Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “I know the bank it’s deposited in.”

  Again he growled, like a beast at bay.

  “Whatever I have on deposit is to be applied to the Cause,” said he. “It’s reserved for future promotion.”

  “Have you seen to-day’s papers?” she inquired.

  “No.”

  “The revolution in Ireland has already broken out.”

  “Great Scott!” There was sincere anxiety in his voice now.

  “It is premature, and will result in the annihilation of all your plans.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “You know better,” said she. “Anyhow, your actions are now blocked until we see how the rebellion fares. The Irish will have no further use for American money, I’m positive, so I insist that my father receive back the funds he has advanced you, and especially his own money which he gave you to invest and you never invested.”

  “Bah! If I offered him the money he wouldn’t take it.

  “Then I’ll take it for him,” she asserted. “You’ll give up that money because you know I can have you arrested for — well, let us say a breach of American neutrality. You are not a citizen of the United States. You were born in Ireland and have never been naturalized here.”

  “You seem well posted,” he sneered.

  “I belong to the Government Secret Service, and the Bureau knows considerable,” she replied dryly.

  He remained silent for a time, his eyes fixed upon the road ahead. Then he said:

  “The Government didn’t send you to get Cragg’s money away from me. Nor did Cragg send you.”

  “No, my father is afraid of you. He has been forced to trust you even when he knew you were a treacherous defaulter, because of your threats to betray the Cause. But you’ve been playing a dangerous game and I believe my father would have killed you, long ago, if — ”

  “Well, if what?”

  “If you hadn’t been his own nephew.”

  He turned upon her with sudden fierceness.

  “Look out!” she called. “I’ve not the same objection to killing my cousin.”

  “Your cousin!”

  “To be sure. You are the son of Peter Cragg, my father’s brother, who returned to Ireland many years ago, when he was a young man. Ned Joselyn is an assumed name; you are Ned Cragg, condemned by the British government for high treason. You are known to be in America, but only I knew where to find you.”

  “Oh, you knew, did you?”

  “Yes; all your various hiding-places are well known to me.”

  “Confound you!”

  “Exactly. You’d like to murder me, Cousin Ned, to stop my mouth, but I’ll not give you the chance. And, really, we ought not to kill one another, for the Cragg motto is ‘a Cragg for a Cragg.’ That has probably influenced my poor father more than anything else in his dealings with you. He knew you are a Cragg.”

  “Well, if I’m a Cragg, and you’re a Cragg, why don’t you let me alone?”

  “Because the family motto was first ignored by yourself.”

  For a long time he drove on without another word. Evidently he was in deep thought and the constant pressure of the revolver against his side gave him ample food for reflection. Nan was thinking, too, quietly exulting, the while. As a matter of fact she had hazarded guess after guess, during the interview, only to find she had hit the mark. She knew that Ned Cragg had been condemned by the British government and was supposed to have escaped to America, but not until now was she sure of his identity with Ned Joselyn. Her father had told her much, but not this. Her native shrewdness was alone responsible for the discovery.

  “We’re almost there, aren’t we?” asked Nan at last.

  “Where?”

  “At the house where you’re at present hiding. We’ve entered the city, I see, and it’s almost daybreak.”

  “Well?”

  “I know the Chief of Police here. Am I to have that, money, Cousin Ned, or — ”

  “Of course,” he said hastily.

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  PLANNING THE FUTURE

  It was nearly a month later when Mary Louise, walking down to the river on an afternoon, discovered Ingua sitting on the opposite bank and listlessly throwing pebbles into the stream. She ran across the stepping-stones and joined her little friend.

  “How is your grandfather this morning?” she asked.

  “I guess he’s better,” said Ingua. “He don’t mumble so much about the Lost Cause or the poor men who died for it in Ireland, but Ma says his broken heart will never mend. He’s awful changed, Mary Louise. To-day, when I set beside him, he put out his hand an’ stroked my hair an’ said: ‘poor child — poor child, you’ve been neglected. After all,’ says he, ‘one’s duties begin at home.’ He hasn’t had any fits of the devils lately, either. Seems like he’s all broke up, you know.”

  “Can he walk yet?” inquired Mary Louise.

  “Yes, he’s gett’n’ stronger ev’ry day. This mornin’ he walked to the bridge an’ back, but he was ruther wobbly on his legs. Ma said she wouldn’t have left him, just now, if she wasn’t sure he’d pick up.”

  “Oh. Has your mother gone away, then?”

  “Left last night,” said Ingua, “for Washington.”

  “Is her vacation over?”

  “It isn’t that,” replied the child. “Ma isn’t going to work any more, just now. Says she’s goin’ to take care o’ Gran’dad. She went to Washington because she got a telegram saying that Senator Ingua is dead.”

  “Senator Ingua?”

  “Yes; he was my godfather, you see. I didn’t know it myself till Ma told me last night. He was an uncle of Will Scammel, my father that died, but he wasn’t very friendly to him an’ didn’t give him any money while he lived. Ma named me after the Senator, though, ‘cause she knew which side her bread was buttered on, an’ now he’s left me ten thousand dollars in his will.”

