There was no one but Phoebe in the place just now and she asked to look at some notepaper.
“No, not the box sort, Hazel; just the common kind,” she added.
The girl laid several qualities before her and soon Phoebe recognized the kind she was looking for. She bought a few sheets and Hazel began to wrap them up.
“Have you heard much about — about Toby Clark’s case — lately?” the girl asked in a hesitating way.
“No,” replied Phoebe.
“It’s pretty black against him, isn’t it?” continued Hazel anxiously.
“It looks black, just now,” admitted Phoebe.
“I — I’m sorry for Toby,” said Hazel, with a sigh. “We — we’re all — very fond of him.”
Phoebe bristled with indignation.
“Your sweetheart, Dave Hunter, doesn’t seem very fond of him,” she retorted. “He takes every opportunity to denounce Toby and blacken his character.”
Hazel shrank back as if frightened by such vehemence. She bowed her head over the parcel she was tying, but Phoebe could see that her pale skin had flushed red.
“I — I’m not responsible for — for what Dave says, Phoebe,” she murmured pleadingly; and then, to the other girl’s astonishment she put both hands before her face and began to cry, sobbing in a miserable way that was pitiful to listen to.
At once Phoebe became penitent.
“Forgive me, Hazel,” she said. “I know you are not responsible for Dave,” and then she took her parcel and went away, to give the girl a chance to recover her composure.
“The poor thing is almost a nervous wreck,” she mused, “and Dave’s bitterness toward Toby must have annoyed her more than I suspected. She probably loves Dave devotedly and hates to have him behave so ungenerously. I must ask Lucy when they are to be married. That would relieve her of the confining work in the post office and enable her to recover her health and strength.”
At the drug store opposite she found more of that identical notepaper, and the stationery counter at Markham’s dry goods store had it also. It was a grade so common that everyone kept it and therefore Phoebe was forced to acknowledge that her quest had been a failure.
She was in the dumps next day, wondering if she had done all she could for Toby, when suddenly she remembered the governor’s parting injunction. “If you need me, send me a telegram,” he had said, and this brainy, big-hearted man was just the one she needed in her present emergency. At once she decided to telegraph Cousin John, for she believed that his advice, coupled with her knowledge — which she would frankly confide to him — might yet save the day for Toby Clark.
She would not say anything to Cousin Judith, at present, for if the busy governor found himself obliged to ignore her summons she wanted no one to be disappointed but herself.
Very carefully she worded the telegram, in order to present the case as strongly as possible without committing the secrets she guarded in advance of his coming. She wrote and rewrote it several times, until finally she was satisfied with the following:
“Please come and help me save Toby Clark. I believe I know the truth, but without your assistance Toby will be condemned on false evidence. A woman stole Mrs. Ritchie’s box and there is a conspiracy to shield her from discovery and wickedly sacrifice Toby in her stead. Will tell you all when you arrive. Come quickly, if you can, for time is precious.”
She signed this “Phoebe Daring” and putting on her wraps, carried it down to the station. Dave Hunter was in the little telegraph office, on duty but not busy. He laid down a newspaper as Phoebe entered his room and nodded rather ungraciously.
“Here’s a telegram, Dave, which I want you to send at once.”
“Day message, or night!” he inquired, taking it from her hand and beginning to count the words.
“Oh, day, of course,” she replied.
Suddenly he paused, with his pencil poised above the telegram, and a wave of red swept over his face and then receded, leaving it a chalky white. He did not lift his eyes, for a time, but seemed to study the telegram, reading it twice very slowly from beginning to end. Then he pushed the paper toward Phoebe and said in a hard, arrogant voice:
“I can’t send that.”
“Why not?” she asked in astonishment.
“I — it’s libelous,” he returned, rising from his chair before the table on which the telegraph instrument stood and facing the girl defiantly.
“It is not libelous!” she indignantly exclaimed.
“Well, I can’t send it; it’s against the rules of the office.”
Phoebe looked into his face searchingly and he half turned away. She remembered now Dave’s rabid enmity toward Toby Clark and concluded that he refused the telegram because he feared it would assist Toby’s case. But she would not be balked by such a ridiculous pretext and as her anger increased she grew more quiet and determined.
“You ‘re talking nonsense,” she said. “This is a public telegraph office and you, as the operator, are obliged to accept and send any message that is presented and paid for. It isn’t your place to decide whether it is libelous or not, and I demand that you send this telegram at once.”
“I won’t,” he said firmly. “I’m going out, Miss Daring, and must lock up the office; so I’ll trouble you to go.”
She regarded the young fellow questioningly as he took his hat and stepped to the door, waiting for her with his hand on the knob. Then she slipped into his seat at the table and placed her hand on the instrument.
‘‘Here!” he called fiercely.’ ‘What are you doing, girl?”
“If you won’t telegraph the governor, I will!” she declared. “Stand back, Dave Hunter, and don’t you dare to touch me or interfere. I’ll save Toby Clark if I have to put you behind the bars in his place, and perhaps there’s where you belong.”
