Colonel Hathaway instantly rose.
I beg your pardon, said he. "I am Colonel James Hathaway, an American, and this is my granddaughter, Mary Louise Burrows. Our carriage met with an accident on the main road below and we wandered in here while waiting for repairs and chanced to meet your daughter. You are Mr. Jones, I believe?"
He nodded, still standing in his place and regarding his visitors with unconcealed suspicion. Under his arm he held several books.
Who informed you that I was living here? he demanded.
I was wholly unaware of the fact, said the Colonel, stiffly. "I did not know you were in Italy. I did not know such an important person existed, strange to say, although I can remember that an artist named Jason Jones once married Antoinette Seaver, the daughter of my old friend Captain Robert Seaver."
Oh, you remember that, do you?
This is the first time I have had the distinguished honor of meeting you, sir, and I trust it will be the last time.
That's all right, said Jason Jones, more cordially. "I can't see that it's any of my affair, either way."
We have been making the acquaintance of Tony Seaver's daughter, Miss Alora Jones, in your absence. But we will not intrude farther, Mr. Jones. Come, Mary Louise.
Oh, don't go! pleaded Alora, catching Mary Louise's arm. And just then Leona entered with the tea and biscuits.
Sit down, man, said Jason Jones in a less aggressive tone. "I've no objection to your coming here, under the circumstances, and you are our first visitors in three years. That's often enough, but now that you are here, make yourself at home. What's happening over in America? Have you been there lately?"
He laid his books on a table and sat down. But after that one speech, which he perhaps considered conciliatory, he remained glum and allowed the others to do the talking.
Colonel Hathaway had stayed because he noted the leading look in Mary Louise's eyes. He was himself interested in Alora and indignant over her evident neglect. For her sake he would bear the insolence of his host, an insolence he recognized as characteristic of the man.
Alora, in her father's presence, lost her fluent speech and no longer dared mention personal matters to her guests. Both Mary Louise and her grandfather tried to lead Alora and Jason Jones to speak of themselves—of their life and future plans—but the man evaded direct answers and the girl had suddenly become silent and reserved.
F
inally, however, Mary Louise had an idea.
We are bound for Sorrento, said she, "where we intend to stay a week at the Hotel Vittoria. Will you let Alora come to us for ever Sunday, as our guest? We will drive here and get her the day after to- morrow—that's Saturday, you know—and fetch her home on Monday."
No, said Jason Jones.
Oh, why not, father? pleaded the girl.
You've no fit clothes. I don't want you hanging around Sorrento, he replied.
It will be a nice change for your daughter and it will give us much pleasure to entertain her, said Mary Louise.
It's a capital idea, declared the Colonel positively, and looking the other man straight in the eye he added: "I am sure you will withdraw your objections, Mr. Jones."
The man dropped his eyes, frowning. But presently he said to Alora:
Go, if you want to. But keep out of the town. Don't leave the hotel grounds.
Why not? asked his daughter in a defiant tone.
It's not safe. I know Sorrento, and these rascally Italians would be glad to steal you, if they had the chance, and then blackmail me a ransom.
Mary Louise laughed.
What a fine adventure that would be! she exclaimed. "But we will promise to guard Alora and keep her from the clutches of bandits. I didn't know there were any left in Italy."
To get rid of them you'd have to depopulate the country, said Jason Jones. "It is no laughing matter, young woman, and—my daughter is somewhat valuable."
The driver returned with the wheel. It fitted the axle but was some two or three inches larger in diameter than the other rear wheel and, moreover, it was flat on one side, so that when they started to conclude their journey the motion of the carriage was something startling—a "rock-a-bye baby ride" Mary Louise called it.
But the wheels turned and the carriage progressed and when they were well on their way the girl said:
What do you think of that man, Gran'pa Jim?
Do you mean Alora's father, Jason Jones?
Yes, of course.
I am surprised at two things, said the old Colonel. "First, it is curious that Tony Seaver, a rarely cultured woman, should have married such a man, and again it is amazing that she should have confided her daughter and her fortune to his care."
Do you know, observed Mary Louise, sliding closer to him and dropping her voice, although there was absolutely no chance of being overheard, "I scent a mystery in that family, Gran'pa Jim!"
That seems to be one of your regular diversions—to scent mysteries, he replied. "And usually, my dear, the suspicion is unwarranted. The most commonplace people frequently impress you with the idea that they are other than what they seem, are leading double lives, or are endeavoring to conceal some irregularity of conduct. You've a faculty of reading the natures and characteristics of strangers by studying their eyes, their facial expressions and their oddities of demeanor, which is interesting psychologically but too often——"
You are unjust, Gran'pa! declared Mary Louise indignantly. "Didn't you yourself say there are two curious and surprising things about this man Jones?"
