Mary Louise, by L. Frank Baum. Readers Note These books were written by L. Frank Baum using his Edith Van Dyne pseudonym, and then continued by at least three others, all using the same pseudonym. Baum wrote the first four books in the series, possibly with help from his son, Harry Neil Baum, on the third. Mary Louise, by Edith Van Dyne. Author of Aunt Jane's nieces' series, The Daring Twins, etc.  Mrs. Van Dyne has succeeded in finding a very human girl for her heroine. Mary Louise is really not a fictional character at all. As you know the author through her Aunt Jane's nieces' stories, then you don't need to be told that you will want to read all the volumes that will be written about lovable Mary Louise. Mrs. Van Dyne is recognized as one of the most interesting writers for girls today. Her success is largely due to the fact that she does not write down to her young readers. She realizes that the girl of today does not have to be babied, and that her quick mind is able to appreciate stories that are as well planned and cleverly told as adult fiction. That is the theory behind the Bluebird books. If you are the girl who likes books of individuality, wholesome without being tiresome, and full of action without being sensational, then you are just the girl for whom the series is being written. Mary Louise is more than a worthy successor to the Aunt Jane's nieces' series. It has merit which you will quickly recognize. The Publishers End of Publishers' Note Read by Cibella Denton. For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 1 of Mary Louise by L. Frank Baum. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Chapter 1 Just an Argument It's positively cruel, pouted Jenny Allen, one of a group of girls occupying a garden bench in the ample grounds of Miss Stern's School for Girls at Beverly. It's worse than that, it's insulting," declared Mabel Westervelt, her big, dark eyes flashing indignantly. "'Doesn't it seem to reflect on our characters?' timidly asked Dorothy Canare. "'Indeed it does,' asserted Sue Finley. "'But here comes Mary Louise. Let's ask her opinion.' "'Poo! Mary Louise is only a day-scholar,' said Jenny. The restriction doesn't apply to her at all. "'I'd like to hear what she says anyhow,' remarked Dorothy. "'Mary Louise has a way of untangling things, you know.' "'She's rather too officious to suit me,' Mabel Westervelt retorted, and she's younger than any of us. One would think the way she poses is monitor at this second-rate, run-down boarding school that Mary Louise Burroughs made the world. "'Oh, Mabel! I've never known her to pose at all,' said Sue. "'But, Hush, she mustn't overhear us, and besides, if we want her to intercede with Miss Stern we must not offend her.'" The girl they were discussing came leisurely down a path, her books under one arm, the other hand holding a class-paper which she examined in a cursory way as she walked. She wore a dark skirt and a simple shirt-waste, both quite moddish and becoming, and her shoes were the admiration and envy of half the girls at the school. Dorothy Canary used to say that Mary Louise's clothes always looked as if they grew on her, that that may have been partially accounted for by the grace of her slim form and her unconscious but distinctive poise of bearing. Few people would describe Mary Louise Burroughs as beautiful, while all would agree that she possessed charming manners. And she was fifteen, an age when many girls are both awkward and shy. As she drew near to the group on the bench they ceased discussing Mary Louise, but continued angrily to canvass their latest grievance. "'What do you think, Mary Louise?' demanded Jenny as the girl paused before them, of this latest outrage. "'What outrage, Jen?' with a whimsical smile at their indignant faces. "'This latest decree of the tyrant stern. Didn't you see it posted on the blackboard this morning? The young ladies will hear after refrain from leaving the school grounds after the hour of six p.m., unless written permission is first secured from the principal. Any infraction of this rule will result in suspension or permanent dismissal. "'We are determined not to stand for this rule a single minute. We intend to strike for our liberties.' "'Well,' said Mary Louise, reflectively, "'I'm not surprised. The wonder is that Miss Stern hasn't stopped your evening parades before now. This is a small school in a small town, where everyone knows everyone else. Otherwise you'd have been guarded as jealously as if you were in a convent. Do you ever know or hear of any other private boarding school where the girls were allowed to go to town evenings, or whenever they pleased, out of school hours? "'Didn't I tell you?' snapped Mabel, addressing the group. Mary Louise is always on the wrong side. Other schools are not criteria for this ramshackle establishment anyhow. We have twelve boarders and four day-scholars, and how Miss Stern ever supports the place in herself on her income is an occult problem that the geometries can't solve.  The furniture is old and shabby, and the classrooms gloomy. The food is more nourishing than feastful, and the table-cloths are so patched and darned that it's a wonder they hold together." Mary Louise quietly seated herself upon the bench beside them. "'You're looking on the seamy side, Mabel,' she said with a smile, "'and you're not quite just to the school. I believe your parents sent you here because Miss Stern is known to be a very competent teacher, and her school has an excellent reputation of long-standing. For twenty years this delightful old place, which was once General Barlow's residence, has been a select school for young ladies of the best families. Grandpa Jim says it's an evidence of good breeding and respectability to have attended Miss Stern's school." "'Well, what's that got to do with this insulting order to stay in evenings?' demanded Sue Finley. "'You'd better put all that rot you're talking into a circular and mail it to the mothers of imbecile daughters. Miss Stern has gone a step too far in her tyranny, as she'll find out. We know well what it means. There's no inducement for us to wander into that little tucked-up town of Beverly after dinner, except to take in the picture-show, which is our one innocent recreation. I'm sure we've always conducted ourselves most properly. This order simply means we must cut out the picture-show, and if we permit it to stand, Heaven only knows what we shall do to amuse ourselves.' "'We'll do something worse, probably,' suggested Jenny. "'What's your idea about it, Mary Louise?' asked Dorothy. "'Don't be a prude,' warned Mabel, glaring at the young girl. "'Try to be honest and sensible, if you can, and give us your advice. Shall we disregard the order and do as we please, or be namby-pambies and submit to the outrage? You're a day-scholar and may visit the picture-shows as often as you like. Consider our position, cooped up here like a lot of chickens, and refuse the only harmless amusement the town affords.' "'Grandpa Jim,' observed Mary Louise musingly, "'always advises me to look on both sides of a question before making up my mind, because every question has to have two sides or it couldn't be argued. If Miss Stern wishes to keep you away from the pictures, she has a reason for it, so let's discover what the reason is.' "'To spoil any little fun we might have,' asserted Mabel, bitterly. "'No, I can't believe that,' answered Mary Louise. "'She isn't unkind, we all know, nor is she too strict with her girls. I've heard her remark that all her borders are young ladies who can be trusted to conduct themselves properly on all occasions, and she's right about that. We must look for her reason somewhere else, and I think it's in the pictures themselves.' "'As for that,' said Jenny, I've seen Miss Stern herself at the picture-theater twice within the last week. "'Then that's it. She doesn't like the character of the pictures shown. I think, myself, girls, they've been rather rank lately. What's wrong with them?' "'I like pictures as well as you do,' said Mary Louise, and Grandpa Jim often takes me to see them. Tuesday night a man shot another in cold blood, and the girl the murderer was in love with helped him to escape and married him. I felt like giving her a good shaking, didn't you? She didn't act like a real girl at all. And Thursday night the picture story told of a man with two wives, and of divorces and disgraceful things generally. Grandpa Jim took me away before it was over, and I was glad to go. Some of the pictures are fine and dandy, but as long as the man who runs the theatre mixes the horrid things with the decent ones, and we can't know beforehand which is which, it's really the safest plan to keep away from the place altogether. I'm sure that's the position Miss Stern takes, and we can't blame her for it. If we do it's an evidence of laxness of morals in ourselves.' The girls received this statement sullenly, yet they had no logical reply to controvert it. So Mary Louise, feeling that her explanation of the distasteful edict was not popular with her friends, quietly rose and sauntered to the gate on her way home. Pah! sneered Mabel Westervelt, looking after the slim figure. I'm always suspicious of those goody-goody creatures. Mark my words, girls. Mary Louise will fall from her pedestal some day. She isn't a bit better than the rest of us, in spite of her angel baby ways, and I wouldn't be surprised if she turned out to be a regular hypocrite. END OF CHAPTER I BEVERLY contains several beautiful old residences, however, built generations ago and still surrounded by extensive grounds, where the trees and shrubbery are now generally overgrown and neglected. One of these fine old places Miss Stern rented for her boarding school. Another, quite the most imposing residence in the town, had been leased some two years previously to the time of this story by Colonel James Weatherby, whose family consisted of his widowed daughter, Mrs. Burroughs, and his grandchild, Mary Louise Burroughs. Their only servants were an old negro, Uncle Eben, and his wife, Aunt Polly, who were beaverly bred and had been hired when the Colonel first came to town and took possession of the stately Vandeventeur mansion. Colonel Weatherby was a man of exceptionally distinguished appearance, tall and dignified, with courtly manners and an air of prosperity that impressed the simple villagers with awe. His snow-wide hair and piercing dark eyes, his immaculate dress upon all occasions, the whispered comments on his ample deposits in the local bank, all contributed to render him remarkable among the three or four hundred ordinary inhabitants of beaverly, who, after his two years' residence among them, scarcely knew more of him than is above related. For Colonel Weatherby was an extremely reserved man, and seldom day to exchange conversation with his neighbors. In truth he had nothing in common with them, and even when he walked out with Mary Louise he merely acknowledged the greeting of those he met, by a dignified nod of his stately head. With Mary Louise, however, he would converse fluently and with earnestness, whether at home during the long evenings or on their frequent walks through the country, which were indulged in on Saturdays and holidays during the months that school was in session, and much more often during vacations. The Colonel owned a modest automobile which he kept in the stable and only drove on rare occasions, although one of Uncle Even's duties was to keep the car in apple pie order. Colonel Weatherby loved best to walk, and Mary Louise enjoyed their tramps together, because Grandpa Jim always told her so many interesting things, and was such a charming companion. He often developed a strain of humor in the girl's society, and would relate anecdotes that aroused in her spontaneous laughter, for she possessed a keen sense of the ludicrous. Yes, Grandpa Jim was really funny, when in the mood, and as jolly a comrade as one would wish. He was fond of poetry, too, and the most severe trial Mary Louise was forced to endure was when he carried a book of poems in his pocket, and insisted on reading from it while they rested in a shady nook by the roadside, or on the bank of the little river that flowed near by the town. Mary Louise had no soul for poetry, but she would have endured far greater hardships rather than forfeit the genial companionship of Grandpa Jim. It was only during these past two years that she had come to know her grandfather so intimately, and to become as fond of him as she was proud. Her earlier life had been one of so many changes that the constant shifting had rather bewildered her. First, she remembered living in a big city-house where she was cared for by a nurse who was never out of sight or hearing. There it was that Mama B., Mrs. Beatrice Burroughs, appeared to the child at times as a beautiful vision, and often, as she bent over her little daughter for a good-night kiss, the popular society woman, a raid in evening or ball-costume, would seem to Mary Louise like a radiant angel descended straight from heaven. She knew little of her mother in those days, which were quite hazy in memory because she was so young. The first change, she remembered, was an abrupt flitting from the splendid city-house to a humble cottage in a retired village. There was no maid now nor other servant whatever. Mama B. did the cooking and sweeping, her face worn and anxious, while Grandpa Jim walked the floor of the little sitting-room day-by-day, only pausing at times to read to Mary Louise stories from her nursery-books. This life did not last very long, perhaps a year or so, and then they were in a big hotel in another city, reached after a long and tiresome railway journey. Here the girl saw little of her grandfather, for a governess came daily to teach Mary Louise to read and write, and to do sums on a pretty slate framed in silver. Then suddenly, in dead of night, away they whisked again, traveling by train until long after the sun was