The ceiling having settled nine feet or more, Johnny found himself in quite a normal bed chamber. Windows were the proper height, pictures correctly hung and furniture matching it all very well.
He settled back on his bed. It had been a long day. He would just lie there and keep a wary eye on that playful ceiling.
On the following morning at dawn the whisper returned to Grace Krowl’s little parlor on Maxwell Street. She had just wakened and lay on her comfortable bed staring at the faint tracings of beautiful forms on her unusual walls, when she heard it.
“A pleasant day to you! Here I am again, talking to you down a beam of light.”
Springing to her feet, she threw on a dressing gown and dashed into her parlor. She would trap the intruder. But she did not. As before, the room was empty.
She took a seat by her table. “Ah! There you are!” There was a glad note in the whisper. “How beautiful is youth!” She flushed.
“I have no message of importance for you today,” the whisper went on steadily. “But tomorrow—who knows?
“One request: do not disturb any object in your room. To do so may destroy the charm. And, in the end, you would regret it.
“Let me assure you I am an honorable person. I am for the law—not against it. My motives are good. You may trust me. And you may believe me when I tell you I am more than a mile away.”
The girl started. There it was again. “More than a mile away. How could anyone be seen through a mile of space—much less send a whisper over that great distance?
“A radio,” she thought. A careful search revealed no sign of a radio. Only one object in her room was strange, the two foot reflector against the wall.
“Dawn is passing,” came once again in a whisper. “Like the fairies, I must be on my way. Cheerio, and a good day to you!” The room went suddenly silent. It was silence such as Grace Krowl had seldom experienced.
Strangely enough, at the “House of Magic” in quite another section of the city, Johnny Thompson heard that same whisper. What was stranger still, the words were not the same. From this it might surely be learned that this was, at least, not a radio broadcast.
He had fallen asleep staring at that magic ceiling that had a way of falling silently. He awoke at dawn, still staring at that ceiling. To his vast surprise, he found it now fully twenty feet above his head. “Was that way when I went to bed,” he assured himself. “Must have dreamed it—must—”
He broke short off to listen with all his ears. In a clear, distinct whisper had come a greeting:
“Good morning, Johnny Thompson!”
“Good—good morning,” he faltered. He was conscious of a feeling that he was not heard. In this he was right.
“We are glad you are back in the city, Johnny. You will tell your friend Drew Lane that we will soon have a definite message for him—one that has to do with his present mission. We will whisper it to you some day at dawn. That is your room. You must keep it. No harm will befall you there. And now, may your day be a busy and profitable one.” The whisper ended.
We might say that, though Johnny failed to notice it at that time, there was on the far side of his room a circular mirror or reflector, such as we have seen in Grace Krowl’s room, and that his window was open toward the east.
“A good day to you.” Grace Krowl, the girl from Kansas, recalled these words, whispered to her “down a beam of light” many times during the trying hours of that day.
“Whispers,” she repeated to herself, “whispers at dawn. What does it mean? And this whisperer? Is it a man or a woman? Could one tell by the quality of tone?”
The Whisperer had given her little intimation of his purpose. She had been assured that the purpose was honorable and kind. She had been requested to leave her room just as it was. This request had caused her to look at the strange oval reflector on the wall.
At times she thought of telling her uncle all about it. “But no,” she decided in the end, “this shall be my own small secret. What harm can come from a whisper? The Whisperer said that he would return. Well then, let him!” With that, for the time, she set the matter aside.
After a hasty breakfast served by her uncle’s aged housekeeper, she went down into the “store.” “Look!” Her uncle pointed to a number of trunks standing on end just inside the door. “Yesterday was express auction day. It comes always on Tuesday. I have bought these trunks. What is there in them? How should I know? Probably wrags.” Nicholas Fischer was very German in his speech.
“But you will be surprised.” His faded eyes brightened. “We have very swell customers on Wednesday. They come from the north side and from out by the University. They are curious. They want to see what they can buy cheap. And they buy, right from the trunks. You shall see.
“You will be very helpful,” he went on. “You are young. They will like a bright face. You shall wait on them. You will know them by their fine clothes, fur coats, all that. And I—” He looked over his cheap garments. “I shall wait on the poor ones, the ones who buy a few towels or some very poor dishes.
“Yes, you wait on the fine ladies. Only—” he held up a finger, “always I make the price.”
An artist looking in upon this bewhiskered, shabbily dressed keeper of a second-hand store and his niece all pink and fresh in her spotless smock, would have found contrast to suit his taste.
