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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
The Fourteenth Key by Carolyn Wells is a riveting mystery that will keep you guessing from start to finish. When a renowned collector of rare antiquities is found dead in his locked study, the only clue is a mysterious key—one of fourteen that hold the secret to a hidden fortune. As the investigation unfolds, detective Eddie Pomeroy discovers that each key unlocks more than just physical doors; it reveals layers of deceit, jealousy, and treachery among the collector's closest associates. With every twist and turn, Pomeroy must decipher cryptic clues and navigate a labyrinth of intrigue to uncover the truth behind the fourteenth key. Can you solve the mystery before he does?
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Table of Contents
The Fourteenth Key
Chapter 1 - The Advertisement
Chapter 2 - Molly Winslow
Chapter 3 - Pinney’s Departure
Chapter 4 - The Arrival
Chapter 5 - Two Young Men
Chapter 6 - Old Photographs
Chapter 7 - A Tragedy
Chapter 8 - Town Gossip
Chapter 9 - At A Boarding-House
Chapter 10 - The Mystery
Chapter 11 - Where Is The Professor?
Chapter 12 - Lorimer Lane
Chapter 13 - The Plum Boarders
Chapter 14 - Doubts
Chapter 15 - A Newcomer
Chapter 16 - Clashing Claims
Chapter 17 - Lora Gives It Up
Chapter 18 - The Truth At Last
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
The Fourteenth Key
Chapter 1 - The Advertisement
“Mark Winslow would be glad and happy to receive his grandchild, Joyce Gilray, into his heart and home. Please communicate, Willowvale, N. Y.”
But the above notice materialized only after Mark Winslow’s twenty-two-year struggle with a determination never to relent, never to forgive, never to seek or accept acquaintance with said grandchild.
Decision of character, that much-lauded trait, is, after all, only one degree removed from obstinacy, and Mark Winslow had taken that degree, and was now one of the World’s Ten Greatest Obstinates.
Over forty years ago, in that modern Eden, rather vaguely known as “up Westchester way,” he had elected to pitch his tent, or rather, his wife had elected it, which came to the same thing.
But, having seen to it that the pitching was done properly, and that the tent was well equipped with bathrooms and sun parlors, with poplar rows and formal gardens, the good lady passed on.
This left Mark Winslow in possession of his pitched tent and one growing daughter.
The latter continued to grow in all the ways of audacity and coquetry until she grew out of reach of her father’s authority, out of all bounds of convention, even decorum, and wound up by eloping with the chauffeur.
Let it be said in passing that he was a chauffeur of sorts, a Harvard undergraduate, working on his vacation.
This calamity, in addition to the death of his wife, had turned Winslow from a fine benevolent husband and father into a soured misanthrope. From an indulgent, easy-going family man, he became a silent, moody recluse, until he could think things out.
He had not a hair-trigger intellect, but he had a sound and fine one, and good judgment as well.
His two, great troubles gave him fearful jolts, and he sat down to think out for himself a philosophy and mode of life.
His chosen philosophy turned out to be a blend of the cynic and stoic, and his mode of life was to stay on in the home he loved and get the most and best out of his solitary condition.
Imprimis, he disinherited and disowned his daughter. He flattered himself he had achieved a wonderful sense of relative values. He sent fifty thousand dollars to the elopers and declared the incident closed.
From that time he had never heard from his daughter but once, and he had not replied.
But all that was about two decades ago.
Winslow was now seventy, and his name stood for all that was solid and honorable in the business world and was equally well known and respected in the marts of art and literature.
Tall and commanding of presence, he did not look within ten years of his real age, and had more the appearance of an English Squire than an American millionaire.
His hair was silver gray, but abundant, and inclined to curl. His big, stalwart frame was at its best in knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket, as he strode about the place, followed by his dogs, or stood in front of his library fire.
He had the air of a man whose oyster was the world, and he had successfully opened it.
Save for the lack of what the novelists call Heart Interest, Winslow was a happy man. The idea of a second wife had never appealed to him, nor had that of an adopted child. So he lived alone, entertaining guests frequently, chumming a little with his neighbors, and having many interests and hobbies.
At times he would sigh for a home circle of his own, but rarely did he give way to these feelings. When they came too strongly he would set his jaws and go out for a walk.
