bed.”
“Wouldn’t you want to know about it if someone were prowling about your premises?”
“Yes, of course—but—”
“Then come on,” I urged, starting through the tangle of tall grass which bordered the unkempt garden. “Mrs. Covington will be very grateful for the warning. It may prevent a burglary.”
As we crossed the yard, we kept an alert watch of the bushes but could see no one hiding behind them. Nevertheless, I was convinced that the prowler could not have left the grounds.
I pounded on the rear door of the Covington house.
“Not so loud,” Florence said nervously.
“Mrs. Covington is probably asleep. I want to awaken her.”
“You will, not to worry, and scare her half to death in the process.”
I kept on knocking until I heard the approach of footsteps from within. The door opened, and Mrs. Covington, in lace night cap and flannel robe, peered suspiciously out at us.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she demanded. “Why do you awaken me at such an hour?”
“Don’t you remember us?” I said, stepping into the light. “We didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Startle me, fiddlesticks! I am merely annoyed at being awakened from a sound slumber.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” I apologized. “We wouldn’t bother you, but we saw someone with a lantern moving about in the yard. We were afraid a burglar might intend to break into the house.”
Mrs. Covington gazed carefully about the yard. “I see no light,” she said stiffly.
“It’s gone now,” Florence admitted. “But as we came up from the river, we distinctly saw it near the old wishing well. Jane and I thought that whoever it was hid behind the bushes.”
“You both imagined you saw a light,” the old lady said. “In any case, I am not afraid of prowlers. My doors have good bolts, and my revolver and I will be more than a match for anyone who tries to get inside. Thank you for your interest on my behalf, but really, I am able to look after myself.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “We thought—”
“Your intentions were good,” Mrs. Covington said in a kindlier tone. “But I sleep with a gun beneath my pillow for just such an eventuality. Better go home now and forget all about it. Young ladies shouldn’t be wandering about at such a late hour.”
After the door had closed, Flo and I retraced our way to the river’s edge.
“Someday I’ll learn to stand firm against your crazy ideas, Jane Carter,” Florence said, breaking a lengthy silence.
“But you saw the light with your own two eyes, didn’t you?”
“I thought so, but I’m not sure of anything now. It may have come from the main road.”
“I disagree, but if Mrs. Covington wishes to be robbed, I suppose it’s her own affair. Still, I’d hate to be staring down the barrel of her revolver. Do you suppose she had it concealed in that flannel night dress when she answered the door?”
“Perhaps she had it tucked under that lace nightcap.” Flo giggled. “Who would have thought that the such a cultured old lady would be armed with a revolver?”
We launched the dinghy, spread our canvas, and sailed before what wind there was. When we reached my father’s cottage, he was waiting for us by the boathouse and helped us to haul in the craft.
I did not tell Dad about our little side trip to Roseacres, but on Tuesday morning, while attempting a lazy game of tennis, Flo and I discussed it at considerable length. As far as I knew, no attempt had been made by anyone to break into Mrs. Covington’s house. Nevertheless, I was unwilling to dismiss the affair as one of my many errors in judgment.
I was still thinking about the affair as I dropped off Flo to preside over the Wednesday Tiny Tots Story Hour at the Greenville City Library.
I parked Bouncing Betsy at the curb and went inside to return an overdue book. Abigail Whitely was sitting at one of the tables staring moodily into space, text books and papers spread out before her.
“Hello, Abigail,” I said. “You must have an examination coming up from the way you are frowning.”
“Am I frowning?” Abigail said. “I was thinking hard. The truth is, I am rather puzzled.”
“I like puzzles. If you have a knotty problem, why not test it on me?”
“I doubt if you can help me with this one. Do you remember those two Texas men I told you about?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I don’t trust them,” Abigail said. “Mr. Coaten has offered to adopt Ted and me.”
“Adopt you! Is that why they came here?”
“Mr. Coaten wants to become our legal guardian, but I can’t understand why he should show such interest in us.”
<
br /> “I thought the Sandersons were looking after you and Ted.”
“They took us in because we had no one else. We never were legally adopted, and the truth is, we’re a financial burden.”
“Is Mr. Coaten an old friend?”
“No, I never met him until he came to Greenville. He and his friend, John Addison, claim they were close associates of my father, but neither Ted nor I have any memory of ever having met them. I don’t even recall hearing Papa speak of either of them when he was alive.”
“It does seem exceedingly strange they should show such sudden interest in you,” I said. “You have no property they might wish to control?”
“Ted and I haven’t a penny to our names. Papa never owned land, and what cash he had was used up during his illness right before he died.”
“Perhaps Mr. Coaten really was a friend of your father’s and just wishes to do a good dead for his old pal.”
“I wish I could think so, Mrs. Carter, but I can’t. I’m suspicious that he has a selfish purpose behind his apparent kindness. It worries me because I can’t figure out what it might be.”
“Then you’ll not agree to the adoption?”
“I don’t want to, but Ted favors it, and so does Mrs. Sanderson. Mr. Coaten has been very generous with his money.” Abigail indicated a new dress which she wore. “He gave me this. He made Mrs. Sanderson accept money, and he’s giving Ted things, too.”
“If he really is a friend of the family—”
“I’ll never believe that he is,” Abigail interrupted. “Never!”
After I left the library, I couldn’t stop thinking of what Abigail had told me. I knew absolutely nothing about the two strangers from Texas, but it was hard not to question their motives.
Another matter was causing me considerable annoyance. A rival morning paper had carried a brief item about the stone Flo and I had discovered on the riverbank below Roseacres. I had learned from my father that, instead of delivering the rock to the museum, George Roth had hauled it to his own home, and was offering it for sale to the highest bidder. I assumed this could only be because the Historical Society had been unwilling or unable to meet his exorbitant price.
I persisted in the belief that Mrs. Covington should be informed of Mr. Roth’s underhanded dealings, yet I was far from eager to return to Roseacres.
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