up, when they came to a pretty town where they kept house again. There were servants this time, and horses and carriages and pretty clothes for Mary Louise and Mama B. The little girl was sent to a school just a block away from her home. She remembered Miss Jenkins well, for this teacher made much of her, and was so kind and gentle that Mary Louise progressed rapidly in her studies. But the abrupt changes did not end here. Mary Louise came home from school one afternoon, and found her dear mother sobbing bitterly as she clung round the neck of Grandpa Jim, who stood in the middle of the room as still as if he had been a marble statue. Mary Louise promptly mingled her tears with those of her mother, without knowing why, and then there was a quick packing up and a rush to the railway again. Next they were in the house of Mr. and Mrs. Peter Conant, very pleasant people who seemed to be old friends of Mama B. and Grandpa Jim. It was a cozy house, not big and pretentious, and Mary Louise liked it. Peter Conant and Grandpa Jim had many long talks together, and it was here that the child first heard her grandfather called Colonel. Others might have called him that before, but she had not heard them. Mrs. Conant was very deaf and wore big spectacles, but she always had a smile on her face, and her voice was soft and pleasing. After a few days Mama B. told her daughter she was going to leave her in the care of the Conants for a time, while she traveled to a foreign country with Grandpa Jim. The girl was surprised at being abandoned, but accepted her fate quietly when it was explained that she was to go to school while living with the Conants, which she could not do if she were traveling with her mother and grandfather, who were making this arrangement for the girl's best good. Three years Mary Louise lived with the Conants and had little to complain of. Peter Conant was a lawyer and was at his office all day, while Mrs. Conant was very kind to the girl and looked after her welfare with motherly care. At last, quite unexpectedly, Mary Louise's trunk was packed and she was taken to the station to meet a train on which were her mother and grandfather. They did not leave the cars except to shake hands with the Conants and thank them for their care of Mary Louise. A moment later the train bore away the reunited family to their new home in Beverly. Mary Louise now found that she must get acquainted with Mama B and Grandpa Jim all over again, for during these last three years she had developed so fast in mind and body that her previous knowledge of her relatives seemed like a hazy dream. The Colonel also discovered a new granddaughter to whom he became passionately attached. For two years now they had grown together until they were great friends and cronies. As for Mrs. Burroughs, she seemed to have devoted her whole life to her father, the Colonel. She had lost much of her former beauty and had become a thin, pale woman with anxious eyes and an expectant and deprecating air, as if always prepared to ward off a sudden blow. Her solicitude for the old Colonel was almost pathetic, and while he was in her presence she constantly hovered around him, doing little things for his comfort which he invariably acknowledged with his courtly bow and a gracious word of thanks. It was through her association with this cultured old gentleman that Mary Louise had imbibed a certain degree of logic and philosophy unknown to many girls of fifteen. He taught her consideration for others as the keynote of happiness, yet he himself declined to mingle with his fellow men. He abhorred sulking and was always cheerful and pleasant in his home circle, yet when others approached him familiarly he resented it with a frown. He taught his granddaughter to be generous to the poor and supplied her freely with money for charity, yet he personally refused all demands upon him by churches or charitable societies. In their long talks together he displayed an intimate equatance with men and affairs, but never referred in any way to his former life. Are you really a Colonel, Mary Louise once asked him? Men call me so, he replied, but there was a tone in his voice that warned the girl not to pursue the subject further. She knew his moods almost as well as her mother did. The Colonel was very particular asked to dress. He obtained his own clothing from a New York tailor and took a keen interest in the gowns of his daughter and of Mary Louise. His taste in female apparel being so remarkable that they were justly considered the best dressed women in Beverly. The house they were living in contained an excellent library and was furnished in a quaint, old-fashioned manner that was very appealing to them all. Mary Louise sincerely hoped there would be no more changes in their lives and that they might continue to live in Beverly for many years to come. End of Chapter 2 Red for LibriVox.org On the afternoon when our story begins, Mary Louise walked home from school and found Colonel Weatherby waiting for her in the garden. Leggings strapped to his gaunt legs, the checked walking cap on his head, a gold-headed crop in his hand. Let us go for a walk, my dear, he proposed. It is Friday, so you will have all day to-morrow in which to get your lessons. Oh, it won't take all day for that, she replied with a laugh. I'll be glad of the walk. Where shall we go, Grandpa Jim? Perhaps to the mill-race. We haven't visited it for a long time. She ran to the house to put away her books and get her stout shoes, and presently rejoined him. When together they strolled up the street and circled round the little town until they came to the riverbank. Then they followed the stream toward the old mill. Mary Louise told her grandfather of the recent edict of Miss Stern and the indignation it had aroused in her girl-borders. And what do you think of it, Grandpa Jim? She asked in conclusion. What do you think of it, Mary Louise? It is rather hard on the girls who have enjoyed their liberty for so long, but I think it is Miss Stern's plan to keep them away from the picture-theatre. And so? And so, she said, it may do the girls more good than harm. He smiled approvingly. It was his custom to dry out her ideas on all questions rather than to assert his own in advance. If he found her wrong or misinformed he would then correct her and set her right. So you do not approve of the pictures, Mary Louise? Not all of them, Grandpa Jim, although they all seem to have been passed by the Board of Sensors. Perhaps when their eyes were shut. I love the good pictures, and I know that you do, but some we have seen lately gave me the shivers. So perhaps Miss Stern is right. I am confident she is, he agreed. Some makers of pictures may consider it beneficial to emphasize good by exhibiting evil, by way of contrast, but they are doubtless wrong. I have an old-fashioned notion that young girls should be shielded as much as possible from knowledge of the world's sins and worries, which is sure to be impressed upon them in later years. We cannot ignore evil, unfortunately, but we can often avoid it. But why, if these pictures are really harmful, does Mr. Welland exhibit them at his theatre? Mr. Welland is running his theatre to make money, explained the Colonel, and the surest way to make money is to cater to the taste of his patrons, the majority of whom demand picture plays of the more vivid sort, such as you and I complain of. So the fault lies not with the exhibitor, but with the sensation-loving public. If Mr. Welland showed only such pictures as have good morals he would gain the patronage of Miss Stern's twelve young ladies and a few others, but the masses would refuse to support him. Then, said Mary Louise, the masses ought to be educated to desire better things. Many philanthropists have tried to do that and signally failed. I believe the world is gradually growing better, my dear, but ages will pass before mankind attains a really wholesome mental atmosphere. However, we should each do our humble part toward the moral uplift of our fellows, and one way is not to condone what we know to be wrong. He spoke earnestly in a conversational tone that robbed his words of preachment. Mary Louise thought Grandpa Jim must be an exceptionally good man, and hoped she would grow in time to be like him. The only thing that puzzled her was why he refused to associate with his fellow men, while at heart he so warmly espoused their uplift in advancement. They had now reached the mill-race and had seated themselves on the high embankment, where they could watch the water swirl swiftly beneath them. The mill was not grinding to-day, and its neighbourhood seemed quite deserted. Here the old Colonel and his granddaughter sat dreamily for a long time, conversing casually on various subjects or allowing themselves to drift into thought. It was a happy hour for them both, and was only interrupted when Jackson, the miller, passed by on his way home from the village. The man gave the Colonel a surly nod, but he smiled on Mary Louise, the girl being as popular in the district as her grandfather was unpopular. After Jackson had passed them by, Grandpa Jim slowly rose to propose they return home. If we go through the village, said he, we shall reach home without hurrying ourselves in time to dress for dinner. I object to being hurried.  Yes, indeed, if it can be avoided. Going through the village saved them half a mile in distance, but Mary Louise would not have proposed it herself on account of the Colonel's well-known aversion to meeting people. This afternoon, however, he made the proposal himself, so they strolled away to the main road that led through the one business street of the little town. At this hour there was little life in Beverly's main street. The farmers who drove into trade had now returned home. The town women were busy getting supper, and most of their men were at home feeding the stock or doing the evening chores. However, they passed an occasional group of two or three, and around the general stores did a few other natives, listlessly awaiting the call to the evening meal. These cast curious glances at the well-known forms of the old man and the young girl, for his two years' residence had not made the testy old Colonel any less strange to them. They knew all about him there was to know, which was nothing at all, and understood they must not venture to address him as they would have done any other citizen. Cooper's Hotel, a modest and not very inviting frame-building, stood near the center of the village, and as Mary Louise and her grandfather passed it the door opened and a man stepped out and only avoided bumping into them by coming to a full stop. They stopped also of necessity, and Mary Louise was astonished to find the stranger staring into the Colonel's face with an expression of mingled amazement and incredulity on his own. James hathaway by all the gods, he explained, adding in wondering-tones, and after all these years. Mary Louise, clinging to her grandfather's arm, cast an upward glance at his face. It was tensely drawn. The eyelids were half-closed, and through their slits the Colonel's eyes glinted fiercely. You are mistaken, fellow, out of my way, he said, and seizing the girl's arm, which she had withdrawn in a fright, he marched straight ahead. The man fell back, but stared after them with his former expression of bewildered surprise. Mary Louise noted this in a glance over her shoulder and something in the stranger's attitude, was it a half-failed threat? Caused her to shudder involuntarily. The Colonel strode on, looking neither to right nor left, saying never a word. They reached their home grounds, passed up the path in silence, and entered the house. The Colonel went straight to the stairs and cried in a loud voice, Beatrice! The tone thrilled Mary Louise with a premonition of evil. A door was hastily opened, and her mother appeared at the head of the stairs, looking down on them with the customary anxiety on her worn features, doubly accentuated. Again, Father! she asked in a voice that slightly trembled. Yes! come with me to the library, Beatrice. CHAPTER IV of Mary Louise by L. Frank Baum Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. CHAPTER IV SHIFTING SANS Mary Louise hid herself in the drawing-room, where she could watch the closed door of the library opposite. At time she trembled with an unknown dread. Again she told herself that no harm could possibly befall her dear, good, grandpa, Jim, or her faithful, loving mother. Yet why were they closeted in the library so long, and how could the meeting with that insolent stranger affect Colonel Weatherby so strongly? After a long time her mother came out, looking more pallid and heiress than ever but strangely composed. She kissed Mary Louise, who came to meet her, and said, Get ready for dinner, dear, we are late. The girl went to her room, dazed and uneasy. At dinner her mother appeared at the table, eating little or nothing, but grandpa Jim was not present. Afterward she learned that he had gone over to Ms. Stern's school for girls, where he completed important arrangements concerning his granddaughter. When dinner was over, Mary Louise went into the library, and drawing a chair to where the light of the student lamp flooded her book, tried to read. But the words were blurred, and her mind was in a sort of chaos. Mama B. had summoned Aunt Polly and Uncle Ebb into her room, where she was now holding a conference with the faithful colored servants. A strange and subtle atmosphere of unrest pervaded the house. Mary Louise scented radical changes in their here-to-for-pleasant home life, but what these changes were to be, or what necessitated them, she could not imagine. After a while she heard grandpa Jim enter the hall and hang up his hat and coat and place his cane in the rack. Then he came to the door of the library and stood a moment, looking hard at Mary Louise. Her own eyes regarded her grandfather earnestly, questioning him as positively as if she had spoken. He drew a chair before her, and leaning over her took both her hands and his and held them fast. My dear, he said gently, I regret to say that another change has overtaken us. Have you ever heard of Harlequin fate? It is a very buffoon of mischief and irony that is often permitted to dog our earthly footsteps and prevent us from becoming too content with our lot. For a time you and I, little maid, good comrades that we have been, must tread different paths. Your mother and I are going away presently, and we shall leave you here in Beverly, where you may continue your studies under the supervision of Miss Stern as a boarder at her school. This house, although the rental is paid for six weeks longer, we shall at once vacate, leaving Uncle Evan and Aunt Sally to put it in shape and close it properly. Do you understand all this, Mary Louise? I understand what you have told me, Grandpa Jim, but why? Miss Stern will be supplied with ample funds to cover your tuition and to purchase any supplies you may need. You will have nothing to worry about, and may so devote all your energies to your studies. But how long?  