CHAPTER IX
THE NEXT MOVE
WE literally did not sleep one wink that night. Connie said she didn't care, because she could take naps during the day, but it was harder on me, as I had to go to school no matter what happened, and I’d had so much excitement already that I felt almost like a nervous wreck. However, we were too absorbed in the new developments to think about it or care much.
“I tell you, something has got to be done about this!” declared Connie, toward morning. “I’m helpless, with this ankle, so we’ll have to depend almost entirely on you.”
“But what can I do?” I demanded in despair. “And what is there to do, anyway? Until Uncle gets better—if he only does—I don’t see that we can do a thing!”
“If we were to wait for that,” decided Connie, “it might be too late to do anything; and think of those two poor little boys!”
“Did I tell you the date on this letter?” I suddenly interrupted. “It is fully ten years ago that it was written!”
Connie fell back on the pillow, in sheer amazement.
“Ten years ago?” she murmured, trying to convince herself she’d heard it right. “Why—why, Elspeth, if that’s so, they’re—they’re grown men by this time! And where can they be now?”
“Don’t ask me!” I sighed. “But here’s the biggest poser of all—and I never thought of it till this minute. How—how did that letter ever come to be in the chest—of all places? It was sent to Uncle—ten years ago—and at that time the chest must have been missing. Uncle said, himself, the thing had been missing for a number of years. And when it was found it must have been in some entirely different place,—certainly that little place under the window is never a secret passage, -and and—”
But I was too breathless to go on. And Connie finished for me by supplementing:
“And Mr. Cookson knew where it was; and Uncle never knew anything about it—the letter, I mean—till the other day!”
Then, in the pale gray light of dawn, Connie sat up in bed and gripped my fingers.
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“We’ve struck it at last!” she whispered
“We’ve struck it at last!” she whispered. “Old Cookson knew about that letter—and the chest—and Uncle never did! It's as plain as daylight—that part of it—to me now. How it came to be so, I can’t imagine, but there are certainly the facts.”
“And when Uncle found it out at last, on Sunday, the shock was too much for him and brought on this attack. And maybe he will never recover—and—and—what then?” I added. Suddenly an idea came to me and I faced Connie with this question: “Do you suppose that if Uncle were to know about those two boys, his own nephews, and could hear that they were all right, and could perhaps see them sometime, that it would help his recovery?”
“I’m certain it would,” declared Connie. “But how in the world are we going to find out such a thing, after all these years? India’s a big place, and it’s awfully far away, and they may not even be there any more. They may be dead, for all we know.”
“We could write—to some one out there, couldn’t we?” I ventured. “Aren’t there generally officials of some kind in all those foreign places who can give you information about things like that? I’ve always rather thought that was what consuls and people like that were for. Why couldn’t we write to the consul at Arcot, perhaps?”
“Do you realize that it would take about two months to get a reply—by mail?” demanded Connie. “And by that time it might be much too late to help Uncle. Your idea of asking a consul or some one like that is good, but we’ve got to do it in some quicker way. How about a cablegram?”
“That would cost an awful lot of money,” I said, “especially if we have to send money for a reply, which would be the only correct way to do. I expect it would cost as much as forty or fifty dollars—perhaps more. And we can’t get it—unless we use our savings-bank money. I’ve forty dollars and you have nearly as much.”
“Well, I’m glad enough to,” cried Connie, generously. “And I’m sure Mother and Daddy would approve, if we could only tell them. It’s fortunate we haven’t put it in the bank yet, for we’d have an awful lot of trouble getting it out. Daddy was going to take it to Philadelphia next week. Now, you’ll have to make an excuse to go to Philadelphia the minute you can get away, to-morrow afternoon—or rather, this afternoon (for it’s morning now!)—and make some inquiries and send off that cablegram. Then we’ll feel that at least we’ve done everything we can to help matters along. I’ll never have a minute’s peace till we have.”
I was overwhelmed at the responsibility and hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about it, but we decided that I could tell Mother I was going into the city, after school, to take Uncle some flowers at the hospital, and could do the other errand on the way. Connie advised me to ask at the cable office just how it would be best to find out about any one in such a distant place, and how much it would cost, and whom to refer to for the information. She thought we had better ask if they knew what had happened to a Mr. Campbell Mason who was ill there about ten years ago, and also if his two sons were still in that city. As he had said he was keeping that name to avoid confusion, it would be of little use to inquire for him under his other. On the reply we got, if we did get any, would depend the next step we should take.
By that time it was nearly seven o’clock, and I decided to get up immediately, as it was impossible to get any sleep. Miss Carstair telephoned the hospital shortly after and learned that Uncle was still about the same. There had been no change and would be none, the doctor said, till something brought about the second phase that would either cure him or have the opposite effect. They said it would be all right for him to see visitors, provided it was not any one who would excite or disturb him. So Miss Carstair thought I could safely go there and take him some flowers, as I told her I’d like to do. That much settled, I ate a hasty breakfast and ran over home to tell Mother my plan for the day—at least about going to the hospital.
Mother approved of my plan to take the flowers to Uncle and so, before getting ready for school, I prepared to go to the city. I took the money that Connie and I had received at Christmas to put in the bank-accounts we’ve both had since we were babies. I somehow felt guilty in doing this, even though I was perfectly sure Daddy and Mother would approve if they knew what we were using it for—if I could only tell them. And so prepared, I set out for the day.