Mark Winslow’s jaws were of a pronounced type and they came together with the forcible accuracy of an Innovation trunk, and were almost as strong.
He was called pig-headed by many, but that was not his real character. If the question were a matter of fact, and he knew the truth about it, he stuck to it. If a matter of opinion, he had his own and stuck to that. No arguments could move him, no threats or cajoleries shake him, once his mind was made up and his jaws set.
Nor could he shake himself. Having decided on a thing, it was decided for all time, so far as he was concerned.
The growth and strengthening of his obstinacy, was, of course, the dire result of his living alone. Nothing is so conducive to a stubbornness of disposition as having no one about to argue with.
And so handsome old Mark Winslow became an autocrat in his home, and, to a great extent, in his neighborhood and community.
On a Sunday afternoon in June, a day of the James Russell Lowell type, Winslow elected to sit out on his front lawn under a spreading horse chestnut tree.
In common with most of his townspeople he spent Sunday afternoons on his verandahs or under his lawn umbrellas or arbors, and there being no impeding hedges or fences, sidewalk pedestrians often noted and admired the picturesque gentleman adorning the Winslow estate.
His fine big figure took kindly to white flannel or duck and though not to be called a vain man,— he was not petty enough for that,—yet his sense of relative values made it inevitable that he should recognize his own admirable personal effects.
Years of this had given him a certain self-assurance that was not conceit or vanity, yet had a tinge of each.
On this rare day in June, then, he ordained a steamer chair under the horse chestnut, and arranged himself comfortably therein.
From a nearby Sunday School a little girl was on her way home. Impulsively she left her nurse, or whoever had her by the hand, and running across the grass to Winslow’s side, she threw herself against his knees, crying, “Pitty man! Oh, pitty man!”
“Bless my soul!” cried the startled Winslow, “who are you, Baby?”
“I’m Dolly,” she replied, smiling engagingly, as she nestled into his protecting arm.
“You’re somebody’s dolly, all right,” he returned, his voice growing tender at the sight and touch of her soft little arms, and smiling baby face. “Wait a minute, Nurse,” he added as a shocked looking young woman came hastily to lead the child away. “Let her chatter.’’
For a few minutes the baby told the history of her brief life, that she was four ’ears old, that she lived in Titago, and that she was visiting her Damma, and that she had been to Tunny Tool.
“And what did you learn there?” Winslow asked, a little perfunctorily, for his mind was racing back to a day when his own little girl had nestled in his arms.
“I learned about neminees.”
“Anemones? Flowers?”
“No, not f’owers,—your neminees,—bad peoples. You must ferdiv your neminees. Do you? Pitty man, do you ferdiv your neminees?”
Winslow looked at her. “Do you?” he said, playfully.
“Oh, yes. ’Course I do. Teacher said, Ferdiv as you would be ferdiven. Do you, pitty man, do you?”
“Yes, of course,” he replied, his tone implying the interview was over. “Take her away, Nurse, take her home.”
He set the child down from his knee, where she had ensconced herself and paid small heed to her gay little gestures of farewell.
For a time he sat motionless. He brushed the words from his thoughts, but they only returned with renewed force.
“Ferdiv your neminees. Ferdiv as you would be ferdiven.”
Should he ever forgive? Did he want to forgive? No, a thousand times, no! His daughter had made her bed, and she had been obliged to lie in it. Poor girl, it was a narrow bed now, for he had been informed of her death, through a stranger lawyer.
To the news he had paid no heed—that is, he had sent no acknowledgment. The chauffeur husband had died before that—indeed, he had heard indirectly that his daughter had married a second time. But these things had been ignored in his determination to put her utterly out of his life, out of his memory, out of his heart.
Now, the baby’s little broken word, “ferdiv,” rang in his ears like a warning. “Ferdiv as you would be ferdiven.”
But he had no wish to be forgiven—no reason to be forgiven, nothing to be forgiven for. He had sent his daughter fifty thousand dollars, a fortune for a young couple,—he had done his duty by her, though she had failed in her duty to him. Pshaw, he was foolish to get stirred up over the thing,—foolish even to think of it.
“Ferdiv—ferdiv—” He wished that silly baby had kept out of his yard! He rose and went in the house for a book. In the library, the word again rang in his heart.
