“‘Between the mattress and the straw tick on Toby Clark’s bed in his old house you will find the money and bonds he stole from Mrs. Ritchie and hid there.’”
That was all. The banker lifted his eyebrows and smiled.
“Ah, they’re giving up the money now,” said he. “They realize there is danger in keeping it.”
“Whom do you mean by ‘they’?” asked Phoebe.
“The original thieves.”
“Were there more than one?”
“I don’t know. There was one, at least, before me, and some one stole the box from this office — with a purpose. How shall we treat this suggestion, Phoebe?”
“Let us go and get the money at once, six-, and restore it to Mrs. Ritchie.”
“She will demand an explanation.”
“Then we will show this letter.”
Mr. Spaythe reflected a moment.
“You are right,” he decided. “It will he best that the money is restored by me, acting on behalf of Judge Ferguson’s estate, rather than by some one else. The only thing I fear is that they will claim I induced Toby to give it up.”
“Won’t they accept your word — and mine — and the letter, sir?”
“Perhaps. We will risk it. Will you come with me now? It’s growing late.”
Phoebe rose with alacrity. Mr. Spaythe took his hat from a hook, locked the door leading into the bank and, when they were outside, locked the street door also.
“Since the disappearance of that box I am growing cautious,” he said.
The old Clark shanty stood quite beyond the village at a bend in the river, but even at that the distance was not so great that a fifteen minute walk would not cover it. Mr. Spaythe and Phoebe walked briskly along, both silent and preoccupied, and presently had left the village and turned into a narrow but well trodden path that led across the waste lands or “downs,” as they were called, to the shanty.
But before they reached it a group of men came rushing out of Toby’s house, gesticulating and talking together in an excited manner. Among them were Lawyer Kellogg and Sam Parsons, the constable.
Mr. Spaythe stopped short, an angry frown upon his face. Phoebe halted beside him, feeling so disappointed she was near to crying. They waited for the others to approach.
“Do — do you think they got a letter, too?” asked the girl.
“Of course; just as before; and they’ve lost no time in acting upon it,” was the grim response.
Lawyer Kellogg came up, triumphantly waving his hand, in which was clasped an oblong packet.
“We’ve got it!” he cried, his round fat face well depicting his joy. “We’ve found the money and bonds where Clark hid ‘em.”
“Clark?” replied Phoebe, coldly. “How dare you make such a statement? Toby Clark had nothing to do with hiding that money, and you know it.”
“He’ll get his stripes for it, just the same,” declared the little lawyer. “I’ve got plenty of witnesses, and the finding of this property will settle Toby Clark’s case for good and all. There’s no power on earth can save him now.”
The banker was staring fixedly at Sam Parsons, the only one of Kellogg’s party who was not jubilant.
“Well?” he asked.
“The money was there, all right,” growled the constable; “but Toby didn’t put it there.”
“Of course not,” said Phoebe; “no more than he put that blue box in the rubbish heap.”
It was a chance shot but the little lawyer turned upon her with a fierce gesture, his hands clenched, his eyes ablaze with anger and fear.
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded.
“Nothing at all, sir,” said Sam Parsons quickly, as he cast a warning look at the girl. “Miss Daring is a friend of Toby Clark, that’s all, and she’s annoyed over this new discovery.”
“You must excuse Miss Daring,” added the banker smoothly. “She is naturally agitated. Come, my dear,” he added, tucking her arm beneath his own, “let us return.”
They followed behind the others, who were mostly eager to get to the village and spread the news, and Sam Parsons remained with them. Phoebe was ready to bite her tongue with vexation for letting Mr. Kellogg suspect she knew about the substituted blue box. She saw that she might have destroyed all Toby’s chance of acquittal by putting the lawyer on his guard. When they were alone she expected her companions to reproach her for her indiscretion, but they both remained silent.
“Kellogg came for me and I had to go,” explained Sam, as they reentered the village.
Mr. Spaythe merely nodded.