Do you remember the address of the canons at Dorfield? Of course. Well, you may write to me or to your mother, once a week, addressing the letter in care of Peter Canant. But if you are questioned by any one," he added gravely, do not mention the address of the canons or hint that I have gone to Dorfield. Write your letters privately and unobserved in your own room, and post them secretly by your own hand, so that no one will be aware of the correspondence. Your caution in this regard will be of great service to your mother and me. Do you think you can follow these instructions? To be sure I can, Grandpa Jim, but why must I— Someday, he said, you will understand this seeming mystery and be able to smile at your present perplexities. There is nothing to fear, my dear child, and nothing that need cause you undue anxiety. Keep a brave heart, and whatever happens, have faith in Grandpa Jim. Your mother, as good a woman as God ever made, believes in me, and she knows all. Can you accept her judgment, Mary Louise? Can you steadfastly ignore any aspersions that may be cast upon my good name? Yes, Grandpa Jim. She had not the faintest idea what he referred to. Not until afterward was she able to piece these strange remarks together and make sense of them. Just now the girl was most impressed by the fact that her mother and grandfather were going away and would leave her as a border with Miss Stern. The delightful home life wherein she had passed the happiest two years of her existence was to be broken up for good and all.  Kiss me, my dear. As he rose to his feet, Mary Louise also sprang from her chair and the colonel folded his arms around her and for a moment held her tied in his embrace. Then he slowly released her, holding the girl at arm's length, while he studied her troubled face with grave intensity.  Mary Louise sank into her chair, a little sob in her throat. She felt very miserable indeed at that moment. Harlequin fate, she sighed, I wonder why it has chosen us for its victims. After an hour passed in the deserted library she stole away to her own room and prepared for bed. In the night, during her fitful periods of sleep, she dreamed that her mother bent over her and kissed her lips, once, twice, a third time. The girl woke with a start. A dim light flooded her chamber, for outside was a full moon. But the room was habited only by shadows, save for her own feverish, restless body. She turned over to find a cooler place, and presently fell asleep again. CHAPTER V. OF MARRY LOUISE by L. FRANK BAUM. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. CHAPTER V. OFFICIAL INVESTIGATION And you say they are gone? cried Mary Louise in surprise, as she came down to breakfast the next morning and found the table laid for one and old Ibn waiting to serve her. In the night, child, I don't know exactly what her time by the clock, but the cunnel and Missy Burrows didn't sleep ahead at all. There is no night train, said the girl, seating herself thoughtfully at the table. How could they go, uncle? Just took the automobile, child, and the cunnel done to row it itself, bag and baggage. But see here, Mary Louise, we all ain't supposed to know nothing about that getaway. If some impertinent person asks us, we ain't gone to tell how they go, know how. The cunnel say, tell Mary Louise she ain't gone to know nothing at all about nothing, because taint nobody's business. I understand, Uncle Ibn. She reflected upon this seemingly unnecessary secrecy as she ate her breakfast. After time she asked, What are you and Aunt Polly going to do, Uncle? First thing, replied the old negro, Polly going to get your traps all pack up, and I going to take them over to Missy Stern's place in the wheel-bearer. Then I go and read up the house and take the keys to Mass Gamble, the agent.  The cunnel done range everything proper, and we going to do just like he say. Mary Louise felt lonely and uncomfortable in the big house, now that her mother and grandfather had gone away. Since the move was inevitable, she would be glad to go to Miss Stern as soon as possible. She helped Aunt Polly pack her trunk and suitcase, afterwards gathering into a bundle the things she had forgotten or overlooked, all of which personal belongings Uncle Ibn wheeled over to the school. Then she bade the faithful servitors goodbye, promising to call upon them at their humble home, and walked slowly over the well-known path to Miss Stern's establishment, where she presented herself to the principal. It being Saturday, Miss Stern was seated at a desk in her own private room, where she received Mary Louise and bade her sit down.  She was a very clever teacher and a very incompetent business woman, so that her small school of excellent standing and repute proved difficult to finance. In character Miss Stern was temperamental enough to have been a genius. She was kindly natured, fond of young girls and cared for her pupils with motherly instincts seldom possessed by those in similar positions. She was lax in many respects, severely strict in others. Not always were her rules and regulations dictated by good judgment. Therefore her girls usually found as much fault as other boarding school girls are prone to do, and with somewhat more reason. On the other hand, no one could question the principal's erudition or her skill in imparting her knowledge to others. "'Sit down, Mary Louise,' she said to the girl, "'this is an astonishing change in your life, is it not? Colonel Weatherby came to me last evening and said he had been suddenly called away on important matters that would burp no delay, and that your mother was to accompany him on the journey. He begged me to take you in as a regular border, and of course I consented. You have been one of my most tractable and conscientious pupils, and I have been proud of your progress. But the school is quite full, as you know, so at first I was uncertain that I could accommodate you here. But Miss Dander, my assistant, has given up her room to you, and I shall put a bed for her in my own sleeping chamber, so that difficulty is now happily arranged. I suppose your family left Beverly this morning by the early train.' "'They have gone,' replied Mary Louise, noncommittally. "'You will be lonely for a time, of course, but presently you will feel quite at home in the school because you know all of my girls so well. It is not like a strange girl coming into a new school. And remember, Mary Louise, that you are to come to me for any advice and assistance you need, for I promised your grandfather that I would fill your mother's place as far as I am able to do so.' Mary Louise reflected, with a little shock of pain, that her mother had never been very near to her, and that Miss Stern might well perform such perfunctory duties as the girl had been accustomed to expect. But no one could ever take the place of Grandpa Jim. "'Thank you, Miss Stern,' she said. "'I am sure I shall be quite contented here. Is my room ready?' "'Yes, and your trunk has already been placed in it. Let me know, my dear, if there is anything you need.' Mary Louise went to her room and was promptly pounced upon by Dorothy Kinner and Sue Finley, who roomed just across the hall from her, and were delighted to find she was to become a regular border. She asked numerous questions as they helped her to unpack and settle her room, but accepted her conservative answers without comment. At the noon luncheon Mary Louise was accorded a warm reception by the assembled borders, and this cordial welcome by her schoolmates did much to restore the girl to her normal condition of cheerfulness. She even joined a group in a game of tennis after luncheon, and it was while she was playing that little Miss Dandler came with a message that Mary Louise was wanted in Miss Stern's room at once. "'Take my racket,' she said to Jenny Allen. "'I'll be back in a minute.' When she entered Miss Stern's room she was surprised to find herself confronted by the same man whom she and her grandfather had encountered in front of Cooper's Hotel the previous afternoon, the man whom she secretly held responsible for this abrupt change in her life. The principal sat crouched over her desk as if overawed by her visitor, who stomped his nervous pacing up and down the room as the girl appeared. "'This is Mary Louise Burroughs,' said Miss Stern in a weak voice. "'Hah!' he glared at her with a scowl for a moment and then demanded, "'Where is Hathaway?' Mary Louise reddened. "'I do not know to whom you refer,' she answered quietly. "'Aren't you his granddaughter?' "'I'm the granddaughter of Colonel James Weatherby, sir.' "'It's all the same, Hathaway or Weatherby. The scoundrel can't disguise his personality. Where is he?' She did not reply. Her eyes had narrowed a little, as the colonels were sometimes prone to do, and her lips were pressed firmly together. "'Answer me,' he shouted, waving his arms threateningly. "'Miss Stern,' Mary Louise said, turning to the principal, "'unless you request your guest to be more respectful, I shall leave the room.' "'Not yet you won't,' said the man in a less boisterous tone. "'Don't annoy me with your heirs for I'm in a hurry. Where is Hathaway or Weatherby or whatever he calls himself?' "'I do not know.' "'You don't, eh? Didn't he leave an address?' "'No.' "'I don't believe you. Where did he go?' "'If I knew,' said Mary Louise with dignity, I would not inform you.' He uttered a growl and then threw back his coat, displaying a badge attached to his vest. "'I'm a Federal Officer,' he asserted, with egotistical pride, a member of the Government's Secret Service Department. I've been searching for James J. Hathaway for nine years, and so has every man in the service. Last night I stumbled upon him by accident, and on inquiring found he has been living quietly in this little jumping-off place. I wired the Department for instructions, and an hour ago received orders to arrest him, but found my bird had flown.  You're going to do that very thing, and the sooner you make up your mind to do it the better for all of us. No nonsense, girl. The Federal Government's not to be trifled with. Tell me where to find your grandfather.' "'If you have finished your insolent remarks,' she answered with spirit. I will go away. You have interrupted my game of tennis.' He gave a bark of anger that made her smile, but as she turned away he sprang forward and seized her arm, swinging her around so that she again faced him. "'Great Caesar, girl. Don't you realize what you're up against?' he demanded. "'I do,' said she. "'I seem to be in the power of a brute. If a law exists that permits you to insult a girl, there must also be a law to punish you. I shall see a lawyer and try to have you properly punished for this absolute insolence.' He regarded her keenly, still frowning, but when he spoke again he had moderated both his tone and words. "'I do not intend to be insolent, Miss Brose, but I have been greatly aggravated by your grandfather's unfortunate escape, and in this emergency every moment is precious if I am to capture him before he gets out of America, as he has done once or twice before. Also, having wired the department that I have found Hathaway, I shall be discredited if I let him slip through my fingers, so I am in a desperate fix. If I have seemed a bit gruff and nervous, forgive me. It is your duty as a loyal subject of the United States to assist an officer of the law by every means in your power, especially when he is engaged in running down a criminal. Therefore, whether you dislike to or not, you must tell me where to find your grandfather. My grandfather is not a criminal, sir. The jury will decide that when his case comes to trial. At present he is accused of a crime and a warrant is out for his arrest. Where is he?' I do not know, she persisted. He—he left by the morning train which goes west, stammered Miss Stern, anxious to placate the officer, and fearful of the girl's stubborn resistance. So the negro's servant told me, sneered the man, but he didn't. I was at the station myself, two miles from this forsaken place, to make sure that Hathaway didn't skip while I was waiting for orders. Therefore he is either hidden somewhere in Beverly or he is sneaked away to an adjoining town. The old serpent is slippery as an eel, but I am going to catch him this time, as sure as fate, and this girl must give me all the information she can. Oh, that will be quite easy, retorted Mary Louise, somewhat triumphantly, for I have no information to divulge. He began to pace the room again, casting at her shrewd and uncertain glances. He didn't say where he was going? No. Or leave any address? No. What did he say? That he was going away and would arrange with Miss Stern for me to board at the school. Ha! I see. Foxy, old guy, knew I would question you and wouldn't take chances. If he writes to you, or you learn what has become of him, will you tell