“Ferdiv—ferdiv—”
Manipulating a secret spring, a panel above the mantel flew open, and Winslow took out an old, faded envelope.
Sitting at his desk, he read a letter through once more.
“Dear Father: For you are dear to me, and ever will be. I wish you could see matters differently. Joyce is such a dear, and he is a true man—a fine man, as you would realize if you knew him. And he can support me. We are by no means paupers. The money you sent I have put into an annuity for my child. Oh, father, if you could see your grandchild, I know you would take all three of us back into your heart. Little Joyce is a wonder,—a veritable ray of sunshine, so beautiful and healthy and wholesome and happy. Such a peach of a baby, just a year old today! But I cannot write more—sad tears are blinding me—if ever you want us, father, we will come. If you ever find it in your heart to forgive us—”
There was more, but Mark Winslow read no further. He put the letter back in its place, closed the secret panel, and then, hands behind him, began a march up and down the length of the library, that lasted a full hour.
And the burden of his thoughts was “Ferdiv—ferdiv—”
Gradually, as the sixty minutes dragged by, he became more and more of a mind to forgive.
Late for such action,—yes. Too late to make amends to his daughter.
But suppose he should hunt up his grandchild, the little Joyce, who had been such a healthy, happy baby—doubtless like the one who had visited him on the lawn.
How to find young Joyce, he didn’t know,— but such things could, of course, be managed somehow.
The child would be twenty-one, now, almost a man. Twenty-one! The idea fascinated Winslow. What a fine coming-of-age present to make to his grandson! Reinstatement! A name and a heritage that some princes would be glad to get. Joyce Gilray. Pity not to carry on the Winslow name,—pity to have the Winslow millions go to the scion of that Gilray family. Yet it was a good family enough. And, too, perhaps young Joyce would be willing to take the Winslow name. Mark wouldn’t insist on this,—every man has a right to his own name,—but if the lad were willing—”
To the telephone the man’s steps turned, steady enough now, for his mind was made up.
Burr Winslow was the name he called, and then gave a peremptory summons for Burr Winslow’s immediate appearance.
And in perhaps a quarter of an hour, a young man appeared. A fine, big young fellow, with thick, tawny hair and frank, fearless blue eyes.
“What’s up, Uncle Mark?” he inquired looking intently at Winslow’s face, and sensing disturbance of a serious sort.
“As for you, Burr, perhaps the jig is up,” and Mark Winslow gave his grand-nephew a wry smile. “I’m going to try to find my grandson.”
“Good Lord, Uncle Mark! Just when I’d settled down to the notion of being your heir and successor and—oh, my heavens and earth! But it’s all right! And here’s my hand on it. Go ahead,—and—I’ll help—”
The last words cost an effort,—that could be seen,—and small wonder, for the advent of a grandson would quash forever all hopes and prospects of the grand-nephew.
“I wanted to see how you’d take it, Burr,”
A light broke over the young man’s ingenuous face.
“Oh, it’s only a joke! To try me out—”
“No, no, I’m serious,—I’m in earnest. I’ve come to the conclusion that I owe it to my daughter’s child to reinstate him.”
“Hold on, Uncle Mark, why are you so sure that child is a boy? We’ve talked this over before, you know, and we agreed that it’s quite as likely little Joyce is a girl—”
“Not little Joyce now; girl or boy, Joyce Gilray is twenty-one years old. And—somehow, I feel sure he’s a boy—a man. I feel sure of it, Burr.”
“The wish is father to the thought,” said the other, smiling, though the smile was a bit rueful. “However, I suppose you’ll take a chance on that. You can reinstate a granddaughter as well as a grandson, of course.”
“Yes, though I do hope it’s a boy. Stupid of Helen not to tell me!”
“I think it’s a girl—you often hear of a girl named Joyce,—rarely a man.”
“But it was Joyce Gilray that Helen married—”
“Yes, I know, and the child may be of either sex, and still be named for the father. But I argue that if it had been a boy, Helen would have told you so. She said nothing of the child’s sex because it was a girl.”