  “Ten thousand!” exclaimed Mary Louise, delightedly, “why, you Craggs are going to be rich, Ingua. What with all the money your mother got back from Ned Joselyn and this legacy, you will never suffer poverty again.”

  “That’s what Ma says,” returned the child, simply. “But I dunno whether I’ll like all the changes Ma’s planned, or not. When she gets back from Washington she’s goin’ to take me an’ Gran’dad away somewheres for the winter, an’ I’m to go to a girls’ school.”

  “Oh, that will be nice.”

  “Will it, Mary Louise? I ain’t sure. And while we’re gone they’re goin’ to tear down the old shack an’ build a fine new house in its place, an’ fix up the grounds so’s they’re just as good as the Kenton Place.”

  “Then your mother intends to live here always?”

  “Yes. She says a Cragg’s place is at Cragg’s Crossing, and the fambly’s goin’ to hold up its head ag’in, an’ we’re to be some punkins around here. But — I sorter hate to see the old place go, Mary Louise,” turning a regretful glance at the ancient cottage from over her shoulder.

  “I can understand that, dear,” said the other girl, thoughtfully; “but I am sure the change will be for the best. Do you know what has, become of Ned Joselyn?”

  “Yes; he an’ Annabel Kenton — that’s his wife — have gone away somewheres together; somewheres out West, Ma says. He didn’t squander Ann’s money, it seems; not all of it, anyhow; didn’t hev time, I s’pose, he was so busy robbin’ Gran’dad. Ned run away from Ann, that time he disappeared, ‘cause English spies was on his tracks an’ he didn’t want to be took pris’ner. That was why he kep’ in hidin’ an’ didn’t let Ann know where he was. He was afraid she’d git rattled an’ blab.”

  “Oh; I think I understand. But he will have to keep in hiding always, won’t he?”

  “I s’pose so. Ma says that’ll suit her, all right. Am I talkin’ more decent than I used to, Mary Louise?”

  “You’re improving every day, Ingua.”

  “I’m tryin’ to be like you, you know. Ma says I’ve been a little Arab,
but she means to make a lady of me. I hope she will. And then — ”

  “Well, Ingua?”

  “You’ll come to visit me, some time, in our new house; won’t you?”

  “I sure will, dear,” promised Mary Louise.

  MARY LOUISE SOLVES A MYSTERY

  Mary Louise and her grandfather return in Mary Louise Solves a Mystery, the third in Baum’s series about girl detectives, published by Reilly & Britton in 1917. While traveling in Italy, the pair encounters Jason Jones, a failed artist and his heiress daughter, Alora. After Alora’s kidnapping, Mary Louise and her detective friend, Josie O’Gorman, solve a complicated mystery.

  A later printing with rare dust jacket

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI PART I

  CHAPTER XI PART II

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER I

  DOCTOR AND PATIENT

  A little girl sat shivering in a corner of a reception room in the fashionable Hotel Voltaire. It was one of a suite of rooms occupied by Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, widely known for her wealth and beauty, and this girl — a little thing of eleven — was the only child of Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, and was named Alora.

  It was not cold that made her shiver, for across the handsomely furnished room an open window gratefully admitted the summer sunshine and the summer breeze. Near the window, where the draught came coolest, a middle-aged woman in a sober dress sat reading. Alora did not look at this person but kept her gaze fixed anxiously upon the doorway that led to the corridor, and the spasmodic shudders that at times shook her little body seemed due to nervous fear.

  The room was so still that every tick of the Dresden clock could be distinctly heard. When Miss Gorham, Alora’s governess, turned a page of her book, the rustle was appallingly audible. And the clock ticked on, and Miss Gorham turned page after page, and still the child sat bowed upon her chair and eagerly eyed the passageway.

  It seemed ages before the outer door of the suite finally opened and a man moved softly down the passage and paused at the entrance of the reception room. The man was white-haired, dignified and distinguished in appearance. Hat in hand, he stood as if undecided while Alora bounded from her seat and came to him, her eyes, big and pleading, reading his face with dramatic intentness.

  “Well, well, my dear; what is it?” he said in a kindly voice.

  “May I see my mamma now, Doctor?” she asked.

  He shook his head, turning to the table to place his hat and gloves upon it.

  “Not just yet, little one,” he gently replied, and noting her quick- drawn breath of disappointment he added: “Why, I haven’t seen her myself, this morning.”

  “Why do you keep me from her, Doctor Anstruther? Don’t you know it’s — it’s wicked, and cruel?” — a sob in her voice.

  The old physician looked down upon the child pityingly.

  “Mamma is ill — very ill, you know — and to disturb her might — it might — well, it might make her worse,” he explained lamely.

  “I won’t disturb her. There’s a nurse in there, all the time. Why should I disturb my mamma more than a nurse?” asked Alora pleadingly.

  He evaded the question. The big eyes disconcerted him.

  “When I have seen your mother,” said he, “I may let you go to her for a few minutes. But you must be very quiet, so as not to excite her. We must avoid anything of an exciting nature. You understand that, don’t you, Lory?”

  She studied his face gravely. When he held out a hand to her she clung to it desperately and a shudder again shook her from head to foot.