“See!” Nicholas Fischer spoke again, “I will break open the locks and lift the lids, but you must not unpack the trunks. Leave that to the fine ladies. They will tell you they are ‘exploring.’”
“But supposing they find something truly valuable—a—a diamond or something!” Grace protested.
“If they find a diamond, then I drop dead. What will it matter?” Nicholas Fischer laughed hoarsely.
“But you keep watch.” His shrewd eyes gleamed. “If you find a diamond, then you and I will buy us a Christmas present.”
“Good!” It was the girl’s turn to laugh. “Christmas will soon be here. I’ll find the diamond, you’ll see, and a few stocks and bonds for good measure.”
“Yes. Stocks and bonds.” Seizing a hammer and chisel, Nicholas Fischer pried off the lock of a large, round-topped trunk. “The round-topped ones,” he commented, “they come from the country. Sometimes there are very fine wool blankets in these. Then we make a few dollars.”
While her uncle was prying away at the locks, the girl had an opportunity to study the trunks that, standing as they did, huddled in a group and tipped this way and that, reminded her of a picture she had seen of six very tipsy men awaiting the police wagon.
“Trunks,” she told herself, “are like people. They have character. There is a big wardrobe—a trifle shabby to be sure, but still standing on its dignity. And there are three canvas covered ones, huddled together. Never been anybody in particular and never will be. There’s that one with bright orange stripes running around it, like a delicate lady. There’s that good solid citizen, oak ribs and stout metal edges. And there—”
Having moved a little, she had caught sight of a tiny brown trunk that appeared to hide behind the “solid citizen.”
“Horsehair trunk,” she whispered to herself. “Old as the hills. What must it contain?”
And then her uncle, chisel in hand, approached.
“Please!” Her cry was one almost of pain. “Are there not enough others? This little one must not have much in it. Let me look at it—alone tonight.”
Nicholas Fischer, looking into her pleading eyes, shook his head. “I am afraid you will wreck my business. You are too soft.” Nevertheless, he spared the little trunk.
Dropping his chisel in the corner, he threw a ragged blanket over it as he muttered, “Tomorrow will be time enough. But mind you, it must be tomorrow.”
The “ladies” came, just as her uncle had promised they would. They came dressed in furs—mink, marten and Hudson seal—for it was a bleak, blustery day. They picked their way daintily between piles of used bedding and soiled dresses, to pause at last before the open trunks.
As they looked into the slim trunk with orange stripes about it, Grace was reminded of a picture she had seen of three vultures sitting on a rock peering into the distance.
“Snoopers! How I hate them! Yet, I must serve them.” Next moment she was wondering whether or not she was being quite fair to them. They had come where things were sold and had a right to inspect the wares.
“But everything in that trunk belonged to a person who treasured it,” she told herself. “Why must such rude hands unpack it, after it was packed with such care? Why must each one carry away the one treasure she most desires, while the rightful owner goes empty-handed?” To this question she could find no answer save one haunting verse she remembered from a very old book: “The destruction of the poor is their poverty.”
She summoned a friendly smile and assisted the “ladies” in emptying this trunk which had belonged to a young lady. When, however, Grace came to a drawer of photographs, letters and personal papers, she dumped them all into a card-board box and shoved them under the ragged quilt where the little horsehair trunk seemed to peek at her through the holes.
The “ladies” turned from the next three trunks in disgust. Two men’s, and one family trunk, they offered little more than dirty rags.
“Why must people be so filthy,” a fat “lady” in a mink coat complained. “If they must lose their things you’d think they might at least wash them before packing.”
The wardrobe trunk offered gaudy finery that did not interest the “ladies” overmuch. But the big square trunk Grace had named the “substantial citizen”—this one it was that brought a fresh ache to the girl’s heart.
It turned out to be a household trunk filled with bedding, linen and all sorts of fancy articles done by hand. Everything was scrupulously clean. And the bits of hand embroidery, the touches of lace, the glints of color all done with the finest thread, seemed to say, “I belong to a home. We all belong together. We rested beneath the lamp, above the fireplace in a room some people called home.”
She tried to picture that home. There was a man, a woman, and their children, a brother and a sister. The man read. The woman’s fingers were busy with thread and needle. The children played with the cat before the fire.
Her eyes filled with tears as she thought, “All this is being destroyed. All that is best in our good, brave land, a home, has become a wreck.”