“Pure surmise, Burr. You and I have talked this over before and we always say these same things. Now, I’ve made up my mind, and I’m going to find that child,—boy or girl,—if I can possibly do so. I’m sorry for you, my boy, I know the hopes you held,—but—my mind is made up. I’ll compensate—as far as I can—”
“Now, Uncle Mark, once for all,—I’m not kicking. I did expect to be your heir, and to succeed you in your business affiliations and in your position here,—but your own grand-child has a far better right to it all, and if you’re going to relent and forgive and reinstate and rehabilitate, I’m going to step down and out, without a murmur,—that is, without an audible murmur!”
“You’re a good deal of a brick, Burr,—and I’m tempted to give up the project even yet. You’re just about all I could desire in the way of a son,—or a grandson, but—hang it all, you’re not my grandson, you’re my brother’s grandson, —and it isn’t quite the same.”
“Of course it isn’t, Uncle Mark, I see it all—, just as you do. And I can’t do more or less— than acquiesce in your decision. You can’t expect me to be hilarious over my changed prospects, but you can expect me to take the news standing,—and I do. Ill be glad to stay in your offices, if you’ll keep me, and I’ll do anything I can to help you in your search for Joyce Gilray, Second. And there’s my hand on it.”
Burr Winslow’s manner was entirely free from any martyr-like effects, his glance was straightforward and sincere, and there was no trace of servility or favor-currying in his tones.
He looked just what he was,—disappointed, but resigned; sorry, but manfully accepting the blow.
And it was a blow. For years, Mark Winslow had vowed that never should his daughter, her husband or her child darken his doors, and he had tacitly acknowledged his brother’s grandson as his heir and successor.
Burr Winslow, now thirty, had grown accustomed to this outlook, and to have it so suddenly changed made him feel as if an earthquake had shaken him.
But his sense of justice made him see straight, and his nature, not unlike Mark’s own, made him accept the inevitable with a good grace and without resentment.
Had there been the slightest chance of changing his uncle’s mind by argument, he would have used all his powers to do so. But he knew Mark Winslow well enough to be sure that now he had made up his mind to seek his own descendant, nothing could swerve him from that purpose.
With a final sigh for his lost prospects, young Winslow turned to his uncle with the practical question, “How are you going to set about your search?”
“Don’t know,” said the older man. He was watching Burr narrowly. He had expected him to take the matter decently, but he had not been prepared for this whole-souled helpful attitude. He did not suspect any hypocrisy or insincerity, he knew Burr’s nature too well for that, but he feared that this spirit of cheerful resignation might not last, and that a reaction of resentment and enmity might set in.
“Want advice?” Burr inquired, knowing better than to proffer that commodity unasked.
“Why, yes, if it’s practical. You see, I know nothing save that Gilray died, Helen married again, and then she died. Whether the child’s stepfather still lives, I’ve no idea. I don’t even know his name. They all lived in California,— that is, they did when Helen died. Now, I’ve no idea where they are. I sent enough money, rightly invested, to keep them from any actual want.”
“Then, as I see it, all you have to go on, is the name of Joyce Gilray and the fact that the person bearing that name is twenty-one years old.”
“That’s about the size of it. But money judiciously expended ought to be able to find the—the person. I’ve been told the Secret Service people can find any one in the country within a few days.”
“You’re going about it that way, then?”
“How else? If you’ve any suggestions, Burr, for Heaven’s sake make them. I’m not versed in this sort of business, I’ll admit.”
“What started you on the search, Uncle Mark?”
Mark Winslow gave a full and detailed account of the little child who had roused his conscience to activity with her prattle about “ferdivness.”
“Whew!” whistled the young man. “‘And a little child shall lead them.’ Well, Uncle, it’s right,—that’s what it is, right. And I’ll do all I can to help, but you’ll excuse me if I remark in passing, that I hope your Joyce Gilray turns out to be a girl, and that she will have a predilection for tall young men with blond curls. Then I could marry her, and so stay in the family, you see.”
Mark Winslow’s eyes twinkled. “That’s all well enough if she is a girl. But I have an impression that I heard the child was a boy. Perhaps from the lawyer’s letter, telling me of Helen’s death.”
“Haven’t you that letter?”
“No, I tore it up the moment I read it. I felt that with Helen’s death the whole chapter was closed, and I destroyed the letter. But I have a dim recollection of a reference to my grandson, Joyce Gilray.”
“Well, in that case, I’m entirely out of the running. All right, Uncle Mark,—let’s get to work. Yes, since you ask it, I have a suggestion to make. I think the best way would be to advertise in one of those magazines that make a point of finding missing persons.”