me? No. I thought not. He turned toward the principal. How about this girl's board-money? He asked. When did he say he'd send it? He paid me in advance, to the end of the present term, answered the agitated Miss Stern. Foxy, old boy, seemed to think of everything. I'm going now, but take this warning, both of you. Don't gabble about what I've said. Keep the secret. If nothing gets out, Hathaway may think the coast is clear and it's safe for him to come back. In that case I, or someone appointed by the department, will get a chance to nab him. That's all. Good day. He made his accent from the room without ceremony, leaving Mary Louise and Miss Stern staring fearfully at one another. It—it's dreadful, stammered the teacher, shrinking back with a moan. It would be if it were true, said the girl. But Grandpa Jim is no criminal, we all know. He's the best man that ever lived, and the whole trouble is that this foolish officer has mistaken him for someone else. I heard him, with my own ears, tell the man he was mistaken. Miss Stern reflected. Then why did your grandfather run away? She asked. It was now Mary Louise's turn to reflect, seeking an answer. Presently she realized that a logical explanation of her grandfather's action was impossible with her present knowledge. I cannot answer that question, Miss Stern, she admitted candidly. But Grandpa Jim must have had some good reason. There was unbelief in the woman's eyes. Unbelief and a horror of the whole disgraceful affair that somehow included Mary Louise in its scope. The girl read this look and it confused her. She mumbled an excuse, and fled to her room to indulge in a good cry. End of CHAPTER V. CHAPTER VI. UNDER A CLOUD. The officer's injunction not to talk of the case of Colonel Weatherby was of little avail in ensuring secrecy. Oscar Dowd, who owned and edited the one-weekly newspaper in town, which appeared under the title of The Beverly Beacon, was a very ferret for news. He had to be, otherwise there never would have been enough happenings in the vicinity to fill the scant columns of his little paper, which was printed in big type to make the items and editorials fill as much space as possible. Uncle Ebbon met the editor and told him the Colonel had gone away suddenly and had vacated the van de Venture mansion and put Mary Louise with Miss Stern to board. There at Oscar Dowd sented news and called on Miss Stern for further information. The good lady was almost as much afraid of an editor as of an officer of the law, so under Oscar's rapid-fire questioning she disclosed more of the dreadful charge against Colonel Weatherby than she intended to. She even admitted the visit of the secret service agent, but declined to give details of it. Oscar found the agent had departed for parts unknown, perhaps to trail the escaped Colonel, but the hotelkeeper furnished him with other wisps of information and, bunching all the rumours together and sifting the wheat from the chaff, the editor evolved a most thrilling tale to print in the Wednesday paper. Some of the material his own imagination supplied. Much else was obtained from irresponsible gossips who had no foundation for their assertions. Miss Stern was horrified to find, on receiving her copy of the Wednesday Beacon, that big headlines across the front page announced, Beverly harbours a criminal in disguise, flight of Colonel James Weatherby when a federal officer seeks to arrest him for a terrible crime. One followed a mangled report of the officer's visit to Beverly on government business. His recognition of Colonel Weatherby, who was none other than the noted criminal, James J. Hathaway, on the street in front of Cooper's Hotel, how the officer wired Washington for instructions and how Hathaway, alias Weatherby, escaped in the dead of night and had so far successfully eluded all pursuit. What crime Hathaway, alias Weatherby, was accused of, the officer would not divulge, and the statements of others disagreed. One report declared the Colonel had wrecked a New York bank and absconded with enormous sums he had embezzled. Another stated he had been president of a swindling stock corporation which had used the mails illegally to further its nefarious schemes. A third account asserted he had ensured his life for a million dollars in favor of his daughter, Mrs. Burroughs, and then established a false death, and reappeared after Mrs. Burroughs had collected the insurance money. Having printed all this prominently in big type, the editor appended a brief note in small type, saying he would not vouch for the truth of any statement made in the foregoing article. Nevertheless, it was a terrible arraignment and greatly shocked the good citizens of Beverly. Miss Stern, realizing how humiliated Mary Louise would be if the newspaper fell into her hands, carefully hid her copy away where none of the girls could see it. But one of the day-scholars brought a copy to the school Thursday morning and passed it around among the girls so that all were soon in possession of the whole scandalous screed. Mabel Westervelt, after feasting upon the awful accusations, cruelly handed the paper to Mary Louise. The girl's face blanched and then grew red.  She rose quickly and left the room to the great relief of the other girls who wanted to talk the matter over. The idea, cried Mabel indignantly, of that old villain's foisting his grandchild on this respectable school while he ran away to escape the penalty of his crimes. Mary Louise is all right, asserted Jenny Allen stoutly. She isn't to blame at all. I warned you that her goody-goody errors were a cloak to hidden wickedness, said Mabel, tossing her head.  Mary Louise has bad blood in her veins and it's bound to crop out sooner or later. I advise you girls to keep your trunks locked and to look after your jewelry. Shame, shame! cried Dorothy Canaire and the others echoed the reproach. Even Mabel looked at fat Lena disapprovingly. However, in spite of staunch support on the part of her few real friends, Mary Louise felt from that hour a changed atmosphere when in the presence of her school-fellows. Weeks rolled by without further public attacks upon grandpa Jim, but among the girls at the school suspicion had crept in to ostracize Mary Louise from the general confidence. She lost her bright, cheery air of self-assurance and grew shy and fearful of reproach, avoiding her schoolmates more than they avoided her. Instead of being content in her new home, as she had hoped to be, the girl found herself more miserable and discontented than in any other period of her life. She longed continually to be comforted by grandpa Jim and mama B. and even lost interest in her studies, moping dismally in her room when she should have been taking an interest in the life at the school. Even good Miss Stern had unconsciously changed in her attitude toward the forlorn girl. Deciding one day that she needed some new shoes, Mary Louise went to the principal to ask for the money with which to buy them. Miss Stern considered the matter seriously. Then she said with warning emphasis, My dear, I do not think it advisable for you to waste your funds on shoes, especially as those you have are in fairly good condition. Of course, your grandfather left some money with me to be expended as I saw fit. But now that he has absc- uh, uh, secreted himself, so to speak, we can expect no further remittances. When this term is ended, any extra money should be applied toward your further board intuition. Otherwise you would become an outcast, with no place to go and no shelter for your head. That in common decency must be avoided. No, I do not approve of any useless expenditures. I shall hoard this money for future emergencies. In happier times Mary Louise would have been indignant at the thought that her grandfather would ever leave her unprovided for, but she had been so humbled of late that this aspect of her affairs, so candidly presented by Miss Stern, troubled her exceedingly. She had written a letter every week to her grandfather, addressing it as he had instructed her to do, and care of Mr. Peter Cunard at Dorfield. And always she had stolen out, unobserved, and mailed the letter at the village post office. Of course she had never, by a single word, referred to the scandal regarding the Colonel or her mother, or to her own unhappy lot at school because of that scandal, knowing how such a report would grieve them. But the curious thing about this correspondence was that it was distinctly one-sided. In the three months since they had gone away, Mary Louise had never received an answer to any of her letters, either from her grandfather or her mother. This might be explained, she reflected, by the fact that they suspected the males would be watched. But this supposition attributed some truth to the accusation that Grandpa Jim was a fugitive from justice, which she would not allow for an instant. Had he not told her to have faith in him whatever happened, should she prove disloyal just because a brutal officer and an irresponsible newspaper editor had branded her dear grandfather a criminal? No, whatever happened she would cling to her faith in the goodness of dear Grandpa Jim. There was very little money in her purse, a few pennies that she must hoard to buy postage stamps with. Two parties for young people were given in Beverly, and at both of them Mary Louise was the only girl boarding at the school who was uninvited. She knew that some of the girls even resented her present at the school, and often when she joined a group of schoolmates their hushed conversation warned her they had been discussing her. Altogether she felt that her present at the school was fast becoming unbearable, and when one of the boarders openly accused her of stealing a diamond ring, which was later discovered on a shelf above a wash stand, the patient humility of Mary Louise turned to righteous anger, and she resolved to leave the shelter of Miss Stern's Roof without delay. There was only one possible place for her to go, to the Connaught House at Dorfield, where her mother and grandfather were staying, and where she had already passed three of the most pleasant years of her short life. Grandpa Jim had not told her she could come to him, even in an emergency, but when she explained all the suffering she had endured at the school, she knew quite well that he would forgive her for coming. But she needed money for the long journey, and this must be secured in some way from her own resources. So she got together all the jewelry she possessed, and placing it in her handbag started for the town. She had an idea that a jewelry shop was the proper place to sell her jewelry, but Mr. Trumbull the jeweler shook his head and said that Watson at the bank often loaned money on such security. He advised the girl to see Watson. So Mary Louise went to the bank, which was a one-man affair situated in the rear of the hardware store, where a grating had been placed in one corner. There she found Mr. Watson, who was more a country broker than a banker, and throve by lending money to farmers. Grandpa Jim was almost as fond of pretty jewels as he was of good clothes, and he had always been generous in presenting his granddaughter with trinkets on her birthdays and at Christmas time. The jewelry she laid before Mr. Watson was really valuable, and the banker's eye was especially attracted by a brooch of pearls that must have cost several hundred dollars. How much do you want to borrow on this lot? He asked. As much as I can get, sir, she replied. Have you any idea of redeeming it? I hope to do so, of course. The banker knew perfectly well who Mary Louise was and suspected she needed money. This is no pawnbroker's shop, he asserted. I'll give you a hundred dollars outright for this pearl brooch as a purchase, understand, but the rest of the junk I don't expect. A little man who had entered the hardware store to purchase a tin dipper was getting so close to the bank that Mary Louise feared being overheard, so she did not argue with Mr. Watson. Deciding that a hundred dollars ought to take her to Dorfield, she promptly accepted the offer, signed a bill of sale, and received her money. Then she walked two miles to the railway station and discovered that a ticket to Dorfield could be bought for ninety-two dollars. That would give her eight dollars leeway, which seemed quite sufficient. But at the prospect of freedom she returned to the school to make her preparation for departure, and arrived just in time to join the other girls at dinner. CHAPTER VII. As she packed her trunk behind the locked door of her room, an unnecessary precaution, since the girls generally avoided her society, Mary Louise considered whether to confide the fact of her going to Miss Stern, or to depart without a word of a Jew. In the latter case she would forfeit her trunk and her pretty clothes, which she did not wish to do unless it proved absolutely necessary, and after all she decided frankness was best. Grandpa Jim had often said that what one could not do openly should not be done at all. There was nothing to be ashamed of in her resolve to leave the school where she was so unhappy. The girls did not want her there and she did not want to stay. The school would be relieved of a disturbing element, and Mary Louise would be relieved of unjust persecution. No blame attached to any but those who had made public this vile slander against her grandfather. From all viewpoints she considered she was doing the right thing. So when her preparations were complete she went to Miss Stern's room, although it was now after eight o'clock in the evening, and requested an interview. I'm going away, she quietly announced to the principal. Going away? But where? asked the astonished teacher. I cannot tell you that, Miss Stern. Do you not know? Yes, I know, but I prefer not to tell you. Miss Stern was greatly annoyed. She was also perplexed. The fact that Mary Louise was deserting her school did not seem so important at the moment as the danger involved by young girls going out into the world unprotected. The good woman had already been rendered very nervous by the dreadful accusation of Colonel Weatherby and the consequent stigma that attached to his granddaughter, a pupil at her imminently respectable school.  