But the “ladies”! How they babbled and screamed. “Oh Clara! Look! Isn’t this a scream? Only look at this piece! Isn’t it exquisite?” “Mary, just take a peek at this buffet runner. Two yards long! And all done by hand! It’s a treasure. I’ll offer the old man a half dollar for it. He’ll take it. What does he know?”
Grace listened and set her lips tight. Life, she could see, was going to be hard, but she would certainly see it through.
She experienced a sense of contentment as she recalled the little horsehair trunk. Tonight she would spirit that away up to her room and there she would find adventure looking inside it. There would be letters, she told herself, and photographs—and—and perhaps some real treasure.
At that moment her eyes caught a second box of keepsakes. These too she shoved away under the ragged quilt.
“Tonight in my parlor,” she told herself. She was rapidly coming to know that each trunk told the story of the owner. In her room she would read that story.
Her parlor. Her brow wrinkled. What a mysterious room! So perfect, and in such a place. “And there’s the concave mirror, and the whisper at dawn.” She shuddered in spite of herself.
Then she came out of her revery with a snap. The fat lady in the mink coat was approaching her uncle. She would offer half a dollar for the buffet runner. Gliding swiftly past, Grace whispered in her uncle’s ear:
“The price is three dollars.”
The “lady” gave her a suspicious glance. But the price was three dollars. And in the end, three dollars the lady paid.
“Is that all the trunks?” The fat lady turned a petulant, spoiled face toward the girl. “Are there no other trunks?” She snatched at the ragged blanket, but Grace was too quick for her, her foot was on its edge.
“There are no other trunks to be opened today.”
“Oh—ah!” The “lady” sighed. “This has been such fun!”
Fun? Grace turned away. And in turning she found herself presenting a tearful face to none other than Drew Lane her friend of the bus, who had entered unnoticed.
“Well,” he smiled, pretending not to see her tears. “How’s the big store in Chicago?”
“Great! Great!” She managed a smile.
“How—how are all the people you look af—after?” she asked a bit unsteadily.
“Oh, they’re all right.” He laughed a low laugh. “In fact—” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper—“I’ve got some of them locked up. Quite a number. You see, I’m a city detective. This is part of my territory. I’ll be seeing you often, I hope.”
She started and stared. That whisper! When one spoke out loud his voice could be recognized. She knew this. But a whisper? Could one truly recognize a whisper when he heard it the second time? It seemed incredible. And yet, Drew Lane’s whisper was so like the one she had heard at dawn.
“Impossible! A mere fancy!” She tried to free herself from this apparently unreasonable suspicion.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Drew Lane bantered.
“No! No! Not for a dollar,” was her quick reply.
“All right,” he laughed. “Anyway, I’ll be seeing you. Got to hurry on down the street.” He was gone, leaving the girl’s head in a whirl.
“Whispers at dawn?” she murmured as she made her way toward the horsehair trunk.
“What about these?” She held the box of keepsakes from the big trunk up for her uncle’s inspection.
“What?” He stared.
“These? Letters? Pictures?”
He made a wry face. “Baby books, maybe. Who would buy these? Throw them in the alley. Black children live in the next street. They carry them off.”
“But look! Here is the croix de guerre. Some brave fellow fought to win that,” she protested.
“Yes! But did he keep it? No! Let some black boy wear it.”
“Then I may keep them? All these?”
“If you wish.”
She rewarded him with a smile. After the evening meal she would read the stories recorded here and she would explore the little horsehair trunk.
That same morning as soon as he could gulp down his coffee, Johnny hastened over to the shack. He was full of talk about the whisperer and his message.
“What do you make of a thing like that?” he demanded of Captain Burns. “It seemed to come right out of the sky!”
“And why not?” The Captain smiled. “We are living in a strange world these days.
“One thing’s important,” he said as he sat up in his chair, “you must not leave this ‘House of Magic’ as you call it; at least not for long. I have a feeling that this whisperer must be on our side, the side of law and justice, and that he may be some sort of undercover man who can give us just the information we need.
“You see, Johnny—” He leaned forward in his chair. “That gang, the five public enemies, with Iggy the Snake at their head, is back in the city. They are sure, sooner or later, to sell some of these bonds they took from the bank. They are of small denominations and are negotiable. We have their serial numbers. The moment one of these bonds falls into the hands of an honest man, we will be hot on their trail. ‘Where did you get it?’ we will say to the honest man. He will tell us. We will go to the man who sold the bond and repeat, ‘Where did you get it?’ He may turn out to be honest and innocent too. But in the end we’ll reach a crooked bond dealer who knew those bonds were ‘hot’ when he bought them. If he doesn’t lead us to Iggy the Snake we’ll send him up for ten years. The charge will be receiving stolen goods.