“Didn’t know there were such.”
“You wouldn’t. They’re not the sort of periodicals you read. Oh, they’re all right, but they’re mostly adventure stories or mystery yarns; and in the back there are a few pages, devoted to this matter of bringing separated friends or relatives together again.”
“Sounds hopeful, I should think. Have you any of these papers?”
“At home, yes. I’ll bring some over to show to you. Anyhow, I can’t think of any other way to go about this matter,—that is, except through the police. And the advertisement seems less— well, public, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do. And while I don’t fear publicity, yet if we can keep the matter quiet until I get Joyce here, it would of course be better.”
“If you had that lawyer’s address, or any address for Helen’s family, you could write direct,—but you haven’t, have you?”
“No. I only know they went West, and, so far as I know, stayed there.”
“Shall you take on Joyce’s stepfather, too?”
“No!” said Winslow, angrily. “I had no use for Helen’s first husband, and I’ve still less for her second. What a pity my daughter, my only child, proved such a disappointment to me.”
“Of course, you also proved a disappointment to her.”
“Yes; I’ve no doubt she felt sure that I would forgive her at once, and take her and her silly husband back to my fold.”
“And you wish now that you had—”
“Oh, I don’t know! Let up on that sort of talk, Burr. The past is past. Now, suddenly, I’ve concluded to hunt up my grandchild. Begin from that, and don’t hark back.”
“All right, Uncle Mark. Let’s draft the advertisement. If I’m to abdicate, I may as well begin to smoke out my successor.”
“You take it cheerfully, Burr. Are you feigning this attitude?”
“You bet I am, Uncle Mark! Deep down in my heart I am as mad as I can be! But what’s the use? I never lose my temper unless something can be gained thereby. And as I see this thing, your mind is made up. I haven’t lived and worked for you these many years, not to know what it means when you make up your mind. And so, though I’m blue as blazes over the whole matter, I’m resigned, because—well, you remember the story of the Scotchman. They asked him if he was resigned to the death of his wife. And he replied, “Good Lord, I’ve got to be!” That’s my platform. I’ve got to be resigned to this thing,—and with what I suppose may be called my better nature, I do see the justice of it,—and so I shall be master of my soul, if I can’t be captain of my fate.”
“You’re a fine fellow, Burr,—”
“Cut that, Uncle,” the young man flushed. “I’m not playing to the grandstand, or acting the part of a Sunday-school-book hero! It’s only that I know when I’m beaten, and I hope I’m a good loser.”
“Your mother won’t see it as you do,” and Mark Winslow gave a wry smile.
“You bet she won’t,” agreed Burr. “But that’s neither here nor there. She will probably come over here and give you a—well a wordy quarter of an hour, but I’ll do all I can to prevent that. Now, about this advertisement. What shall we say?”
And after several attempts to embody their message in a few words, they hit upon the form given at the beginning of this chapter, and sent it off to all the magazines that printed such appeals.
Chapter 2 - Molly Winslow
“Drat the brat!”
In justice to Mrs. James Winslow it must be said that she rarely dropped into the coarser language that had been her habitual usage before she married into her husband’s aristocratic family.
James Winslow, son of Mark’s brother Matthew, had been caught by the bright eyes and rosy cheeks of a factory girl, whose antecedents, though honest people, lacked the graces and refinements of the better families.
James had married her, and had tried to improve her ways and speech. Had succeeded too, in the main; but in moments of stress, Mrs. James, now a widow, still fell back to the diction of her youth.
Her vigorous denunciation in this instance was occasioned by the story her son Burr told her of the astonishing conversion of Mark Winslow regarding his daughter’s child.
The actual speech, however, referred to the little girl, whose Sunday-school teachings had been transferred to the millionaire magnate of Willowvale.
As Mark Winslow had made no secret of the fact that the child’s observations on forgiveness had been the lever that moved his heart, so Burr related the incident to his mother.
Mrs. James Winslow was ambitious for her son, and had settled comfortably down in the knowledge and belief that he was to be the heir of his great-uncle, Mark. Now, that this prospect was ruthlessly torn away, she collapsed, mentally, morally and physically.