Not exactly. I said it was curious and astonishing that Antoinette Seaver should have trusted so fully a man who impresses me as a churl. His own child, little Alora, appears to dislike and even to despise him, and——
There! cried Mary Louise. "I'm vindicated. Your observations fully justify my remark that there's a mystery in that family. Did you notice the books he brought home and laid upon the table?"
No, said Colonel Hathaway, rather bewildered.
They were novels by Marie Correlli, H. G. Wells and O. Henry. A student? Then a student of modern novels, a man who reads and reads to keep his mind from dwelling on past history. He is a disappointed artist, to begin with.
That is certainly odd, rejoined the old gentleman, reflectively. "The one picture I ever saw by Jason Jones was certainly good. I remember that once when I was lunching with Bob Seaver—that was Antoinette's father, you know—he told me his daughter was interested in a young artist of exceptional talent, and he took me to a gallery to show me what this man could do. I am not an art critic, as you are aware, my dear, but this landscape of Jason Jones appealed to me as delightful. Captain Bob knew art, and so did Antoinette, so it is evident that Jones could paint, but for some reason became dissatisfied with his work and abandoned it. Perhaps his ambition was too lofty for human skill to realize, yet nothing less would content him."
Mary Louise sat silent for a while. Then she asked:
Did Jason Jones impress you as a man capable of a great ambition? Would you guess him an artist who had once accomplished admirable things?
Artists are always peculiar, stated her grandfather. "They must be temperamental in order to be artists, and temperaments differ widely. Had I not known something of Jason Jones' history I might have felt, on making his acquaintance to-day, that he is not an ordinary man. For, gruff and churlish though he proved, it is undeniable that he has selected a charming and retired spot in which to live——"
Or to hide, she interrupted.
Or that, with considerable wealth at his command, he lives simply and unostentatiously, enjoying nature's choice gifts and content with the simple life he leads, with only the society of his young daughter.
Whom he neglects and refuses to educate properly, declared the girl. "What makes you think he is wealthy?"
I know that Antoinette made millions, after her father died, from the mines. By current report she retired and invested her money wisely, in sound securities, which accords with her excellent business reputation. Her daughter not being of age—let me see: she must have been but eleven when her mother passed away—there would be a guardian appointed for the heiress, and Alora told us that it was her mother's wish that her father act as her guardian. So the conclusion is evident that Mr. Jones has a large income at his command.
All the more reason he should be generous, but he isn't spending much of it, said Mary Louise.
No; he is probably living simply in order that his daughter's fortune may increase during the years of her minority. That is a point in his favor, you must admit.
Nevertheless, asserted the young girl, "I think there is something wrong in the Jones family. It isn't due to Alora; she's a dear little thing, wild and untamed but very lovable, I'm sure; so the fault must lie with her boorish father. Allowing that once he was a big man, something has mysteriously soured him and rendered his life hateful not only to himself but to all around him."
Look, Mary Louise; we're getting into Sorrento, said the Colonel. "Here the road leaves the sea and crosses the plateau to the town. You'll like Sorrento, I'm sure, for it is one of the quaintest places in old Italy—and the hotel is really comfortable."
On Saturday forenoon the Colonel engaged a carriage—a substantial one, this time—and with Mary Louise drove to Jason Jones' villa, so that Alora might return with them in time for lunch. They did not see the artist, who was somewhere about the grounds but kept out of view; but Alora was ready and waiting, her cheeks flushed and her eyes alight, and she slipped her foreign little straw satchel in the carriage and then quickly followed it, as if eager to be off.
Father is rather disagreeable this morning, she asserted in a sharp voice, when they were on the highway to Sorrento. "He repented his decision to let me go with you and almost forbade me. But I rebelled, and——" she paused; "I have found that when I assert myself I can usually win my way, for father is a coward at heart."
It pained Mary Louise to hear so unfilial a speech from the lips of a young girl. Colonel Hathaway's face showed that he, too, considered it unmannerly to criticise a parent in the presence of strangers. But both reflected that Alora's life and environments were unenviable and that she had lacked, in these later years at least, the careful training due one in her station in society. So they deftly changed the subject and led the girl to speak of Italy and its delightful scenery and romantic history. Alora knew little of the country outside of the Sorrento peninsula, but her appreciation of nature was artistic and innately true and she talked well and interestingly of the surrounding country and the quaint and amusing customs of its inhabitants.
How long do you expect to remain here? asked Mary Louise.