“Oh, I tell you, Johnny!” he exclaimed, striking the arm of his chair, “we’ll get ’em, Johnny! In the end we’ll get ’em, you’ll see.
“But today, Johnny—” His voice took on a mellow tone. “While you and I are free, I’d like to take you to one of those places I spoke of the last time I saw you.”
“All—all right.” Johnny wondered what sort of place that would be.
In the Captain’s long, powerful gray car they drove across the city and into the suburbs.
At last they stopped before a home that was neither large nor showy—a bungalow with its broad side to the street, it stood in the midst of a clump of trees. Nature had planted the trees. Someone, admiring nature’s work, had built his home there.
Once inside that house, the good Captain heaved a sigh of content. A large open fire gave the tiny living room a feeling of luxurious grandeur. And yet there was about it an air of tidy comfort. The furniture was plain. Hard-bottomed rockers had been softened by handmade cushions, all in bright colors. A touch of lace and embroidery here and there on table and chairs told of fingers never still.
A short, energetic little lady with flushed cheeks hastened from the kitchen at the back to greet them.
“Well, how do you do, Captain Burns? How good it is to see you!”
“It’s good to be here,” the Captain rumbled. “And this, Mrs. LeClare, is my good friend Johnny Thompson.
“And here,” the Captain chuckled, “here’s Alice. Ah, Johnny, there’s a girl you could love!”
Johnny flushed. The girl who extended her hand laughed a merry laugh. “The Captain must have his jokes.”
The hand Johnny grasped was a chubby, capable little hand; the eyes he looked into were frank and clear. The girl’s hair was black. There was a slight natural wave in it. Her eyebrows were black and thick. She was short like her mother. Like her too, she gave forth an air of boundless energy.
“Alice LeClare,” Johnny said, half to himself. “A pretty name.”
“We are French,” Alice explained, “Canadian French.”
“If you looked over the list of Mounties that have come and gone up in the bleak northland of Canada, you’d find many a LeClare,” the Captain explained. “They’re that sort.”
Johnny saw a shadow pass over Mrs. LeClare’s face. Alice looked quickly away.
“You’ll have to excuse us,” Mrs. LeClare explained after a moment of silence. “We’re in the midst of things. Make yourselves comfortable by the fire.”
Just what sort of things the ladies were in the midst of, Johnny could guess well enough. The kitchen was not too far away—one great advantage of a small house—and from it came savory odors, meat roasting, pumpkin pies baking, apple sauce simmering.
“They can cook,” said the Captain, dropping into a chair with the air of a contented dog. “These Canadian French can cook. And what workers they are, these people!
“The boys will be here soon,” he went on. “Madame LeClare’s boys. They’re out selling their magazines. Fine boys—poor old Jack’s boys.” His voice dropped.
“Who is Jack?” Johnny asked.
“What? Didn’t I tell you?” The Captain sat up. “But of course I didn’t.
“They’re not Jack’s boys any more,” he rumbled after a moment. “Poor old Jack is dead. Finest, squarest cop that ever walked a beat. Real name was Jacques—French you know. We called him Jack.
“Wish you could have known him, Johnny. You’d have loved him.” He stared at the fire.
“Fine, big, strapping fellow,” he went on after a while. “Six feet two, black hair and bushy eyebrows, like Alice, you know.
“Women used to try to flirt with him. Stop their car, they would,—rich women in big cars, diamonds on their fingers. New-rich, young, fool women. No good—you know the kind? Well, maybe not. You will though. May God hasten the time when that sort get back to the dirty gutter where they belong!
“But Jack—” The Captain laughed scornfully. “No danger! Jack sent them along fast enough. Jack had eyes for one and only one—his Marie.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “He lived for her, Jack did, and for Alice and the boys—fine boys, Gluck and Lucian—” His voice trailed off.
“But what—what happened to Jack?”
Not seeming to hear, the Captain went on: “Straightest cop I ever knew—too straight you might say. When you walk a beat you look after things—naturally, that’s part of your job. You try store doors to see if they’re locked, watch for prowlers, all that. And if some good citizen drinks a bit too much and the night air gets the best of him, you escort him safely home—part of your job.