“And you’re going to submit tamely,” she fairly shrieked at her son, who, disturbed and apprehensive, stood before her.
“What else can I do, mother? You know what Uncle Mark is, once he makes up his mind.”
Molly Winslow shook her head. She was still comely, her black hair and snapping black eyes having well withstood the onslaughts of time. Men had wanted to marry her, but her heart had been given to James Winslow, and now her only interest in life was her cherished son, Burr.
Yet they were not entirely congenial. Burr’s fine notions of honor and chivalry she often derided with all the strength of her common little soul. His tastes were far plainer than hers, and the trinkets and gewgaws with which she saw fit to adorn their home grated on his sensibilities.
But he was a dutiful, loyal son, and accepted his mother as he did other conditions of life, loving such of her traits as he could, liking such as he might, and ignoring those that irritated and annoyed him.
But coarse or vulgar speeches he never forgave. “Mother!” he cried, frowning with distaste at the phrase she had used.
“Well, I don’t care! To think of that silly kid coming along, and with a few baby words upsetting your whole life and career! It’s too terrible!”
“I think Uncle Mark would have come around to this same decision anyway. He’s been restless of late, and I think as he gets older, he wants to make up with Helen’s child and have peace before he dies.”
“Dies! Mark Winslow is no more likely to die than you are! I know he’s seventy, or nearly, but he’s as hale and hearty as a man of sixty. Never an ache or a pain, no rheumatism or indigestion,—oh, I know Mark Winslow! No danger of his dying for many a long year yet.”
“I think he’s been thinking over these matters, though. But, any way, that doesn’t matter. He’s sent his advertisement,—now if there’s a response, that cooks my goose.”
“And I say you’re a poor slump of a man, to make no effort to save the situation, to make no protest at being done out of your rights, to lie down and let Mark Winslow walk over you!”
“When Mark Winslow starts to walk over anybody, he walks. One may as well lie down to it, for no other attitude would help a mite.” The two sat in the pleasant little living room of their home, a few blocks away from the big Winslow house. A pretty little home it was, too, or would have been if Mrs. Winslow had not insisted on certain furnishings of crimson plush and decorations of tawdry bric-a-brac that accorded ill with the dignified desk, secretary and chairs of old mahogany which had been Burr’s contributions to their household gods.
But like his Uncle Mark, he too had a sense of relative values, and, as he looked at it, his mother’s wishes should come before his own preferences.
“For,” he said to himself, “this home is all she has; while I am much of the time at Uncle Mark’s or in the office, and I’m also often in New York, so that I have varied scenes, while mother has only the one place.”
Out of doors, Burr was, too, a great deal of his free time. Golf and tennis claimed him, the Country Club hailed him as a favorite member, and many of the big country houses welcomed the good looking young giant to their hospitable festivities.
So, on the whole, mother and son saw little of each other, but a cordial friendliness marked their relationship.
Burr had inherited his father’s nature, and this made him acceptable to his Uncle Mark, who declared that he was all Winslow. Mark frankly and cordially detested Burr’s mother, and never saw her if he could avoid it.
As both men had anticipated, Mrs. James Winslow lost no time in calling upon Mark, and telling him exactly what she thought of his line of conduct.
He would have refused to see her, but he thought best to get the interview over once for all.
“What does this mean?” the lady began, blusteringly.
“What does what mean?” was the quiet response, though Mark Winslow’s eyes were stormy.
“Doing my son out of his rightful place, and hunting about for some strange upstart to supplant him!”
“You call my grandson a strange upstart?”
“Grandson, indeed! You’ve no reason to think your daughter’s child was a boy. For all you know it may have been a girl.”
“Very well, then I shall have a granddaughter to comfort my declining years.”
“Comfort! A likely story! Why, that girl, if it is a girl, will be a wild Westerner, probably given to riding mustangs or breaking broncos, or whatever those hoydens do!”
“Maybe that will be better than the fastpaced, be-rouged flappers I hear so much of in this end of our country. But it is my impression that I heard from my daughter’s lawyer that my grandchild is a boy,—by this time a young man of twenty-one. Surely, Molly, you can’t expect me to prefer my brother’s grandson to my own.”
“Well, why didn’t you get around to it sooner, then, before my boy came to look upon all this as his future possession—” she broke off with a sob, as she looked around the beautiful home, and out upon the spacious estate.