I've no idea, was the reply. "Father seems entirely satisfied with our quarters, for he has no ambition in life beyond eating three simple meals a day, sleeping from nine at night until nine in the morning and reading all the romances he is able to procure. He corresponds with no one save his banker in America and sees no one but the servants and me. But to me the monotony of our existence is fast becoming unbearable and I often wonder if I can stand it for three years longer—until I'm eighteen. Then I shall be my own mistress and entitled to handle my own money, and you may rest assured I shall make up for lost time."
They let that remark pass, also, but later in the afternoon, when luncheon was over and the two girls were wandering in the lovely gardens of the Hotel Vittoria, while the Colonel indulged in an afternoon siesta, Mary Louise led Alora to speak freely of her past life.
My grandfather says that your mother must have left you a good deal of money, she remarked.
Yes; mamma told me it was a large fortune and that I must guard it wisely and use it generously to help others less favored, replied Alora thoughtfully.
And she left it all in your father's keeping?
Not the principal. That is all invested, and thank goodness my father cannot touch it in any way. But the income is paid to him regularly, and he may do as he pleases with it. I am sure mamma expected I would have every reasonable wish gratified, and be taught every womanly accomplishment; but I'm treated as a mere dependent. I'm almost destitute of proper clothing—really, Mary Louise, this is the best dress I possess!—and I've been obliged to educate myself, making a rather poor job of it, I fear. I read the best of father's books, when he is done with them, and note carefully the manner in which the characters express themselves and how they conduct themselves in society as well as in worldly contact. I do not wish to be wholly gauché when I come into my kingdom, you see, and the books are my only salvation. I don't care much for the stories, but some of the good writers are safe guides to follow in the matter of dialogue and deportment. Fortunately, father's books are all in English. He doesn't understand much Italian, although I have learned to speak the language like a native—like our native servants, you know.
Mary Louise reflected on this confession. "I'm afraid, Alora dear, that modern novels are not prone to teach morality, or to develop a girl's finer intuitions," she said gravely. "I think you express yourself very well—better than I do, indeed—but you need association with those who can convey to you the right principles of thought and thus encourage your mental development. Culture and refinement seem to come more from association than from books, although there is an innate tendency in all well-born people to acquire them spontaneously. But there! you'll accuse me of preaching and, after all, I think you've done just splendidly under rather trying circumstances."
You don't know how trying they are, declared Alora, with a sigh. "Father and I are wholly uncongenial and we fight on the slightest provocation. This morning our trouble was over money. I wanted a little to take with me, for my purse hasn't a lira in it; but, no! not a centisimo would he give up. He insisted that if I was to be your guest you would pay all my expenses."
Of course, said Mary Louise. "But what does he do with all that big income? Is he saving it for you?"
No, indeed! he's saving it for himself. Mamma told me, the last time I saw her before she died, that if father was good to me, and kind and loving, I could provide for him in some way after I came into my money. She said she would leave the manner of it to my judgment. But he isn't kind, or loving, or good, and knows very well that when I'm of age he'll never see another cent of my money. So now he'd hoarding my income for future use.
Isn't it strange that your mother should have trusted him so fully? asked Mary Louise.
Yes, it does seem strange. I remember her saying that he loved luxury and all the comfort that money will buy, and so she wanted him to have this income to spend, because he was my father and because she felt she had ruined his career as an artist by surrounding him with luxuries during their early married life, and afterward had embittered him by depriving him of them. But the man doesn't know what luxury means, Mary Louise. His tastes are those of a peasant.
Yet once your mother loved him, and believed in him.
I—I think she believed in him; I'm quite sure she did.
Then his nature must have changed. I can imagine, Alora, that when your mother first knew him he was hard-working and ambitious. He was talented, too, and that promised future fame. But when he married a wealthy woman he lost his ambition, success being no longer necessary. After a period of ease and comfort in the society of his lovely wife—for Gran'pa says your mother was very lovely—he lost both the wife and the luxuries he enjoyed. A big man, Alora, would have developed a new ambition, but it seems your father was not big. His return to poverty after your mother's desertion made him bitter and reckless; perhaps it dulled his brain, and that is why he is no longer able to do good work. He was utterly crushed, I imagine, and hadn't the stamina to recover his former poise. He must have been ten years or so in this condition, despairing and disinterested, when the wheel of fortune turned and he was again in the possession of wealth. He had now the means to live as he pleased. But those years had so changed him that he couldn't respond to the new conditions. Doubtless he was glad, in a way, but he was now content merely to exist. Doesn't that seem logical, Alora?