“Grateful people, will hand a cop a dollar now and then. Why not? But do you think Jack would take it? Never a cent. No end polite the way he thanked them, but he took no money but what came to him on pay day. That was Jack. Said he was afraid it would lead him to accept ‘dirty money’—you know, hush money—from real wrongdoers. And, man! How Jack hated dirty money!
“Polite, honest to a fault, kind, always looking out after the unfortunate—and brave, absolutely fearless!—‘Mountie’ blood in his veins, way back. That was Jack.” Again his voice trailed away.
From the kitchen came the faintest snatch of some French song. The delicious aroma of coffee was added to that of meat, pie and sauce. From somewhere in the back came the scuffle and scrape of boyish feet.
“All this was Jack’s,” the Captain rumbled, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the whole world. “And then—” from his pocket he drew a narrow packet. This he unfolded, then spread it down the length of his knee. It was the photographs of public enemies.
“These five—” his eyes shone with deep, abiding hate. “These five had been out riding in a costly car they had borrowed without leave. They had just kidnapped a banker and compelled him to open a safe. I told you that before. They’d got a lot of money and bonds. They were speeding west and tried to pass a stop-light. They skidded into another car. No real damage done. But that was Jack’s corner. He wanted to know—his business to know—why they’d crashed the light.
“All he said was, ‘What the—’ Then, without an instant’s warning, they let him have it from the back seat—six shots.
“And then they sped on. Jack, the squarest cop that ever breathed, was dead.
“Johnny—” The Captain’s voice was deep. “Don’t ever for a moment think crime is romantic. It is not. It is dirty, rotten, selfish, beastly!
“You might think to see one of these young crooks, dressed like ‘Boul Mich’ on parade, standing before the judge, that he was just a young adventurer. He’s not. He’s a dirty dog. He’s never worked; never will. He sticks a gun in a working man’s ribs and takes his money. Spends it for flashy clothes, furs and diamonds for his Moll—booze maybe, and gambling. And does he stop to ask, ‘was this a rich or a poor man’s money?’ You better know he don’t. What does it matter to him whose it was? It is his now. He took it.
“And they shot him!” His voice dropped to such a solemn pitch that Johnny was reminded of some words spoken in a church. “They shot him,” the Captain repeated slowly, “one of these five crooks, maybe Iggy the Snake shot poor old Jack. And by the Eternal!” He stood up, raising his hands high. “So long as God gives us breath, we’ll hunt those men until the last one of them is dead or in jail for life. For life!” His hands dropped to his side and he sank into his chair.
Then again Johnny was conscious of the low humming song, the aroma of fine food prepared by skillful hands and loving hearts—the distant scuffle of boyish feet.
“So long as God gives us breath,” he murmured low. It was like a sacred vow taken by some knight of King Arthur’s court.
It was a wonderful dinner they enjoyed in Madame LeClare’s snug little home. And not the least of the joys for the Captain on that occasion—Johnny was sure of this—were the smiling eyes of the kindly hostess. As for Johnny, he had more than one smile from another pair of dark eyes.
Dinner over, they sat about the fire while Lucian, a slender boy of twelve, entertained them with quaint French melodies played upon an ancient violin that had been his grandfather’s.
“You are to be a musician,” Johnny said to Lucian.
“But what will you be?” He turned to Gluck, a sturdy boy of ten with flashing eyes.
“Tell him, Gluck.” There was pride in the mother’s tone.
“I am going to be an officer of the law, like my father.” Gluck squared his shoulders.
“That’s the boy!” his mother applauded.
“There’s a woman for you!” the Captain murmured. His eyes glistened. “Gave her husband for our country’s good. Now she offers her son. This country needs more mothers such as this.”
It was mid-afternoon when they bade Madame LeClare and her fine family a hearty farewell.
“I wanted you to know them,” the Captain rumbled as once more they entered the great city. “You are to be one of us. You may have an opportunity to be of great service. Danger and death may threaten you. It will help you to understand the war we are waging, and why we must win.”
“Thank you,” said Johnny humbly. “I am sure it will.”
“This is a tough neighborhood,” the Captain said a moment later as they rolled down a narrow street. “‘Hell’s Half Acre,’ I guess you might call it.
“I wonder what those young hoodlums are looking at.” He slowed down his car to a crawl. At the corner of a five story apartment building a dozen or more of flashily dressed youths stood staring upward. From time to time one or the other of them might have been heard shouting something.