As she spoke she was clicking the little instrument, calling the state capitol. Dave himself had taught her how to do this. The operator now stood motionless beside her, looking down at the courageous girl with unmistakable terror in his eyes. Perhaps her threat awed him; perhaps he had other reasons for not venturing to prevent her extraordinary action.
The answer came in a moment. Fortunately the wire had been free and as soon as she got her connection she began clicking out the message — as dexterously as the regular operator himself might have done.
Dave listened, as motionless as if turned to stone. She demanded a “repeat” and from the other end came the repetition of the message, exactly as the girl had sent it. She answered: “OK,” rose from her chair and calmly asked:
“What are the charges?”
The young man drew his hand across his eyes with a despairing gesture and limply sank into the chair.
“Go away, please,” he replied.
Phoebe picked up the rate book and figured the cost of the telegram. As she did so her eyes fell on a railway order which Dave Hunter had written on a blank form and after staring at it a moment she stealthily folded it and slipped it into her pocket. Then she laid the exact change on the table and walked out of the office. As she closed the door softly behind her she noticed that the operator had dropped his head on his outstretched arms and seemed to have forgotten her existence.
A sudden horror and aversion for the young man welled up within her, but she felt elated and triumphant, as well. She had sent the message in spite of all opposition and — she had made a discovery!
The writer of the anonymous letters was none other than Dave Hunter.
Phoebe could scarcely wait to get home before examining the order she had taken from the telegraph office. Once within her own room she eagerly spread it out before her and studied it with care. It was a simple railway order addressed to the supply agent at St. Louis, and said: “Twenty beds with mattrasses and pillows for laborers at Section 9 without delay.” It was signed by the Division Superintendent but was in Dave’s handwriting and had doubtless been dictated to him to be wired to the agent.
But
within it lay the proof Phoebe had so long and vainly sought. Not only was the word “mattress” misspelled as in the anonymous letter, but the capital “T” in “Twenty” had the same preliminary curl to it that she had observed in both letters, wherever “Toby” had appeared.
This discovery positively amazed the girl. She had never suspected Dave, whom she now believed had hidden both the papers and the money in Toby’s house, on different occasions, with the evident determination to incriminate the boy. Then, by means of the anonymous letters, Dave had told where the stolen property could be found.
But Dave had not stolen the box. A woman did that. She sighed as she thought of Lucy, an ambitious girl, and of Mrs. Hunter, who was prominent in all the social affairs of Riverdale and an earnest church member. It was easy enough to understand now why Dave had denounced Toby. Cousin Judith knocked at her door. “A telegram for you, Phoebe.” She tore it open, while Judith watched her face curiously. It flushed with joy.
“The governor will be here in the morning,” she said. “You don’t mind, do you, Cousin Judith?”
CHAPTER XXII
HOW SAM PARSONS EXPLAINED
“You caught me just right, my dear,” said the governor, smiling cheerily into the girl’s anxious face. “I had nothing of importance on hand at this time, so I ran away from half a hundred unimportant demands and — here I am.”
He came for breakfast and was as eager for Aunt Hyacinth’s peerless flapjacks as any of the youngsters, laughing and chatting with the entire family like a boy just out of school. But afterward he sat with Phoebe and Judith in the cosy sitting room and listened gravely to every detail of the young girl’s story.
Phoebe was very frank in her relation, concealing nothing that she had discovered or that had been confided to her. “I am supposed to keep some of these things secret,” she said; “but I believe this secrecy on the part of Toby’s friends, and their failure to get together, is going to send the boy to prison unless we take advantage of our knowledge and accomplish something practical.
Anyhow, I can see no harm in confiding in you, Cousin John, even if no good comes of it.” The governor nodded approval. “That’s right, Phoebe,” he said encouragingly. “Dust all the shelves and let the grime settle where it will.”
Before this man had been drawn into politics and became first a senator and then twice governor of his state, he had been a lawyer of unusual prominence. His keen intellect followed the girl’s recital with comprehension and even “read between the lines.” During the story he saw probabilities she had never guessed. But he said:
“You have shown admirable intelligence, Phoebe, and I see you have quickly recognized the important points of your discoveries. With the information you have given me I believe I can put my finger on the identical woman who is responsible for Toby Clark’s tribulations.”
“Oh; can you, sir!” she exclaimed. “Then I must have been very stupid.”
He turned to Judith with his whimsical smile. “You see, she won’t admit that a rival detective has any talent.”
“Yes, I will,” said Phoebe. “I didn’t mean it that way at all. But I can see no ‘identical’ woman in the case, as yet. A mysterious woman stole the box, and of course it is a member of Dave Hunter’s family — his mother or sister — or perhaps his sweetheart, Hazel Chandler. Which of the three do you mean, sir?”
“None of those,” replied the governor, musingly. “The woman whom I think has been the cause of your friend Toby’s past misfortunes and present danger is — Mrs. Ritchie.”
Both Judith and Phoebe stared at him in amazement.
“Did she steal her own box, then?” said Phoebe.
“No, indeed; but she accused Toby Clark with a purpose, and she intends to get him a long prison sentence — also with a purpose.”
“What purpose, sir?”