“It’s a hard blow for Toby,” added the constable, with a sigh.
“It is merely a part of the conspiracy against him,” asserted Phoebe indignantly.
“I know. But they can prove their charge, having now evidence enough to satisfy a jury, and Toby can’t disprove anything. This thing spells ruin to the boy, to my notion,” said the constable.
He left them at the bank and Phoebe again entered the office with Mr. Spaythe.
“Will you let me take that anonymous letter, sir?” she asked.
“If you like,” said he; “but the writing is purposely disguised.”
“I know; but I’d like to study it, just the same.”
The banker handed her the letter. Then he said:
“Wait a moment and I’ll get you the other.”
He unlocked a drawer of his desk and found it, holding the two together a moment for comparison.
“Just as I thought,” he said. “The same person wrote them both.”
“Was it a man or a woman?” inquired Phoebe.
“That I am unable to determine. Preserve these letters, for we may need them as evidence.”
“I will, sir.”
She carried them home and placed them in her desk, for as it was nearly suppertime she had no opportunity to examine them at present. That evening she related to Cousin Judith the latest evidence found against Toby Clark; “manufactured evidence” the girl called it, for she knew Toby had never touched the contents of Mrs. Ritchie’s box. She also told the Little Mother of Mr. Spaythe’s confession, laying stress on his assertion that at least three different persons, including himself, had stolen the box.
“But Mr. Spaythe did not really steal it, you know,” she added. “When he found it open on the office table, and the cupboard locked, he merely took the box away for safe keeping.”
“He took Mrs. Ritchie’s document, however, and is still holding it, without her knowledge or consent,” returned Judith thoughtfully. “I wonder why?”
“I am sure he had a good reason for that,” declared Phoebe. “The fact that Mrs. Ritchie is making such a fuss over that one paper, and that Mr. Spaythe is carefully guarding it, makes me think it is more important than the money.”
“That is probably true,” said Judith; “yet I fear there is nothing in that fact to save Toby. For, if Mr. Spaythe admits all the truth — so far as he knows it — at the trial, it will not clear Toby of the accusation that he first rifled the box of its contents.”
“No,” answered Phoebe, “and for that reason I must continue my search for the criminal. I had hoped that we had information to upset the entire evidence, until that dreadful development of to-day. It is the strongest proof against Toby they have yet secured, and I see no hope for the boy unless we can discover the guilty one.”
“Perhaps Mrs. Ritchie will refuse to prosecute Toby, now that she has recovered all her property but one paper,” suggested Judith.
“That would be worse for Toby than to stand his trial,” answered Phoebe, with conviction. “If he hopes again to hold up his head in the world he must prove his innocence — not be allowed to go free with the suspicion of his guilt constantly hanging over him.”
“Goodness me! what a staunch champion you are, Phoebe,” said Judith, smiling. “You must have thought very deeply on this subject to have mastered it so well.”
“It is a very interesting subject,” ans
wered the girl, blushing at the Little Mother’s praise. “I seem to love a mystery, Cousin, for it spurs me to seek the solution. But I fear I’ve been neglecting my household duties of late and throwing the burden on your shoulders, Little Mother.”
“No, dear; I cannot see that you are at all lax in your duties; but, if you were, I would consider it excusable under the circumstances. I hope that in some manner you may light upon the truth and manage to solve your complicated problem.”
But when Phoebe went to her room to think over the discoveries of that eventful day, she was in a quandary how to act. The mystery seemed to have deepened, rather than cleared, and nothing had transpired to give her a clew of any sort. Except the anonymous letters.
CHAPTER XX
HOW PHOEBE DEFENDED THE HELPLESS
For some time Phoebe had intended to make a study of the anonymous letters which Mr. Spaythe had lent her, so one morning when she was not likely to be disturbed she went to her room, took the letters from her desk and sat down to examine them carefully.