Nevertheless, a certain bitter resentment of the unwholesome scandal that had smirked her dignified establishment had taken possession of the woman, perhaps unconsciously, and why she might be a little ashamed of the ungenerous feeling, Miss Stern fervently wished she had never accepted the girl as a pupil. She had accepted her, however. She had received the money for Mary Louise's tuition and expenses and had promptly applied the entire sum to reducing her grocery bills and other pressing obligations. Therefore, she felt at her duty to give value received. If Mary Louise was to be driven from the school by the jeers and sneers of the other girls, Miss Stern would feel like a thief. Moreover, it would be a distinct reproach to her should she allow a fifteen-year-old girl to wander into a cruel world because her school, her sole home and refuge, had been rendered so unbearable that she could not remain there. The principal was really unable to repay the money that had been advanced to her, even if that would relieve her of the obligation to shelter the girl, and therefore she decided that Mary Louise must not be permitted, under any circumstances, to leave her establishment without the authority of her natural guardians. This argument ran hurriedly through her mind as the girl stood calmly waiting. Is this action approved by your mother or by your grandfather? She asked, somewhat more harshly, than was her want in addressing her pupils. No, Miss Stern. Then how dare you even suggest it? I am not wanted here, returned the girl with calm assurance. My presence is annoying to the other girls, as well as to yourself, and so disturbs the routine of the school. For my part, I am very unhappy here, as you must realize, because everyone seems to think my dear grandpa Jim is a wicked man, which I know he is not. I have no heart to study, and so it is better for us all that I go away. This statement was so absolutely true, and the implied reproach was so justified, that Miss Stern allowed herself to become angry as the best means of opposing the girl's design. This is absurd, she explained.  You shall not stir one step from this school. I forbid you positively to leave the grounds hereafter without my express permission. You have been placed in my charge, and I insist that you obey me.  If I hear any more of this rebellious wish to leave the school, I shall be obliged to punish you by confining you to your room. The girl listened to this speech with evident surprise, yet the tirade did not seem to impress her. You refuse, then, to let me go, she returned. I positively refuse. But I cannot stay here, Miss Stern, she protested. You must. I have always treated you kindly. I treat all my girls well, if they deserve it, but you are developing a bad disposition, Mary Louise, a most reprehensible disposition, I regret to say, and the tendency must be corrected at once. Not another word. Go to your room. Mary Louise went to her room, greatly depressed by the interview. She looked at her trunk, made a mental inventory of its highly prized contents and side. But as soon as she rejoined at Grandpa Jim, she reflected, he would send an order to have the trunk forwarded, and Miss Stern would not dare refuse. For a time she must do without her pretty gowns. Instead of studying her textbooks, she studied the railway time card. She had intended asking Miss Stern to permit her to take the 530 train from Beverly Junction the next morning, and since the recent interview she had firmly decided to board that very train. This was not entirely due to stubbornness, for she reflected that if she stayed at the school her unhappy condition would become aggravated instead of improving, especially since Miss Stern had developed unexpected sharpness of temper. She would endure no longer the malicious taunts of her school fellows or the scoldings of the principal, and these could be avoided in no other way than by escaping as she had planned. At ten o'clock she lay down upon her bed, fully dressed, and put out her light, but she dared not fall asleep lest she miss her train. At time she lighted a match and looked at her watch, and it surprised her to realize how long a night can be when one is watching for daybreak. At four o'clock she softly rose, put on her hat, took her suitcase in hand, and stealthily crept from the room. It was very dark in the hallway, but the house was so familiar to her that she easily felt her way along the passage, down the front stairs and so to the front door. Miss Stern always locked this door at night, but left the key in the lock. Tonight the key had been withdrawn. When Mary Louise had satisfied herself of this fact she stole along the lower hallway toward the rear. The door that connected with the dining-room, and farther on, with the servant's quarters, had also been locked in the key withdrawn. This was so unusual that it plainly told the girl that Miss Stern was suspicious that she might try to escape, and so had taken precautions to prevent her leaving the house. Mary Louise cautiously set down her suitcase and tried to think what to do. The house had not been built for a school, but was an old residence converted to school purposes. On one side of the hall was a big drawing-room, on the other side were the principal's apartments. Mary Louise entered the drawing-room and ran against a chair that stood in her way. Until now she had not made the slightest noise, but the suitcase banged against the chair and the concussion reverberated duly throughout the house. The opposite door opened and a light flooded the hall. From where the girl stood in the dark drawing-room she could see Miss Stern standing in her doorway and listening. Mary Louise held herself motionless. She scarcely dared breathe. The principal glanced up and down the hall, noted the locked doors and presently retired into her room, after a little while extinguishing the light. Then Mary Louise felt her way to a window, drew aside the heavy draperies and carefully released the catch of the sash, which she then succeeded in raising. The wooden blinds were easily unfastened, but swung back with a slight creak that made her heart leap with apprehension. She did not wait now to learn if the sound had been heard, for already she had wasted too much time if she intended to catch her train. She leaned through the window, let her suitcase down as far as she could reach, and dropped it to the ground. Then she climbed through the opening and let herself down by cleaning to the sill. It was a high window, but she was a tall girl for her age, and her feet touched the ground. Now she was free to go her way. She lost no time in getting away from the grounds, being guided by a dim starlight and a glow in the east that was a promise of mourning. With rapid steps she made her way to the station, reaching it over the rough country road just as the train pulled in. She had been possessed with the idea that someone was stealthily following her, and under the light of the depot lamps her first act was to swing around and stare into the darkness from which she had emerged.  He paid no attention to the girl, but entered the same car she did and quietly took his seat in the rear. CHAPTER VIII. It required two days and a night to go by rail from Beverly to Dorfield, and as Mary Louise had passed a sleepless night at the school she decided to purchase a berth on the sleeper. That made a big hole in her surplus of eight dollars, and she also found her meals in the dining-car quite expensive, so that by the time she left the train at Dorfield her finances would be reduced to the sum of a dollar and twenty cents. That would not have disturbed her, knowing that thereafter she would be with Grandpa Jim, except for one circumstance.  All the other passengers who had been on the train at that time had one by one left it and been replaced by others, for the route lay through several large cities where many alighted and others came aboard. Only the little man from Beverly remained, quiet and unobtrusive, but somehow haunting the girl's presence in an embarrassing manner. He seldom looked at her, but was found staring from the window whenever she turned her eyes toward him. At first she scarcely noticed the man, but the longer he remained aboard the train the more she speculated as to where he might be going. Whenever she entered the dining-car he took a notion to eat at that time, but found a seat as far removed from her as possible. She imagined she had escaped him when she went to the sleeper, but next morning, as she passed out, he was standing in the vestibule, and a few moments later he was in the diner where she was breakfasting. It was now that the girl first conceived the idea that he might be following her for a purpose, dogging her footsteps to discover at what station she left the train. And when she asked herself why the stranger should be so greatly concerned with her movements, she remembered that she was going to Grandpa Jim, and that at one time an officer had endeavored to discover, through her, her grandfather's whereabouts. If this little man she mused, glancing at his blank and expressive features, happens to be a detective, and knows who I am, he may think I will lead him directly to Colonel Weatherby, whom he may then arrest. Grandpa Jim is innocent, of course, but I know he doesn't wish to be arrested, because he left Beverly suddenly to avoid it. And, she added with a sudden fainting of the heart, if this suspicion is true, I am actually falling into the trap and leading an officer to my grandfather's retreat. This reflection rendered the girl very uneasy, and caused her to watch the fat-nosed man guardedly all through that tedious day. She constantly hoped he would leave the train at some station, and thus prove her fears to be groundless, but always he remained in his seat, patiently eyeing the landscape through his window. Late in the afternoon another suspicious circumstance aroused her alarm. The conductor of the train, as he passed through the car, paused at the rear end and gazed thoughtfully at the little man huddled in the rear seat, who seemed unconscious of his regard. After watching him awhile the conductor suddenly turned his head and looked directly at Mary Louise, with a curious expression, as if connecting his two passengers. Then he went on through the train, but the girl's heart was beating high, and the little man, while seeming to eye the fleeting landscape through the window, wiggled somewhat uneasily in his seat. Mary Louise now decided that he was a detective. She suspected that he had been sent to Beverly, after the other man left, to watch her movements, with the idea that sooner or later she would rejoin her grandfather. Perhaps had any letter come for her from her mother or grandpa Jim, this officer would have seized it and obtained from it the address of the man he was seeking. That would account for their failure to write her. Perhaps they were aware of the plot, and therefore dared not send her a letter. And now she began wondering what she should do when she got to Dorfield, if the little man also left the train at that station. Such an act on his part would prove that her suspicions were correct, in which case she would lead him straight to her grandfather, whom she would thus deliver into the power of his merciless enemies. No, that would not do at all. If the man followed her from the train at Dorfield, she dared not go to Peter Connott's house. Where, then, could she go? Had she possessed sufficient money it might be best to ride past Dorfield and pay her fare to another station, but her funds were practically exhausted. Dorfield was a much bigger town than Beverly. It was quite a large city, indeed. Perhaps she could escape the supervision of the detective in some way, and by outwitting him find herself free to seek the Connott's home. She would try this, and circumstances must decide her plan of action. Always there was the chance that she misjudged the little man. As the conductor called the station the train halted and the girl passed the rear seat, where the man had his bare head half out the open window and descended from car to the platform. A few others also alighted to hurry away to the omnibuses or streetcar or walk to their destinations. Mary Louise stood quite still upon the platform until the train drew out after its brief stop. It was nearly six o'clock in the evening and fast-growing dark. Yet she distinctly observed the fat-nosed man, who had alighted on the opposite side of the track and was now sauntering diagonally across the rails to the depot, his hands thrust deep in his pockets and his eyes turned away from Mary Louise, as if the girl occupied no part of his thoughts. But she knew better than that. Her suspicions were now fully confirmed, and she sought to evade the detective in just the way an inexperienced girl might have done. Turning in the opposite direction she hastily crossed the street, building a big building between herself and the depot, and then hurried along a cross-street. She looked back now and then and found she had not been followed. So to ensure escape she turned another corner, giving a fearful glance over her shoulder as she did so. This street was not so well-lighted as the others had been, and she had no idea where it led to. She knew Dorfield pretty well, having once resided there for three years, but in her agitated haste she had now lost all sense of direction. Suddenly, however, that she was now safe from pursuit, she walked on more slowly, trying to discover her whereabouts, and presently passed a dimly-lighted bakery before which a man stood looking abstractedly into the window at the Cakes and Pies, his back toward her. Instantly Mary Louise felt her heart sink. She did not need to see the man's face to recognize the detective. Nor did he stir as she passed him by and proceeded up the street. But how did he happen to be there? Had she accidentally stumbled upon him, or had he purposefully placed himself in her path to assure her that escape from him was impossible? As she reached the next corner a street car came rushing along, halted a brief moment and proceeded on its way. In that moment Mary Louise had stepped aboard, and as she entered the closed section and sank into a seat she breathed a sigh of relief. The man at the bakery window had not followed her. The car made one or two more stops, turned a corner and stopped again.  