  “Tell me, Doctor Anstruther,” in low, passionate tones, “is my mother dying?”

  He gave an involuntary start.

  “Who put that notion into your head, Lory?”

  “Miss Gorham.”

  He frowned and glanced reprovingly at the governess, who had lowered her book to her lap and was regarding the scene with stolid unconcern.

  “You mustn’t mind such idle gossip, my dear. I am the doctor, you know, and I am doing all that can be done to save your mother’s life. Don’t worry until I tell you to, Lory; and now let me go to see my patient.”

  He withdrew his hand from her clasp and turned into the passage again. The girl listened to his footsteps as he approached her mother’s bedchamber, paused a moment, and then softly opened the door and entered. Silence again pervaded the reception room. The clock resumed its loud ticking. Miss Gorham raised her book. Alora went back to her chair, trembling.

  The front bedchamber was bright and cheery, a big room fitted with every modern luxury. The doctor blinked his eyes as he entered from the dim passage, for here was sunlight and fresh air in plenty. Beside the bed stood a huge vase of roses, their delicate fragrance scenting the atmosphere. Upon the bed, beneath a costly lace coverlid, lay a woman thirty-five years of age, her beautiful face still fresh and unlined, the deep blue eyes turned calmly upon the physician.

  “Welcome, Doctor Anstruther,” she said. “Do you realize you have kept me waiting?”

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Jones,” he replied, approaching her. “There are so many demands upon my time that — — ”

  “I know,” a little impatiently; “but now that you are here please tell me how I am this morning.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “I do not suffer, but it takes more morphine to quiet the pain. Janet has used the hypodermic four times since midnight,” with a glance at the gray-robed nurse who stood silently by the table.

  The doctor nodded, thoughtfully looking down her. There was small evidence of illness in her appearance, but he knew that her hours were numbered and that the dread disease that had fastened upon her was creeping on with ever increasing activity. She knew it, too, and smiled a grim little smile as she added: “How long can I last, at this rate?”

  “Do not anticipate, my dear,” he answered gravely. “Let us do all that may be done, and — — ”

  “I must know!” she retorted. “I have certain important arrangements to make that must not be needlessly delayed.”

  “I can understand that, Mrs. Jones.”

  “Then tell me frankly, how long have I to live?”

  “Perhaps a month; possibly less; but — — ”

  “You are not honest with me, Doctor Anstruther! What I wish to know — what I must know — is how soon this disease will be able to kill me. If we manage to defer the end somewhat, all the better; but the fiend must not take me unaware, before I am ready to resign my life.”

  He seated himself beside the bed and reflected. This was his most interesting patient; he had attended her constantly for more than a year and in this time had learned to admire not only her beauty of person but her “gameness” and wholesome mentality. He knew something of her past life and history, too, as well from her own lips as from common gossip, for this was no ordinary woman and her achievements were familiar to many.

  She was the daughter of Captain Bob Seaver, whose remarkable career was known to every man in the West. Captain Bob was one “forty-niners” and had made fortunes and lost them with marvelous regularity. He had a faculty for finding gold, but his speculations were invariably unwise, so his constant transitions from affluence to poverty, and vice versa, were the subject of many amusing tales, many no doubt grossly exaggerated. And the last venture of Captain
Bob Seaver, before he died, was to buy the discredited “Ten-Spot” mine and start to develop it.

  At that time he was a widower with one motherless child — Antoinette — a girl of eighteen who had been reared partly in mining camps and partly at exclusive girls’ schools in the East, according to her father’s varying fortunes. “Tony” Seaver, as she was generally called in those days, combined culture and refinement with a thorough knowledge of mining, and when her father passed away and left her absolute mistress of the tantalizing “Ten-Spot,” she set to work to make the mine a success, directing her men in person and displaying such shrewd judgment and intelligence, coupled with kindly consideration for her assistants, that she became the idol of the miners, all of whom were proud to be known as employees of Tony Seaver’s “Ten-Spot” would have died for their beautiful employer if need be.

  And the “Ten-Spot” made good. In five years Tony had garnered a million or two of well-earned dollars, and then she sold out and retired from business. Also, to the chagrin of an army of suitors, she married an artist named Jason Jones, whose talent, it was said, was not so great as his luck. So far, his fame rested on his being “Tony Seaver’s husband.” But Tony’s hobby was art, and she had recognized real worth, she claimed, in Jason Jones’ creations. On her honeymoon she carried her artist husband to Europe and with him studied the works of the masters in all the art centers of the Continent. Then, enthusiastic and eager for Jason’s advancement, she returned with him to New York and set him up in a splendid studio where he had every convenience and incentive to work.

  So much the world at large knew. It also knew that within three years Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones separated from her husband and, with her baby girl, returned West to live. The elaborate Jones studio was abandoned and broken up and the “promising young artist” disappeared from the public eye. Mrs. Jones, a thorough business woman, had retained her fortune in her own control and personally attended to her investments. She became noted as a liberal patron of the arts and a generous donor to worthy charities. In spite of her youth, wealth, and beauty, she had no desire to shine in society and lived a somewhat secluded life in luxurious family hotels, attending with much solicitude to the training and education of her daughter Alora.