“I’m sorry, Molly,” said Mark, more gently; “especially sorry for you. Burr takes it like a man,—”
“Oh, Burr! Weak, spineless numskull that he is! He adores you—if you told him to cut off his hand, he’d do it! And what reward does such devotion bring him? Dismissal from all he hoped for, all he looked forward to! Mark Winslow, you are a monster,—a cheat—”
“There, there, now, Molly, if you go on like that, I shall have you put out of my house. I have a right to do what I will with my own. Burr shall not suffer greatly, in a moneyed way. I shall remember him handsomely in my will, and when he marries, I shall give him a house and land—”
“Oh, don’t tell me those things! A mere pittance compared to what you have led him to expect! I tell you, you had no right to raise his hopes to the utmost, and then dash them utterly!”
“Has Burr said this sort of thing to you?”
“W—well, not exactly, but, as I say, you have the boy so under your thumb, that he wouldn’t turn against you though you flayed him alive!”
“Oh, come, now, Burr and I are good friends but there’s nothing servile in his attitude toward me. He’d be the first to deny that.”
“Then, if he’s such a fine fellow, and such a good friend of yours why are you throwing him over?”
“For my own direct issue, my daughter’s child. Now, let that answer suffice, and desist from any further questions. I do not forget that you are the wife of my brother’s son, but I may forget it if you remain longer, or harp on this subject further. I wish you good morning.”
“Very well, I’ll go,” and his visitor rose. “But mark my words, you’ll rue the day when you get your new heir into your house. And I hope you will! I hope your grandchild will have all the worst traits of his chauffeur father. That he will be mean-natured and bad dispositioned. That he will look like a common person and act like a boor! I hope you live to regret your foolish act of disowning my son, my fine-natured, well brought up son, for your renegade daughter’s child!”
By this time the woman’s voice had risen to a shrill scream, all the more angered because Mark Winslow preserved his calm demeanor, and courteous smile as he gazed at her perturbed face.
She went away, and Winslow watched her agitated course down the garden path. Then he turned away from the window, saying, “I wonder—I wonder.”
But Mark Winslow was not one of the World’s Ten Greatest Obstinates for nothing. He was no whit swerved from his course by the tirade of Molly Winslow, and he resolved to make it up to Burr financially, though he cut him off in other ways.
The Winslow business interests were widespread and important, and though retired from active participation, Mark Winslow still retained a controlling vote and was the real as well as the nominal head.
This responsibility would eventually devolve upon the man of Winslow’s choice, and Burr had had every reason to believe that he would be the favored one. Now, if a grandson materialized, naturally, Burr Winslow would take a back seat.
And Mark Winslow’s absolute disregard of his own family connections for so many years had made it the settled conviction of everybody that Burr Winslow would be his sole heir and successor.
But there is such a thing as an anger so fiery that it at last burns itself out, and this was Mark Winslow’s experience. Long nursing of wrath against his wilful daughter and her negligible husband had dulled itself, as an unmended fire burns away to embers and then to ashes.
Advancing years had brought a less acute indignation, a more lenient judgment, and, finally an absence of rancor. Then, by chance, the speech of a prattling baby had wakened the spirit of forgiveness and brought about a revival of affection which urged Winslow to an effort to make reparation for his long years of stern punishment.
He regretted Burr’s disappointment, but his obstinacy was now set in another direction, and he allowed nothing to stand in his way.
He was deeply gratified at the way Burr took it. Not with a meek, martyr-like spirit, but like a man, meeting his sudden downfall with a brave front,—almost with a grin of courage.
Well, time would tell. Perhaps Burr would be the heir after all. Perhaps no replies would ever come to the advertisements; perhaps the grandchild would turn out to be a girl; perhaps, if a man, he would be a worthless scamp, incapable of managing business matters.
June passed by, and the greater part of July followed, and then, one morning appeared in the mail a letter post marked San Francisco.
“Mr. Mark Winslow:” it began:
“DEAR SIR:
“I have just run across an advertisement in the Buccaneer Magazine, which I am sure is meant for me. I have not been accustomed to look upon you with any feelings of love or respect. My mother died when I was fourteen, and since that time I have shifted for myself, but I have been able to do so successfully. Yet I do feel a desire for a relative,—for a home,—for a family connection of some sort. And I am favorably impressed with the wording of your message, and the welcoming spirit it hints. Will you write me, and then I can tell better whether I want to go to you or not. Address me at the General Post Office, San Francisco,
“Sincerely yours,
“JOYCE GILRAY.”