He didn't look at Mary Louise at all, but she looked at him and her expression was one of mingled horror and fear. A mile farther on the car reached the end of its line and the conductor reversed the trolley-pole and prepared for the return journey. Mary Louise kept her seat.  On the way back to the business section of Dorfield, Mary Louise considered what to do next. She was very young and inexperienced. She was also at this moment very weary and despondent. It was clearly evident that she could not escape this man, whose persistence impressed her with the eminent danger that threatened her grandfather if she went to the home of the canots, the one thing she positively must not do. Since her arrival was wholly unexpected by her friends, with whom she could not communicate, she now found herself a forlorn wanderer without money or shelter. When the car stopped at Main Street, she got off and walked slowly along the brilliantly lighted thoroughfare, feeling more safe among the moving throngs of people. Presently she came to a well-remembered corner where the principal hotel stood on one side and the first national bank on the other. She now knew where she was and could find the direct route to the canots had she dared to go there. To gain time for thought the girl stepped into the doorway of the bank, which was closed for the day, thus avoiding being jostled by pedestrians. She set down her suitcase, leaned against the door frame and tried to determine her wisest course of action. She was hungry, tired, frightened, and the combination of sensations made her turn faint.  "'Pardon me,' said a soft voice, and with a nervous start she opened her eyes to find the little, fat-nosed man confronting her. He had removed his hat and was looking straight into her face. For the first time she imagined, and now she noticed that his grey eyes were not at all unkindly. "'What do you want?' she asked sharply with an involuntary shudder. "'I wish to advise you, Miss Burroughs,' he replied. "'I believe you know who I am, and it is folly for us to pursue this game of hide and seek any longer. You are tired and worn out with your long ride in the anxiety I have caused you.' "'You are dogging me,' she exclaimed indignantly.  "'John O' Gorman, by name, Miss. At home I have a little girl much like you, but I doubt if my Josie, even though I have trained her, would prove more shrewd than you have done under such trying circumstances. Even in the train you recognized my profession, and I am thought to be rather clever at disguising my motives. "'Yes?' "'And you know quite well that because you have come to Dorfield to join your grandfather, whom you call Colonel Weatherby, I have followed you in an attempt to discover, through you, the man for whom our government has searched many years.' "'Oh, indeed!' "'Therefore you are determined not to go to your destination, and you are at your wit's end to know what to do. Let me advise you for the sake of my own little Josie.' The abrupt proposal bewildered her. "'You are my enemy.' "'Don't think that, Miss,' he said gently. "'I am an officer of the law engaged in doing my duty. I am not your enemy, and bear you no ill will. You are trying to arrest my grandfather.' "'In the course of duty. But he is quite safe from me for to-night, while you are almost exhausted through your efforts to protect him. Go into the hotel across the way, and register, and get some supper in a room. Tomorrow you will be able to think more clearly and may then make up your mind what to do.' She hesitated. The voice seemed earnest and sincere, the eyes considerate and pitying, and the advice appealed to her as good, but, "'Just for to-night, put yourself in my care,' he said. "'I am ashamed to have annoyed you to such an extent, and to have interfered with your plans, but I could not help it. You have succeeded in balking the detective, but the man admires you for it. I noticed the last time you took out your purse in the dining-car that your money is nearly gone. If you will permit me to lend you enough for your hotel expenses, no. While it may not be necessary, your friends will supply you with money whenever our little comedy, shall we say, is played to the end. In the meantime I'll speak to the landlord. Now Miss Burroughs run across to the hotel and register. She gazed at him uncertainly a moment, and the little man smiled reassuringly. Somehow she felt inclined to trust him. "'Thank you,' she said, and took her suitcase into the hotel office. The clerk looked at her rather cautiously as she registered, but assigned to her room and told her that dinner was still being served. She followed the bell-boy to her room, where she brushed her gown, bathed her hands and face, and rearranged her hair. Then she went to the dining-room, and, although the journey in worry had left her sick and nervous, she ate some dinner and felt stronger and better after it. CHAPTER IX of Mary Louise by L. Frank Baum Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. CHAPTER IX. Officer O'Gorman. Mary Louise returned to her room and sat down to consider the best way out of her dilemma. The detective's friendliness, so frankly expressed, pleased her in a way, yet she realized his vigilance would not be relaxed, and that he was still determined through her to discover where Grandpa Jim was hidden. An uncomfortable degree of danger had already been incurred by her unconsciously leading the officer to Dorfield. He knew that the man he was seeking was either in this city or its immediate neighborhood. But unless she led him to the exact spot, to the dwelling of the Canons, it would take even this clever detective some time to locate the refugee. Before then, Mary Louise hoped to be able to warn Grandpa Jim of his danger. That would prevent her from rejoining him and her mother, but it would also save him from arrest. Glancing around her comfortable room, she saw a telephone on the wall. Besided on a hook, hung a book containing the addresses of the subscribers. She opened the book, and glancing down its columns found it. Canot. Peter. 1216 Oak Street. Blue. 147. Why hadn't she thought of this simple method of communication before? It would be quite easy to call Mr. Canot and tell him where she was, and have him warn Grandpa Jim that a detective was searching for him. She went to the telephone and took down the receiver. Office! cried a sharp voice. What number do you want? Mary Louise hesitated. Then she hung up the receiver without reply. It occurred to her that the hotel office was a public place and that the telephone girl would be likely to yell out the number for all to overhear. To satisfy herself on this point she went downstairs in the elevator and purchased a magazine at the newsstand. The telephone desk was nearby, and Mary Louise could hear the girl calling the numbers and responding to calls, while not six feet from her desk said a man whose person was nearly covered by a spread newspaper, which he appeared to be reading. But Mary Louise knew him by his striped trousers and straight away congratulated herself on her caution. Undoubtedly the detective had figured on her telephoning and she had nearly fallen into the trap. Back to her room she went, resolved to make no further move till morning. The day had been a hard one for the girl, mentally and physically, and at this moment she felt herself hopelessly involved in a snare from which she could see no means of escape. She read a little in her magazine to quiet her nerves and then went to bed and fell asleep. At daybreak Mary Louise wakened to wonder if she had done right in running away from Miss Stern's school. Grandpa Jim had placed her there because he did not wish to take her with him when he left Beverly, and now she had come to him without his consent, and in doing so had perhaps delivered him into the hands of his enemies. Poor Grandpa Jim! She would never cease to approach herself if she became responsible for his ruin. As she lay in bed thinking in this vein, she allowed herself to wonder for the first time why her dear grandfather was being persecuted by the officers of the law, by the government of the United States, indeed, which should be just and merciful to all its people. Of course he was innocent of any wrongdoing, Grandpa Jim would never do anything to injure a human being, for he was goodness itself and had taught her to honor truth and righteousness ever since she could remember. Never for a moment would she doubt him. But it was curious, when she came to reflect on it, that he would run away from his enemies instead of facing them bravely. For many years he had hidden himself, first in one place and then in another, and at the first warning of discovery or pursuit would disappear and seek a new hiding-place. For she now realized, in the light of her recent knowledge, that for many years Grandpa Jim had been effugitive from the law, and that for some unknown reason he dared not face his accusers. Some people might consider this an evidence of guilt, but Mary Louise and Grandpa Jim had been close comrades for two years, and deep in her heart was the unalterable conviction that his very nature would revolt against crime of any sort. Moreover, always a strong argument in her mind, her mother had steadfastly believed in her grandfather, and had devoted herself to him to the exclusion of all else in her life, even neglecting her own daughter to serve her father. Mama B. loved her, she well knew, yet Mary Louise had never even enjoyed the same affectionate intercourse with her mother that she had with her grandfather, for Mama B.'s whole life seemed to center around the old colonel. This unusual devotion was proof enough to Mary Louise that her grandfather was innocent, but it did not untangle the maze. Looking back over her past life, she could recall the many sudden changes of residence due to Colonel Weatherby's desire to escape apprehension by the authorities. They seemed to date from the time they had left that big city house, where the child had in a special nurse and there were lots of servants, and where her beautiful mother used to bend over her with a good-night kiss, while arrayed in dainty ball costumes sparkling with jewels. Mary Louise tried to remember her father, but could not, although she had been told that he had died in that very house. She remembered Grandpa Jim in those days, however, only he was too busy to pay much attention to her. Let's see, was he called Colonel Weatherby in those days? She could not recollect. That name did not become familiar to her till long afterwards. Always he had been just Grandpa Jim to her. Yet that dreadful officer of the law who had questioned her in Beverly had called him Hathaway, James J. Hathaway. How absurd! But where had she heard the name of Hathaway before? She puzzled her brain to remember it. Did it belong to any of her schoolgirl friends? Or was it—with a sudden thought she sprang from her bed and took her watch from the dresser. It was an old watch, given her by Mama B. on the girl's twelfth birthday, while she was living with the canots, and her mother had bitten her to treasure it because it had belonged to her when she was a girl of Mary Louise's age. The watch was stem-winding and had a closed case, the back lid of which had seldom been opened because it fitted very tightly. But now Mary Louise pried it open with a hat-pin and carried it to the light. On the inside of the gold case the following words were engraved, Beatrice Hathaway, from her loving father. Mary Louise stared at this inscription for a long while.  The officer was right when he said that James Hathaway was masquerading under the false name of Colonel Weatherby. Grandpa Jim had never even told Mary Louise that his real name was Hathaway. Mama B. had never told her either. With a deep sigh she snapped the case of the watch in place and then began to dress. It was still too early for breakfast when she had finished her toilette, so she sat by the open window of her room, looking down into the street, and tried to solve the mystery of Grandpa Jim. Better thoughts came to her, inspiring her with new courage. Her grandfather had changed his name to enable him the more easily to escape observation, for it was James Hathaway who was accused, not Colonel James Weatherby. It was difficult, however, for the girl to familiarize herself with the idea that Grandpa Jim was really James Hathaway. Still, if her mother's name before her marriage was indeed Beatrice Hathaway, as the watch proved, then there was no question but her grandfather's name was also Hathaway. He had changed it for a purpose, and she must not question the honesty of that purpose, however black the case looked against her beloved Grandpa Jim. The discovery, nevertheless, only added to the mystery of the whole affair, which she realized her inability to cope with. Grouping the facts with which she was familiar into regular order, her information was limited as follows. Once Grandpa Jim was rich and prosperous and was named Hathaway. He had many friends and lived in a handsome city house. Suddenly he left everything and ran away, changing his name to that of Weatherby. He was afraid for some unknown reason of being arrested, and whenever discovery threatened his retreat he would run away again. In this manner he had maintained his liberty for nine years, yet to-day the officers of the law seemed as anxious to find him as at first. To sum up, Grandpa Jim was accused of a crime so important that it could not be condoned, and only his cleverness in evading arrest had saved him from prison. That would look pretty black to a stranger, and it made even Mary Louise feel very uncomfortable and oppressed. But against the accusation the girl placed these fats, better known to her than the others. Grandpa Jim was a good man, kind and honest. Since she had known him his life had been blameless. Mama B., who knew him best of all, never faltered in her devotion to him. He was incapable of doing an evil deed. He abhorred falsehood. He insisted on defending the rights of his fellow men. Therefore, in spite of any evidence against him, Mary Louise believed in his innocence. Having settled disbelief firmly in her mind and heart, the girl felt a distinct sense of relief. She would doubt no more. She would not try in the future to solve a mystery that was beyond her comprehension. Her one duty was to maintain an unfaltering faith. At seven o'clock she went to the breakfast-room, to which but two or three other guests of the hotel had preceded her, and in a few minutes Detective O'Gorman entered and seated himself at a table near her. He bowed very respectfully as he caught her eye, and she returned to salutation, uneasy at the man's presence but feeling no special antagonism toward him. As he had said, he was but doing his duty.  