Stopping his car, the Captain stepped out. Johnny followed.
To their astonishment, they saw clinging to the bricks of the corner, and near to the very top of the building, a huge youth with a thick crop of hair. He was tossing his mane, laughing and roaring like a gorilla, which he resembled slightly.
“Come down from there!” the Captain thundered.
“Come and get me,” the youth roared back.
“Come down!” The Captain threw open his coat, revealing his star.
“Oh! All right, I’ll come.” The young giant’s face sobered. The crowd of flashily dressed youths vanished. At the same time a square of paper came fluttering to the pavement. Apparently it had fallen from the climber’s pocket.
Johnny picked it up and read:
“Gunderson Shotts,
22 Diversey Way.
Everybody’s Business.”
“Why that,” he said with a start, “must be the young savage with a stout heart who helped us out of a jam last night. Don’t be too hard on him, Captain.” Hastily he outlined the night’s adventure with the runaway balloon, and the part this youth had played.
“I’ll not be too hard on him,” the Captain promised. “In fact I think this may be the changing point in his career. Stranger things have happened.
“What’s your name?” he demanded as the young giant reached the pavement.
“Gunderson Shotts, that’s my name.” The youth grinned broadly. “But they call me Spider. I can climb, climb just anything at all.”
“Spider,” Johnny thought, “it’s a name that will stick. Looks like a giant spider, long arms, long legs, hairy head, big eyes. Spider.” He chuckled.
“Don’t you know,” the Captain demanded of the one who called himself Spider, “that you’re likely to break your neck?” He examined the lay of the bricks that had given the boy only an overlapping half inch at intervals of a foot, on which to cling and climb. “And if you fell, you’d like as not kill someone else in that fall.”
“They dared me, these—” He looked about in surprise. “Why! Where are they?”
“They’ve blown,” the Captain replied dryly. “Hawks go flapping away fast enough when a hunter comes round a corner. They’re a bad lot, and this is no place for a lad like you. Hop into the car.”
“You—you’re not going to take me to the station!” Spider’s cheeks paled.
“No,” the Captain laughed, “not the station. Just to a shack we have for a hangout. We eat there sometimes. Like to eat?”
“Do I? Try me!” The young giant grinned at his captors broadly.
“We will.”
“Have much luck minding everybody’s business?” the Captain asked as they paused for a red light.
“Not much,” the big boy chuckled, “but what’s a fellow to do? No one would let me work for him, so I went to work for everybody.”
“Did yourself a good turn once anyway,” said the Captain.
“How’s that?”
The Captain reminded him of his adventure with Beth Van Loon.
“That,” the big boy chuckled, “was funny.”
“It might not have been. That fellow might have put his knife through your heart.”
“But he didn’t.” The big boy laughed hoarsely.
They stopped at a delicatessen. Here Captain Burns purchased half a baked ham, piping hot, a huge loaf of rye bread and a gallon pot of coffee.
Arrived at the shack, he spread this crude but wholesome meal out upon the table. He and Johnny drank coffee but ate little. When they had finished, save for the dishes, the board was clear.
“Spider,” the Captain said, slapping the big boy on the back, “you’re a fighter, an eater, and a climber. That’s all it takes to make a first class cop. Stick with me and I’ll make you one.”
Spider stuck. And that, as you will see, is why certain things came out as they did in the unwinding of events that were to follow.
* * * * * * * *
It was with a guilty feeling that Grace Krowl that evening began delving into the personal letters and papers taken from the thin trunk with orange stripes.
“It is as if someone were looking over my shoulder,” she told herself, “saying, ‘See here! Those are my letters! What right have you to read them?’
“And yet,” she philosophized, “if I am to help them in any way I must know something about these people.”
So she kept on reading. There were three bundles of letters and a diary. The more she read, the more deeply disgusted she became.
“I did not dream there could be such a person as that girl is!” she exclaimed, throwing the letters back into the box and sliding it into a corner out of her sight. “That girl deserves nothing. False to her friends who try to help her, a flirt and a cheat. How—how terrible!”
For some time she sat and stared into space. “I suppose,” she murmured dejectedly, “that very few of them are worthy of any aid. And yet, there must be some.”
She took up the box from the big family trunk. In this she read a beautiful sad story of a father, mother and two little girls. Their pictures were all there. So too were the girls’ baby books and the father’s sharp-shooter’s badge.
The letters told the story of a brave but futile fight against poverty that had advanced upon them like a storm in the night.