Mark Winslow read this letter through three times, and then without a word passed it over to Burr, who, as usual was with him in the office, taking care of the morning’s mail. The office was a perfectly equipped room in the Winslow home. Here such details of the business as needed Mark’s attention were put through, each day, and then Burr would go off to the Company’s offices in New York.
The younger man also read the missive two or three times, and then, with a whimsical smile looked up at his uncle, and said, “Girl or boy?”
“Oh, a man,” said Mark, positively. “Why, it’s typewritten and beside, it sounds like a man’s construction. A girl would never take that semi-hostile attitude. Also, the signature is distinctly a man’s writing.”
“That’s so,” agreed Burr, as he scrutinized the autograph, whose bold, free strokes and careless dash showed unmistakably a masculine pen.
“I feel the tone of the letter is a trifle insolent,” Mark said, ruminatively, “yet I can’t altogether blame the boy for that. He must resent my attitude, the only one he has ever known. He hasn’t even his mother’s recollection of the days when I was a kind and indulgent parent. All he knows is that I am a monster and an ogre. He can’t turn around all at once and be prepared to love me. On the whole, I like his hesitation and his uncertainty as to whether he wants to put up with me or not.”
“You’re sure he’s the right one? I mean, there’s no chance for imposture?”
“Chance enough, but nobody could put it over. If this Joyce Gilray comes here he’ll have to prove his identity to my entire satisfaction. But if he’s my grandson, I’ll know it. Some subtle sense will tell me. And, too, he’ll have recollections of his mother, which can quickly prove his case. He had her till he was fourteen, so he can answer all my questions about her. I’m getting quite excited over it, Burr. Helen’s child! Wonder if he looks like Helen. Maybe like his father. Gilray was a handsome chap,— good fellow, too. But not what I aspired to for my daughter. Well, I’ll write to him at once. General Post Office, hey? Too canny to give a more definite address. If my letter doesn’t measure up to his requirements, I dare say he won’t come here at all!”
“The stationery is that of a big San Francisco Hotel,” Burr observed, scrutinizing the sheet and envelope.
“Yes, that betrays no secrets, you see.” Mark Winslow chuckled, as if delighted at the canny cleverness of his new-found relative. “He’s determined not to put all his cards on the table, until he sees mine.”
“Well, when he sees yours, he’ll play the game, of that I’m certain,” and Burr permitted himself a grim smile as he saw his own fortunes wrecked.
“Yes, I think he will,” said Mark, quietly, and turned to his desk.
Half an hour later, he had concocted a long and explicit document, that set forth his new attitude of affection for his grandchild, and his change of heart concerning the situation. He expressed his desire that Joyce should come East immediately, and become a resident of the Willowvale home, and promised all the love, and loyalty that a grandparent could give, including a promise to make said Joyce sole heir to the Winslow estate and fortune.
After signing this screed, on a sudden impulse, Mark added a postscript, saying,—,
“I’m not quite sure whether you are a man or a girl. Please telegraph this most important information at once.”
Burr smiled at the postscript, when his uncle passed over the letter for him to read.
“Small doubt, when you look at the signature,” he commented, glancing again at the dashing autograph. “Still, you never can tell. Western girls are different from ours.’’
“But no girl ever wrote that,” and Mark nodded at the name on the letter. “Well, post it in New York, Burr, and if you hate to lose your own position here, you can destroy it, you know.”
“I’ll strive to resist that temptation,” said Burr, but he did not smile as he thrust the letter in his pocket and prepared to depart.
Left to himself, Mark Winslow had a momentary qualm as to the wisdom of his actions. Had he done well to supplant Burr by an unknown quantity? He didn’t like Burr’s grim face as he took that letter. Yet he well knew that Burr would do nothing wrong. He was a faithful, devoted worker in the Winslow offices, and though now he was about to be supplanted, yet he would receive many and substantial benefits as time went on.
Obstinacy conquered, and with a quick gesture Mark Winslow picked up his telephone and summoned Martin Barry, his lawyer.
