Carolyn Wells - The Mystery Girl

And then Lockwood laughed at himself. To romance thus about a girl to whom he had not said half a dozen sentences in his life! Yet he knew he was not mistaken. All that he had read in Anita Austin’s face, he was sure was there. He knew physiognomy, and rarely, if ever, was mistaken in his reading thereof.

After the lecture was over, Miss Austin went home as quickly as possible.

Lockwood would have liked to escort her, but he had to remain to report to Doctor Waring, who might have some orders for him.

There were none, however, and after a short interview with his employer, Gordon Lockwood went home.

As he went softly upstairs to his room in the Adams house, he passed the door of what he knew to be Miss Austin’s room. He fancied he heard a stifled sob come from behind that closed door, and instinctively paused to listen a moment.

Yes, he was not mistaken. Another sob followed, quickly suppressed, but he could have no doubt the girl was crying.

For a moment Lockwood was tempted to go back and ask Mrs. Adams to come and tap at the girl’s door.

Then he realized that it was not his affair. If the girl was in sorrow or if she wanted to cry for any reason, it was not his place to send someone to intrude upon her. He went on to his own room, but he sat up for a long time thinking over the strange young woman in the house.

He remembered that she had paid undeviating attention to the lecture, quite evidently following the speaker with attention and interest. He remembered every detail of her appearance, her pretty dark hair showing beneath her little velvet toque, – the absurd buttons on the back of her frock.

“That will do, Gordon, old man,” he told himself at last. Better let her alone. She’s a siren all right, but you know nothing about her, and you’ve no reason to try to learn more.

And then he heard voices in the hall. Low of tone, but angry of inflection.

“She threw it away!” Miss Austin was saying; “I tell you she threw it away!”

“There, there,” came Mrs. Adams’ placating voice, “what if she did? It was only a newspaper scrap. She didn’t know it was of any value.”

“But I want it! Nora has no business to throw away my things! She had no reason to touch it; it was on the dresser – standing up against the mirror frame. What do you suppose she did with it?”

“Never mind it tonight. Tomorrow we will ask her. She’s gone to bed.”

“But I’m afraid she destroyed it!”

“Probably she did. Don’t take on so. What paper was it?”

“The Corinth Gazette.”

“The new one?”

“I don’t know. The one she brought me this afternoon.”

“Well, if she has thrown it away, you can get another copy. What was in it that you want so much?”

“Oh, – nothing special.”

“Yes, it was.” Mrs. Adams’ curiosity was aroused now. “Come, tell me what it was.”

“Well, it was only a picture of Doctor Waring, the man who lectured tonight.”

“Such a fuss about that! My goodness! Why, you can get a picture of him anywhere.”

“But I want it now.”

An obstinate note rang in the young voice. Perhaps Miss Austin spoke louder than she meant to, but at any rate, Lockwood heard most of the conversation, and he now opened his door, and said:

“May I offer a photograph? Would you care to have this, Miss Austin?”

The girl looked at him with a white, angry face.

“How dare you!” she cried; “how dare you eavesdrop and listen to a conversation not meant for your ears? Don’t speak to me!”

She drew up her slender figure and looked like a wrathful pixie defying a giant. For Lockwood was a big man, and loomed far above the slight, dainty figure of Miss Mystery.

He smiled good-naturedly as he said, “Now don’t get wrathy. I don’t mean any harm. But you wanted a picture of Doctor Waring, and I’ve several of them. You see, I’m his secretary.”

“Oh, – are you! His private secretary?”

“Yes – his confidential one, – though he has few confidences. He’s a public man and his life is an open book.”

“Oh, it is!” The girl had recovered her poise, and with it her ability to be sarcastic. “Known to all men, I suppose?”

“Known to all men,” repeated Lockwood, thinking far more of the girl he was speaking to than of what he was saying.

For, again he had fallen under the spell of her strange personality. He watched her, fascinated, as she reached out for the picture and almost snatched at it in her eagerness.

Mrs. Adams yawned behind her plump hand.

“Now you’ve got your picture, go to bed, child,” she said with a kind, motherly smile. “I’ll come in and unhook you, shall I?”

Obediently, and without a word of good night to Lockwood, Anita turned and went into her room, followed by Mrs. Adams. The good lady offered no disinterested service. She wanted to know why Miss Austin wanted that picture so much. But she didn’t find out. After being of such help as she could, the landlady found herself pleasantly but definitely dismissed. Outside the door, however, she turned and reopened it. Miss Mystery, unnoticing the intruder, was covering the photograph with many and passionate kisses.

“I’ll tell her you’re here, but I’m noways sure she’ll see you.”

Mrs. Adams stood, her hand on the doorknob, as she looked doubtfully at Emily Bates and her nephew.

“Why not?” asked Mrs. Bates, in astonishment, and Pinky echoed, “Why not, Mrs. Adams?”

“She’s queer.” Mrs. Adams came back into the room, closed the door, and spoke softly. “That’s what she is, Mrs. Bates, queer. I can’t make her out. She’s been here more’n a week now, and I do say she gets queerer every day. Won’t make friends with anybody, – won’t speak at all at the table, – never comes and sits with us of an afternoon or evening, – just keeps to herself. Now, that ain’t natural for a young girl.”

“How old is she?”

“Nobody knows. She looks like nineteen or twenty, but she has the ways of a woman of forty, – as far’s having her own way’s concerned. Then again, she’ll pet the cat or smile up at Mr. Adams like a child. I can’t make her out at all. The boarders are all fearfully curious – that’s one reason I take her part. They’re a snoopy lot, and I make them let her alone.”

“You like her, then?”

“You can’t help liking her, – yet she is exasperating. You ask her a question, and she stares at you and walks off. Not really rude, – but just as if you weren’t there! Well, I’ll tell her you’re here, anyway.”

It was only by his extraordinary powers of persuasion that Pinky Payne had won his aunt’s consent to make this call, and, being Sunday afternoon, the recognized at-home day in Corinth, they had gone to the Adams house unannounced, and asked for Miss Austin.

Upstairs, Mrs. Adams tapped at the girl’s door.

It was opened slowly, – it would seem, grudgingly, – and Anita looked out inquiringly.

“Callers for you, Miss Austin,” the landlady said, cheerily.

“For me? I know no one.”

“Oh, now, you come on down. It’s Mrs. Bates, and her nephew, Pinky Payne. They’re our best people – ”

“What makes you think I want to see your best people?”

“I don’t say you do, but they want to see you, – and – oh, pshaw, now, be a little sociable. It won’t hurt you.”

“Please say to Mrs. Bates that I have no desire to form new acquaintances, and I beg to be excused from appearing.”

“But do you know who she is? She’s the lady that’s going to marry Doctor Waring, the new President. And Pinckney Payne, her cousin, is a mighty nice boy.”