The handwriting was purposely made to sprawl this way and that, slanting first to the right and then to the left. The grammar was good enough and the spelling correct except for one word. In the second letter received by Mr. Spaythe the word “mattress” was spelled “mattrass”; but that did not seem to her of any importance, for it was a likely error. There was nothing to indicate that a woman rather than a man had written the letters, but Phoebe had reasons for guessing it was the former. In the first place, she now knew that a woman had stolen the box. Mr. Holbrook had seen her take it from the office to her home. She must have replaced it, the next day, empty save for one paper inadvertently overlooked — the most precious paper of all to Mrs. Ritchie. In her agitation she had forgotten to lock the office door behind her, so that Mr. Spaythe was able to enter. The woman, Phoebe argued, must have observed Mr. Spaythe taking away the box and, fearing discovery through it, had stealthily followed him and as soon as he had left his office crept in and taken it again. Then Sam Parsons had discovered the box in her possession and made her give it up, after exacting a confession and promising to shield her. Or else Sam had himself taken the box from Mr. Spaythe’s office, thinking he would thus protect the banker from suspicion. That part of the story was at present too involved for her to determine the exact truth.
But returning to her argument that a woman, or at least a girl, had written these letters, and also written duplicates of them for Mr. Kellogg, Phoebe felt that so rash a proceeding might only be attributed to one of her own sex. A man would have realized the danger they might evoke and so have refrained from sending them.
What was the danger? she asked herself. The irregular penmanship was so cleverly executed that there was nothing to guide one to a discovery of the writer. She laid the two sheets of notepaper side by side. They were of the same cheap quality that one may buy at any store. No watermark. Nothing distinctive about the envelopes.
She went over the words letter by letter. Although written at different periods the writing was equally well disguised. But the same person wrote them, for the capital “T” that appeared in both, in the name “Toby Clark,” had a peculiar curl at the beginning of it. This “T” slanted one way in the first letter and the opposite way in the second, but the little curl was in both.
Suddenly the girl realized that here was a clew to the writer. That peculiarity in forming the letter “T” must be characteristic and the same curl would doubtless be found in the normal writing.
With the idea that it might be some girl whom she intimately knew Phoebe went through her desk and examined the capital T’s in every scrap of correspondence it contained, but without finding any indication of the telltale curl. It was late when she finished this task and so she went to bed feeling that she had accomplished nothing of value.
After this the days passed rapidly without any further developments. Public opinion in Riverdale was again undergoing a change and although the Marching Club paraded several times and once took the band to Bayport — with money left from the mysterious donation — people viewed the demonstrations with good-humored tolerance but were not impressed as they had been at first. There was a general feeling that Toby Clark’s case was hopeless and Phoebe was greatly annoyed by reports that Tom Eat bun and Dave Hunter, with some others, had openly denounced Toby as a thief, saying it was all nonsense to claim he was innocent when he had been “caught with the goods.”
Young Hunter, Lucy’s brother and Phoebe’s instructor in telegraphy, was the most bitter of these assailants and seemed to take pleasure in sneering at Toby on every possible occasion. This surprised Phoebe the more because she had always considered Dave a kindly, manly young fellow, usually generous in his criticism of others. Something had doubtless turned him against Toby Clark and aroused his enmity, for Dave had condemned the boy out of hand almost from the moment of his arrest.
One dismal, cloudy afternoon, when Phoebe had been down town and was hastening home to supper, she turned up a side street and saw before her a crowd of children who were jeering and hooting at the top of their voices. These were not the children of good families, such as were members of the Marching Club, but the ragged, neglected gamins that are to be found on the streets of every Southern village; both white and black; mischievous, irresponsible youngsters who delight in annoying anyone and anything they dare attack, from a stray dog to a country woman driving to market.
Phoebe well knew the tribe and, as she heard shouts of “Robber!”
“Thief!”
“Jailbird!” ring out, at once suspected the truth. With rising anger she ran toward the group and reaching the outskirts of the little crowd she hurled the mockers right and left, whereby she came face to face with Toby Clark. The boy, leaning on his crutch, was cowering with bowed head before the jeers of his assailants.