It will be needless for me to embarrass or annoy you any longer.� �Indeed? Yes. Aren�t you glad?� with a smile at her astonished expression. �You see, I�ve been busy investigating while you slept. I visited the local police station and various other places. I am satisfied that Mr. Hathaway, or Mr. Weatherby, as he calls himself, is not in Dorfield and has never located here. Once again the man has baffled the entire force of our department. I am now confident that your coming to this town was not to meet your grandfather, but to seek refuge with other friends, and so I have been causing you all this bother and vexation for nothing.� She looked at him in amazement. �I�m going to ask you to forgive me,� he went on, �and unless I misjudge your nature you�re not going to bear any grudge against me.  When you sold some of your jewelry for a hundred dollars, however, I knew there would be something doing. You were not very happy at your school, I knew, and my first thought was that you merely intended to run away, anywhere to escape the persecution of those heartless girls. But you bought a ticket for Dorfield, a faraway town, so I at once decided, wrongly I admit, that you knew where Hathaway was and intended going to him. So I came with you to find he is not here. He has never been here. Hathaway is to distinguish a personage in appearance to escape the eye of the local police. So I�m about to set you free, my girl, and to return immediately to my headquarters in Washington. She had followed his speech eagerly and with a feeling of keen disappointment at his report that her grandfather and her mother were not in Dorfield. Could it be true? Officer O'Gorman took a card from his pocket-book and laid it beside her plate. �My dear child� said he in a gentle tone, �I fear your life is destined to be one of trials and perplexities, if not of dreary heart aches. I have watched over you and studied your character for longer than you know, and have found much in your makeup that is interesting and admirable. You remind me a good deal of my own Josie, as good and clever a girl has ever lived. So I�m going to ask you to consider me your friend. Keep this card, and if ever you get into serious difficulty I want you to wire me to come and help you. If I should happen, at the time, to have duties to prevent my acting, I will send some other reliable person to your assistance. Will you promise to do this? �Thank you, Mr. O'Gorman� she said. �I, I...� �Your kindness embarrasses me. Don�t allow it to do that.  I�m obliged to do disagreeable things at times in the fulfillment of my duty, but I try to spare even the most hardened criminals as much as possible. So why shouldn�t I be kind to a helpless, unfortunate girl? �Am I that?� she asked. �Perhaps not. But I fear your grandfather�s fate is destined to cause you unhappiness. You seem fond of him. He is the best man in all the world. O'Gorman looked at the tablecloth rather than to meet her eyes. So I will now say good-bye, Miss Burroughs, and I wish you the happiness you deserve. You�re just as good a girl as my Josie is. With this he rose to his feet and bowed again. He was a little man and he had a fat nose, but Mary Louise could not help liking him. She was still afraid of the detective, however, and when he had left the dining-room she asked herself if his story could be true, if Grandpa Jim was not in Dorfield, if he had never even come to the town, as O'Gorman had stated. The canons would know that, of course, and if the detective went away she would be free to go to the canons for information. She would find shelter, at least, with these old friends. As she passed from the dining-room into the hotel lobby, Mr. O'Gorman was paying his bill and bidding the clerk farewell. He had no baggage, except such as he might carry in his pocket, but he entered a bus that stood outside and was driven away with a final doff of his hat to the watching girl. Mary Louise decided in the instant what to do. Mr. Peter Cannot was a lawyer and had an office in one of the big buildings downtown. She remembered that he always made a point of being in his office at eight o'clock in the morning, and it was nearly eight now. She would visit Mr. Cannot in his office, for this could not possibly endanger the safety of Grandpa Jim in case the detective's story proved false, or if an attempt had been made to deceive her. The man had seemed sincere and for the time being he had actually gone away, but she was suspicious of detectives. She ran upstairs for her coat and hat, and at once left the hotel. She knew the way to Peter Cannot's office and walked rapidly toward it. CHAPTER X of Mary Louise by L. Frank Baum Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. CHAPTER X. RATHER QUIR, INDEED. Mary Louise found the door of the office which was located on the third floor of the Chamber's building, locked. However, the sign Peter Cannot, Attorney-at-Law, was painted on the glass panel in big, distinct letters, so she was sure she had made no mistake. She slowly paced the hall, waiting until the elevator stopped and Mr. Cannot stepped out and approached the door. His morning paper in one hand, a key in the other. Running to him, the girl exclaimed, Oh, Mr. Cannot! He stopped short and turned to face her. Then he stepped a pace backwards and said, Great heavens, it's Mary Louise! Didn't you recognize me? She asked. Not at first, he answered slowly. You've grown tall and—and older in two years. Where is Grandpa—Hush! With a startled glance up and down the hall, then he unlocked the door and added, Come in. Mary Louise followed him through the outer office and into a smaller room beyond, the door of which Mr. Cannot carefully closed after them. Then he turned to look steadily at the girl, who thought he did not seem especially delighted at her appearance in Dorfield. Indeed his first words proved this, for he asked sternly, Why are you here? I left the school at Beverly because the girls made it so uncomfortable for me that I could not bear it any longer, she explained. In what way did they make it uncomfortable for you? They jeered at me because—because Grandpa Jim is being hunted by the officers of the law who accuse him of doing something wicked. Mr. Cannot frowned. Perhaps their attitude was only natural, he remarked, but there was no accusation against you, my child. Why didn't you stick it out? The scandal would soon have died away and left you in peace. I was unhappy there, she said simply, and so I thought I would come here to mother and Grandpa Jim. Here? As if surprised. Yes, aren't they here with you? No. Then where are they? I've no idea. She sat still and stared at him while he regarded her with a thoughtful and perplexed look on his face. Mr. Cannot is difficult to describe because he was like dozens of men one meets every day, at least in outward appearance. He was neither tall nor short, lean nor fat, handsome nor ugly, attractive nor repulsive. Yet Peter Cannot must not be considered a non-entity because he was commonplace in person, for he possessed mannerisms that were peculiar. He would open his eyes very wide and stare at one subtly until the person became confused and turned away. The gaze was not especially shrewd, but it was disconcerting because steadfast. When he talked he would chop off his words one by one with a distinct pause between each, and that often made it hard to tell whether he had entered his speech or still had more to say. When very earnest or interested he would play with a locket that dangled from his watch chain, otherwise he usually stood with his hands clasped behind his back. Mary Louise well knew these peculiarities, having previously lived in his house, and also she knew that he was a kind hearted man, devotedly attached to his deaf wife and thoroughly trusted by Grandpa Jim. I was told, said the girl presently, to direct all my letters to my grandfather in your care. I am aware that you have done so, he replied. So I thought, of course, that he and my mother were here with you. No, they did not come to me. Colonel Weatherby arranged for me to forward your letters, which I did as soon as they arrived. Oh, then you know his address. I do not. There are six different points to which I forward letters in rotation, both those from you and from others on various matters of business, and these points are widely scattered. My impression is that Colonel Weatherby is in none of these places, and that the letters are again forwarded to him, to wherever he may be. Mary Louise felt quite discouraged. With hesitation she asked, Do you suppose you could find him for me? It is impossible. What am I to do, Mr. Connaught? I advise you to go back to your school. Can't I stay here with you?"  I haven't the money for the return trip, she went on falteringly. I had to sell some of my jewelry to get here. I won't be much trouble if you will let me live with you until I can find Grandpa Jim. Mr. Connaught still stared. I'm sure, said Mary Louise, that my grandfather will gladly repay you any money it costs you to keep me. You don't understand," he retorted, chopping off his words rather viciously. Moreover, you can't understand. Go to the house and talk to Hannah. Have you any baggage? I have a suitcase at the hotel, she said, and went on to tell him the experiences of her journey and of her encounter with Detective O'Gorman. During this relation which he did not interrupt, Mr. Connaught toyed persistently with his watch charm. His features were non-committal, but he was thoroughly interested. You see, he remarked when she had finished, Colonel Weatherby's elaborate system of evading discovery is quite necessary. But why should he wish to hide, asked the girl. Don't you know? No, sir. Then your grandfather doesn't wish you to know. I am his lawyer. At least I am one of his lawyers, and a lawyer must respect the confidences of his clients. Mary Louise looked at him wonderingly, for here was someone who evidently knew the entire truth. Do you believe my grandfather is a bad man? she asked. No. I have the highest respect for Colonel Weatherby. Do you know his name to be Weatherby, or is it Hathaway? I am his lawyer, reiterated Mr. Connaught. Is it possible that an innocent man would change his name and hide, rather than face an unjust accusation? Yes. Mary Louise sighed. I will go with you to the hotel and pay your bill, said the lawyer. Then you may go to the house and talk to Hannah. When I have talked with her myself, we will determine what to do with you. So they went to the hotel, and the girl packed her suitcase and brought it downstairs. Queer, said Mr. Connaught to her, fingering his locket, your bill has been paid by that man O'Gorman. How impertinent, she exclaimed. There is also a note for you in your box. The clerk handed her an envelope, which she opened. I hope to be able to send you your grandfather's address very soon, wrote O'Gorman. You will probably stay in Dorfield, perhaps with the Connaughts with whom you lived before. You might try sending Colonel Weatherby a letter in Caravoscar Lawlor at Los Angeles, California. In any event, don't forget my card or neglect to wire me in case of emergency. Having read this with considerable surprise the girl handed the note to Mr. Connaught, who slowly read it and gave a bark like that of an angry dog when he came to the name of the California attorney. Without remark he put the detective's letter in his pocket and picking up Mary Louise's suitcase led the girl out to the street corner. This car will take you to within two blocks of my house, he said. Can you manage your grip alone? Easily, she assured him. You have car fare? Yes, thank you. Then good-bye. I'll see you this evening. He turned away and she boarded the street car. End of Chapter 10. Read by Cibella Denton. For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 11. Mary Louise meets Irene. As Mary Louise approached the home of the canots, which was a pretty little house set far back in a garden filled with trees and shrubs, she was surprised to hear a joyous ragtime tune being drummed upon the piano, an instrument she remembered Mrs. Connaught kept in the house exclusively as an ornament, being unable to play it. Then as the girl reached the porch, the melody suddenly stopped. A merry laugh rang out and a fresh, sweet voice was heard through the open window, talking rapidly and with eager inflection. I wonder who that can be? thought Mary Louise. Everyone had to speak loudly to poor Mrs. Connaught, who might be entertaining a visitor. She rang the bell and soon her old friend appeared in the doorway. My dear, dear child! cried the good lady, recognizing the girl instantly and embracing her after a welcoming kiss. Where on earth have you come from? From Beverly, said Mary Louise, with a smile, for in her depressed state of mind this warm greeting cheered her wonderfully. Come right in, said Mrs. Connaught, seizing the suitcase. Have you had breakfast? Yes, indeed, hours ago, and I've seen Mr. Connaught at his office. He wanted me to talk to you. She spoke loudly as she had been accustomed to do, but now Mrs. Connaught wore on her ear an instrument similar in appearance to a small telephone receiver, and she seemed to hear quite distinctly through its mechanism. Indeed, she pointed to it with an air of pride and said, I can hear a whisper, my dear. As Mary Louise was ushered into the cozy sitting-room, she looked for the piano player and the owner of the merry laugh and cheery voice. Near the center of the room was a wheeled chair in which sat a young girl of about her own age, a rather pretty girl in spite of her thin frame and pallid countenance. She was neatly dressed in figure dimity with a bright ribbon at her throat.  