It was late that afternoon when I returned and, after reporting at home for a few moments, I ran away at once to Tranquillity. I found Connie in a perfect fever of expectation to see me and hear my news, but Miss Carstair was so pervasive (I can’t think of any other word to express her constantly remaining in our vicinity!) that I could not do more than nod an “All right!” to Connie till after dinner. Then Connie declared that as she was sleepy and hadn’t slept very well the night before (which was entirely true!) she thought she’d better prepare for bed early. At last we were both left alone for the night and had a chance to unburden our minds to each other.
First I told Connie about my visit to the hospital. It had not been so very satisfactory. I saw Uncle for just a moment, and of course he could not say a word. He looked very unnatural lying there in that long white hospital bed. I gave him the flowers and all our love, and knelt and kissed him on the forehead. I thought his wonderful blue eyes, which are still just the same, followed me with something like a question constantly in them. But it may have been only my imagination. I was rather glad to leave quickly, it all made me feel so bad.
Then came the matter of the cablegram. I was dreadfully puzzled how to go about that, but it too was made easy for me by a very kind clerk in the office to whom I explained as much as I could of my difficulty. She looked up all she could find about the proper procedure and helped me to word a short yet comprehensive message to the proper authorities in Arcot, India, and arranged to have a reply sent to me at home, C. O. D., or what ever they call it. She told me it might be a couple of days before I heard anything, if I even did then, as it might take some time to hunt up the information. She was to hold the message at the office and telephone me that it is there, after it came, so that no one would get it but me. “I’m sure I don’t know what Mother will think if she gets word when I am away, that a message from India is there for me. But I can’t worry about that now. I'm just doing the best I can!” I ended.
“You’ve certainly done splendidly, Elspeth!” Connie declared. “And now I’ll tell you about my afternoon, which hasn’t been wasted, even if I did have to spend it sitting in a chair in this room, with my game foot bolstered upon a pillow and footstool. Mother came over for a little while and brought Ralph, while Miss Carstair took her walk. But after she went, I had a lot of time to myself which I pretended to spend absorbed in a book. But really I was thinking this whole thing out and piecing together a lot of things we haven’t had time to consider in the puzzle.
“It’s a pity we both missed speaking to Tomkins. I thought you might see him at the hospital, but, as luck would have it, he took that very opportunity to come out here and get some things for Uncle. Just when he was in and around the house, Mother was visiting me, so of course I didn’t have the ghost of an opportunity to speak to him about the chest. I know he went to that closet where Uncle had it, for I heard him fussing with the lock, and finally opening it with his pass-key. What he must have thought of not seeing it there, I can’t imagine. He put his head in at this door a moment, to ask how I was, but that was all. Then he went away. It was very provoking to have it happen so.
“But now I want to tell you a few things I’ve thought out that we haven’t given any attention to at all as yet. To begin with, there’s that matter of the secret passage. We know there’s one in the house,—somewhere,—and old Cookson knows it too, and has known it a long time, I imagine. I remember Daddy saying once that many of the old colonial houses in these parts have secret passages connected with them that lead to the outside somewhere. They were made and used in the time of the Revolution, to help escapes from the enemy and things like that. But none of us ever knew there was one in Tranquillity. But—do you know one thing? I’ve made a pretty correct guess as to where one end of that secret passage is located! Can you imagine?”
I stared at her in bewilderment.
“Of course not! I haven’t had a chance to do any exploring lately; and you know it. Where do you think it can be? and why?”
“You goose! You’re the one who really discovered it!” she retorted, chuckling. “It’s somewhere in or near the old cemetery plot where you saw old Cookson appearing so strangely yesterday. How else can you possibly account for no footprints leading up to the place? He has found it—and evidently been using it frequently!”
It certainly takes Connie to reason a thing like that out! She’d make a splendid detective. I wouldn’t have thought of it in a million years. That was the explanation, beyond a shadow of doubt. But where could the other end be? That was something still more mysterious, and I said so.
“Somewhere in the house, naturally—perhaps in the cellar. But we’ll find that out yet; never you fear!” declared Connie. “That’s going to be your job!”
“Mine?” I cried, aghast at the program she had mapped out for me.
“Certainly! I can’t tend to it in the state I’m in, and it must be found! There’s no telling what old Cookson may be up to, and he’s evidently using that secret passage for some reason that means no good to Uncle. Therefore we’ve got to discover it and track him down.”
“Have you heard or seen anything of him to-day?” I asked.
“Not a sign or a sound,” said Connie. “Miss Carstair told me he said at breakfast that he would be away in the city over-night and went off immediately after. He told her he was terribly busy, as he had the whole of the business on his hands now that Uncle was unable to attend to it at all. However, I’m not wasting any sympathy on him. I’m only curious to know what his game is, in all this nice muddle he’s brought on Uncle!”
“How do you know he’s brought anything on Uncle?” I asked curiously. “You seem very sure of things.”
“I am sure of them!” she insisted. “I have a brain, and I’m not afraid to use it. I can see one thing plainly—and it’s another question I settled by myself this afternoon. Uncle never saw that letter before till the other day. But Mr. Cookson did; and he’s the one that hid it away all these years. Don’t ask me why! That’s something I haven’t settled yet. When we find that out, we’ll have the key to the whole thing.
“But now there are two things that you’ve got to do, Elspeth. You’ve got to trail old Cookson till you find out about that secret passage—somehow. And you’ve got to bring over the rest of those papers and things and that jewel-case to-morrow, and we’ll examine them. I’ve been thinking it out that maybe there’s another clue we’re missing by not searching through the rest of them. Now don’t begin to have any shudders about our doing anything dishonorable in this. We’ve done positively the worst we could do, in reading that letter. And you agreed to that. Anything else can’t begin to be as dreadful! You bring them all over to-morrow!"