“I don’t know. That is still dark. But we shall turn the light on it. Perhaps Mr. Spaythe knows, by this time.”
“Mr. Spaythe?”
“To be sure,” replied Cousin John blandly. “Why do you suppose he appropriated that paper of Mrs. Ritchie’s, to which he had no legal right, unless it contained something that required investigation?”
“Oh; I never thought of that.”
“Mr. Spaythe knew that Mrs. Ritchie had no right to the paper, and was not acting squarely in regard to it. So he put the paper in a safe place until he could discover the truth. It doesn’t take much of a detective to figure that out, Phoebe. It’s the science of deduction. Let’s go a little further: The paper concerns Toby Clark. That explains why this reserved banker took the boy to his own home, to safeguard his person or his interests until the truth could be learned. It’s as plain as a pikestaff, Miss Conspirator. You had all the pieces of the puzzle, but could not fit them together.”
“But — the woman who stole the box?” asked Judith, eagerly.
“Bother the woman who stole the box! What do we care about her?” retorted Cousin John. “It is true she stirred up this mess, but the stew may prove a savory one for Toby Clark, in the end. In that case we cannot be too thankful that the poor creature yielded to temptation. She has gained no material benefit, for the stolen property is all restored; but fate had used her to right a grievous wrong. Let us treat her with grateful consideration.”
Phoebe drew a long breath, striving to reconcile the governor’s view of this mysterious case with the prejudices she had so long encouraged in her own mind. She could not yet see by what process he arrived at the astonishing solution of the problem he now advanced, but the keen lawyer was quite satisfied that he had “nailed the truth.” Judith was fully as perplexed as Phoebe and after a pause she inquired:
“Will Mr. Spaythe’s discovery, then, clear Toby Clark of the charge against him?”
“Eh? Perhaps not. I’ve no idea what the discovery is and we must have more information on that subject. My idea is that Mrs. Ritchie will be forced to withdraw her charge; but the case might be taken up by the public prosecutor and young Clark condemned, unless we manage to get the case out of court altogether.”
“Even then,” said Phoebe, “Toby’s good name will not be cleansed. Many people will say he escaped paying the penalty of his crime, but was really guilty. The evidence they have brought against him is very strong.”
“Cleverly argued, Phoebe. I see your point. We must not be content with whitewashing the young man; we must restore him to his friends as sweet and clean as before. So, after all, we can’t quite ignore the woman whose folly caused all the mischief; nor even your friend Dave Hunter, who obtained possession of the contents of the box and tried to throw the blame onto Toby in order to save one whom he loved.”
“That’s it, sir. I think that was Dave’s motive.”
“Well, the sooner we begin to burrow the sooner we shall unearth the truth. I want to see Sam Parsons, first of all.”
“I will send Don for him,” proposed Judith.
“If you please, Cousin.”
It was Saturday and Don chanced to be within hailing distance. He accepted the mission with joy and lost no time in running to the constable’s house.
“Hurry up, Sam,” he said: “The governor’s at our place and wants to see you.”
Sam sat down in his rocker.
“Now?” he inquired “Right away. He came this morning, you know. Perhaps he’s goin’ to promote you; make you Chief of Police or Grand Marshal. The governor can do anything, Sam.”
Sam shook his head. He rocked to and fro, thinking deeply and dreading the governor with a cowardly sinking of the heart.
“Well, what are you going to do? Mutiny?” asked Don impatiently.
The constable sighed. Then he rose and picked up his hat, walking slowly in the wake of his eager conductor to face the man he most feared.
“Good morning, Parsons. I know you well,” said the governor. “You’re an honest man and a good officer. Who took Mrs. Ritchie’s box from Judge Ferguson’s office?”
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“Who stole the box?” more sternly.
“Sir, a — a — ”
“Parsons!”
“Hazel Chandler, sir.”
“Thank you. I thought so. Now, then, sit down and tell me about it.”
Perspiration was oozing from the constable’s forehead. He wiped it away and sat down, staring stupidly at the great man and wondering how he had come to admit a fact that he had sworn to keep secret to his dying day.
“There is nothing to tell, sir,” he said weakly.
“Begin at the beginning, stating why you spied in the hallway, outside of Judge Ferguson’s door.”
“The night before, sir, I had seen — seen — ”
“Hazel.”
“I had seen Hazel carrying the box home. She passed under a light and I was in the shadow. It was Mrs. Ritchie’s blue box. The next day I watched. She brought the box down to the post office with her, wrapped in a cloak to make the bundle look round, and then covered with paper. Everyone was excited over the judge’s death, that day. The girl watched her chance and in the afternoon stole upstairs with the box, put it on the office table and hurried away. I sneaked up afterward and looked through the keyhole, but I found Hazel had forgotten to lock the door behind her, although she had carried off the key. I went in and looked at the box. It was unlocked and empty, except for a paper or two, which I did not touch. I left it there and went into the post office; but Will Chandler, Hazel’s father, said she had run over to the Ferguson house on an errand.”
“By the way, Phoebe,” said Cousin John, “can you get Janet Ferguson for me?”
“Yes; l can telegraph to her from my room.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 361