“Shame on you all!” she cried, glaring around with righteous indignation. “How dare you attack one who is more unfortunate than yourselves — a poor, weak cripple, who needs friends more than you need soap-and-water?”
They shrank away, sullen and resenting her interference, and those who refused to run she threatened with her umbrella until they were driven off and she was left alone with their victim.
“Come, Toby,” she then said, with assumed cheerfulness; “let’s go home. You mustn’t mind those dreadful creatures; they’re ignorant of common decency.”
“I — I’d no business to come out,” be replied in a sad voice. “But I’d been in the house so long, and I wanted the air, and — ”
“You’ve as much right on the streets as any other decent citizen,” Phoebe said warmly.
“Not at present,” returned Toby. “Those children think I am a thief, and so do many other people, and because I cannot prove that I am honest they consider it right to revile me.” He was hobbling along at her side as he spoke. “Isn’t it queer, Phoebe, that a mere suspicion can blot out one’s reputation, won by years of right living, and force one to defend himself and prove he is not a rascal?”
“It’s all wrong, Toby, and the law is greatly to blame for it, I think. It’s an absurd idea that anyone can swear out a warrant for another person’s arrest, charging him with any dreadful crime, just because that person has a suspicion he is guilty, and makes complaint against him. Any good, honest citizen may be thus disgraced and forced to prove his innocence before he is free again; and even then the smirch clings to him for a long time. It’s an unjust law and ought to be changed. No one should ever be arrested without proof of his crime. The one who makes the complaint should furnish such proof, and not oblige the innocent person to defend himself.”
Toby looked up at her with an admiring smile.
“I’ve studied law some, you know,” he said, “and what you propose is a revolution. It is more just than the present law, which ruins many lives and furnishes no redress, but I fear it would permit many guilty ones to escape.”
“You won’t pay any attention to what tho
se children said?” she pleaded.
“Not more than I can help. They’ve heard others say I am a thief, so we mustn’t blame them too severely. They don’t know any better — poor little things.”
She left him at Mr. Spaythe’s house and proceeded toward home in a very depressed mood. It was dreadful to know that Toby was subjected to such insults whenever he showed himself on the streets, and yet this was nothing to the humiliation and disgrace he must endure if they fastened the theft upon him and condemned him to a prison sentence.
CHAPTER XXI
HOW PHOEBE TELEGRAPHED THE GOVERNOR
The day set for the trial was drawing so near that presently Phoebe became greatly worried. Winter had suddenly set in and the weather was so cold and disagreeable that she could not get out as frequently as before. She saw Mr. Holbrook once or twice but found him despondent.
“They’ve got us practically between two millstones,” he said, “and since we are unable to use our knowledge of the truth for defense, we shall be obliged to take our chances of defeat. I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped.”
Phoebe, however, thought it could. She asked herself how far she was bound to respect the various confidences reposed in her, when they meant the ruin of an innocent young life. She knew enough, she believed, to save Toby if she were allowed to go upon the stand and tell it all; but she felt that she was so inexperienced in legal matters that if she acted on mere impulse she might make a failure.
Meantime she kept studying the anonymous letters and one day decided to find out where the notepaper had been bought, if possible, as that might put her in the way of determining who had bought it. So she went to town and made her way to the post office.
Hazel Chandler waited upon her at the little stationery shop in the office, and Phoebe thought the young girl looked pale and worn. “They’re working her too hard again,” she reflected, and yet Hazel’s duties were no more onerous than those which many shop-girls voluntarily undertook. She also had the advantage of working for her father and running the little store as she pleased, although she was obliged to leave her counter for the post office whenever Will Chandler was out, as was often the case. Besides being one of the village council the postmaster was interested in several other things which required his attention outside, so that Hazel as assistant postmaster waited on most of those who came to the office for their mail.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 360