Over her lap lay a coverlet, her slender white fingers rested upon the broad arms of her chair. This, said Mrs. Connaught, is my niece, Irene McFarland, who is living with us just now and is the life and joy of our formerly dull household. You'll have to love her, Mary Louise, because no one can help doing so. Mary Louise advanced to the chair and took one of the wan hens at her own. A thrill of pity flooded her heart for the unfortunate girl, who instantly noted her expression and met it with a charmingly spontaneous smile. Don't you dare think of me as a cripple, she said warningly. I am not at all helpless, and my really truly friends quickly forget this ugly wheeled chair. We are to be friends, are we not? And you're going to stay because I see your baggage. Also, I know all about you, Mary Louise Burroughs, for Aunt Hannah never tires of singing your praises. This was said so naturally and with such an air of affection that Mary Louise could not fail to respond to the words and smile. I'm glad to find you here, Irene, she said, and I don't know yet whether I'm to stay or not. That will depend on Mrs. Connaught's decision. Then you're to stay, promptly decided, the hospitable lady, who by turning her mechanical ear toward the speaker seemed to be able to hear her words clearly. But you don't know all the complications yet, confessed the girl. I've run away from school, and—and there are other things you must know before you decide. Mr.  Very good, returned Mrs. Connaught, I think I can guess at most of the story, but you shall tell it in your own way. Presently Irene is going out to inspect the roses, she does that every morning, so when she is out of the way we'll have a nice talk together.  Mary Louise won't be happy till everything is properly settled, nor will I, for I'm anxious to get acquainted with my new friend.  She could propel the chair by means of rims attached to the wheels, and even as she spoke began to roll herself out of the room. Mary Louise sprang to assist her, but the girl waved her away with a little laugh. I'm an expert traveller, she said, and everyone lets me go and come as I please. Indeed, I'm very independent, Mary Louise, as you will presently discover. Away she went, through the hall, out the front door and along the broad porch, and when she had gone Mary Louise whispered softly into Mrs. Connaught's mechanical eardrum, what is wrong with her? A good many things, was the reply, although the brave child makes light of them all. One leg is badly withered and the foot of the other is twisted out of shape. She can stand on that foot to dress herself, which she insists on doing unaided, but she cannot walk a step. Irene has suffered a great deal, I think, and she's a frail little body, but she has the sweetest temperament in the world, and seems happy and content for more until night. It's wonderful, exclaimed Mary Louise, what caused her affliction. It is the result of an illness she had when a baby. Irene is sixteen and has never known what it is to be well and strong, yet she never resents her fate, but it says she is grateful for the blessings she enjoys. Her father died long ago, and her mother about a year since.  That is very kind of you, asserted Mary Louise with conviction. No, I fear it is pure selfishness, returns a good woman, for until she came to us the old home had been dreadfully dull, the result, my dear, of your going away. And now tell me your story, and all about yourself, for I am anxious to hear what brought you to Dorfield. Mary Louise drew a chair close to that of Aunt Hannah Connaught, and confided to her all the worries and tribulations that had induced her to quit Ms. Stern's school and seek shelter with her old friends the Connaughts. Also she related the episode of Detective Gorman, and how she had first learned through him that her grandfather and mother were not living in Dorfield. I am dreadfully worried over Grandpa Jim, said she, for those terrible agents of the Secret Service seem bent on catching him, and he doesn't wish to be caught. If they arrest him, do you think they would put him in jail, Aunt Hannah? I fear so, was the reply. What did they imagine he has done that is wrong? I do not know, said Mrs. Connaught. Peter never tells me anything about the private affairs of his clients, and I never ask him. But of one thing I am sure, my dear, and that is that Peter Connaught would not act as Colonel Weatherby's lawyer and try to shield him unless he believed him innocent of any crime. Peter is a little odd in some ways, but he's honest to the backbone. I know it, declared Mary Louise. Also I know that Grandpa Jim is a good man. Cannot the law make a mistake, Aunt Hannah? It surely can, or there would be no use for lawyers. But do not worry over your grandfather, my child, for he seems quite able to take care of himself. It is nine or ten years since he became a fugitive. Also making a fugitive of your poor mother, who would not desert him, and to this day the officers of the law have been unable to apprehend him. Be patient, dear girl, and accept the situation as you find it.  We have excellent schools in Dorfield, where you will not be taunted with your grandfather's misfortunes, because no one here knows anything about them. Doesn't Irene know? asked Mary Louise. She only knows that your people are great travelers, and frequently leave you behind them as they flit from place to place. She knows that you lived with us for three years and that we love you. The girl became thoughtful for a time. I can't understand, she finally said, why Grandpa Jim acts the way he does. Often he has told me, when I deserved censure, to face the music and have it over with.  Grandpa knows he is innocent, but the government thinks he is guilty, so why doesn't he face the music and prove his innocence, instead of running away as a coward might do, and so allow his good name to suffer reproach? Mrs. Connaught shook her head as if perplexed. That very question has often puzzled me, as it has you, she confessed. Once I asked Peter about it, and he scowled, and said it might be just as well to allow Colonel Weatherby to mind his own business. The Colonel seems to have a good deal of money, and perhaps he fears that if he surrendered to the law it would be taken away from him, leaving you and your mother destitute. We wouldn't mind that, said the girl, if Grandpa's name could be cleared. After all, continued Mrs. Connaught, reflectively, I don't believe the Colonel is accused of stealing money, for Peter says his family is one of the oldest and richest in New York. Your grandfather inherited a vast fortune and added largely to it. Peter says he was an important man of affairs before this misfortune, whatever it was, overtook him. I can just remember our home in New York, said Mary Louise, so musingly, for I was very young at the time. It was a beautiful big place, with a good many servants. I wonder what drove us from it. Do you remember your father, asked Mrs. Connaught? Not at all. Peter once told me he was a foreigner who fell desperately in love with your mother and married her without your grandfather's full approval. I believe Mr. Burroughs was a man of much political influence, for he served in the Department of State and had a good many admirers. Peter never knew why your grandfather opposed the marriage, for afterward he took Mr. and Mrs. Burroughs to live with him, and they were all good friends up to the day of your father's death. But this is ancient history, and speculation on subjects we do not understand is sure to prove unsatisfactory. I wouldn't worry over your grandfather's troubles, my dear. Try to forget them. "'Grandfather's real name isn't Weatherby,' said the girl. It is Hathaway.' Mrs. Connaught gave a start of surprise. "'How did you learn that?' she asked sharply. The girl took out her watch, pried open the back ease with a pen-knife, and allowed Mrs. Connaught to read the inscription. Also, she curiously watched the woman's face, and noted its quick flush in its uneasy expression. Did the lawyer's wife know more than she had admitted? If so, why was everyone trying to keep her in the dark? I cannot see that this helps to solve the mystery,' said Mrs. Connaught, in a brisk tone, as she recovered from her surprise. "'Let us put the whole thing out of mind, Mary Louise, or it will keep us all stirred up and in a muddle of doubt. I shall tell Peter you are to live with us, and your old little room at the back of the hall is all ready for you. Irene has the next room, so you will be quite neighborly. Go and put away your things, and then we'll whistle for Irene.' Mary Louise went to the well-remembered room and slowly and thoughtfully unpacked her suitcase. She was glad to find a home again among congenial people, but she was growing more and more perplexed over the astonishing case of Grandpa Jim. It worried her to find that an occasional doubt would cross her mind, in spite of her intense loyalty to her dearly loved grandparent. She would promptly drive out the doubt, but it would insist on intruding again. "'Something is wrong somewhere,' she sighed. "'There must be some snarl that even Grandpa Jim can't untangle. And if he can't, I'm sure no one else can. I wish I could find him and that he would tell me all about it. I suppose he thinks I'm too young to confide in, but I'm almost sixteen now, and surely that's old enough to understand things. There were girls at school twenty years old that I'm sure couldn't reason as well as I can.' After a while she went downstairs and joined Irene in the garden, where the chair girl was trimming rose bushes with a pair of stout scissors. She greeted Mary Louise with her bright smile, saying, "'I suppose everything is fixed up now, and we can begin to get acquainted.' "'Why, we are acquainted,' declared Mary Louise, until today I had never heard of you, and yet it seems as if I'd known you always.' "'Thank you,' left Irene. "'That is a very pretty compliment, I well realize. You've decided to stay then?' "'Aunt Hannah has decided so, but Mr. Cannot may object.' "'He won't do that,' was the quick reply. Uncle Peter may be an autocrat in his office, but I've noticed that Aunt Hannah is the ruler of this household. Mr. Cannot may have noticed that also, for he seemed not at all surprised when his wife said she had decided to keep Mary Louise with them. But after the girls had gone to bed that night the lawyer had a long talk with his better half, and thereafter Mary Louise's presence was accepted as a matter of course. But Mr. Cannot said to her the next morning, "'I have notified your grandfather at his six different addresses of your coming to us, so I ought to receive his instructions within the next few days. Also today I will write, Miss Stern, that you are here, and why you came away from the school. Will you ask her to send my trunk? Not now. We will first await advices from Colonel Weatherby.' These advices were received three days later in the form of a brief telegram from a Los Angeles attorney. The message read, Colonel Weatherby requests you to keep M. L. in Dorfield until further instructions. Money forwarded. Hot. Caution. It was signed O. L., and when Mr. Cannot showed Mary Louise the message she exclaimed, then Mr. O. Gorman was right. In what way questioned the lawyer? In the note he left me at the hotel, he said I might find my grandfather by writing to Oscar Lawyer at Los Angeles, California. This telegram is from Los Angeles, and he has signed O. L., which must mean Oscar Lawyer. How clever! said Mr. Cannot sarcastically. That proves, of course, that Grandpa Jim and Mother Erin California, but how did the detective know that? She asked, wonderingly. He didn't know it, asked Peter Cannot. On the contrary, this message proves to me that they are not there at all. But the telegram says, otherwise, continued the lawyer, the telegram would not have come from that far away point on the Pacific coast. There now remain five other places where Colonel Weatherby might be located. The chances are, however, that he is not in any of them. Mary Louise was puzzled, and was altogether too bewildering for her comprehension. Here are two strange words, said she, eyeing the telegram she still held. What does hot mean, Mr. Cannot? It means, he replied, that the government spies are again seeking Colonel Weatherby. The word caution means that we must all take care not to let any information escape us that might lead to his arrest. Don't talk to strangers, Mary Louise. Don't talk to anyone outside our family of your grandfather's affairs, or even of your own affairs. The safety of Colonel Weatherby depends, to a great extent, on our all being silent and discreet. End of Chapter 11. Read by Cibella Denton. For more free audio books or to vo-