Indeed, Mary Louise was delighted with her solution of the problem. It was in keeping with her talent for deducing the truth from meagre facts by logically putting them together and considering them as a whole. It was seldom she erred in these deductions. But Alora seemed unimpressed and noting her glum look Mary Louise said again: "Doesn't all this seem logical, dear?"
No, said Alora. "Father isn't the man to be crushed by anything. He's shrewd enough, in his bourgeois way. Once, long ago—back in New York—a woman made him give her money; it was money, you know; and I have often thought he ran away from America to escape her further demands."
Who was the woman?
My mother's nurse.
Oh. Was it her wages she demanded?
Perhaps so. I may have misjudged father in that case. But it seemed to me—I was a mere child then—that it must have been a larger sum than wages would have amounted to. Yet, perhaps not. Anyhow, he left America right afterward, and when we had wandered a year or so in various countries we settled down here.
Won't he have to account for all the money he has spent and given away, when you come of age? inquired Mary Louise.
No. Mother distinctly told me I was to ask for no accounting whatever. Her will says he is to handle the income as he sees fit, just as if it were his own, so long as he provides properly for his daughter and treats her with fatherly consideration. That's the only reason he keeps me with him, guarding my person but neglecting the other injunctions. If he set me adrift, as I'm sure he'd like to do, I could appeal to the court and his income would cease and another guardian be appointed. I believe there is something of that sort in the will, and that is why he is so afraid of losing me. But he gives me no chance to appeal to anyone, although I sometimes think I shall run away and leave him in the lurch. If I could get to Chicago and tell Judge Bernsted, my mother's lawyer, how I am treated, I believe he could make the court set aside my father's guardianship. But I can't get ten miles away from here, for lack of money.
How your dear mother would grieve, if she knew her plans for your happiness have failed! exclaimed Mary Louise.
Alora frowned, and somehow that frown reminded Mary Louise of the girl's father.
My mother ought to have known my father better, she declared sullenly. "I must not criticize her judgment, for her memory is my most precious possession and I know she loved me devotedly. But there is one thing in her history I can never understand."
And that? questioned Mary Louise curiously, as Alora paused.
My mother was an educated woman, well-bred and refined.
Yes; Gran'pa Jim told me that.
Then how could she have married my father, who is not a gentleman and never could have impressed a lady with the notion he was one?
Mary Louise hesitated, for to admit this would send her deductions, so carefully constructed, tumbling in ruins. But Alora ought to know the man.
If that is true, dear, said she, "it is the strangest part of your story; and, of course, we can only guess the reason, for the only one who could have explained it properly was your mother."
When Alora had retired to her bedroom that night Mary Louise told to her grandfather, who was her trusted confidant, all that the unhappy girl had related.
Of course, she added, "Alora's explanations dispel my half formed suspicion that there is some mystery about Jason Jones. I now see that you were right, Gran'pa Jim, to laugh at me when I suggested such a thing, for in truth the man is easily understood once you become acquainted with his history. However, I now dislike him more than ever."
In justice to Jason Jones, remarked the old Colonel, "we must acquit him of being a hypocrite. He doesn't attempt to mask his nature and a stranger is bound to see him at his worst. Doubtless Antoinette Seaver understood the man better than we are able to and sixteen years ago, or so, when he had youth, talent and ambition, his disagreeable characteristics were probably not so marked. As for Alora, she is strongly prejudiced against her father and we must make due allowance for her bitterness. The feeling probably arose through her sudden transfer from the care of a generous and loving mother to that of an ungracious father—a parent she had never before known. A child of eleven is likely to form strong affections and passionate dislikes."
Do you know, said Mary Louise, "it shocks me, this hatred of her father. It seems so unnatural. I wish we could bring them to understand one another better, Gran'pa Jim."
That might prove a difficult task, my dear, he replied with a smile, gently stroking her hair the while, "and I do not think we are justified in undertaking it. How many times during our travels, Mary Louise, has your impulsive and tender heart urged you to assume the burdens of other people? You seem to pick up a trail of sorrow or unhappiness with the eagerness of a bloodhound and I have all I can do to call you off the scent. One small girl can't regulate the world, you know, and in this case we are likely to see very little of Alora Jones and her artist father. We will be nice to them during the few days we are here, but we must soon move on or we'll never get home for your birthday, as we have planned."
Mary Louise sighed.
You're almost always right, Gran'pa Jim, she admitted; "but in all our European travels I've not met so interesting a person as Alora, and she's an American girl, which draws us still closer together. I'm going to make her promise that when she's of age and her own mistress she will let me know, and come to us for a visit. Wouldn't that be all right, Gran'pa?"
He assured her it would be quite proper and that he also admired Alora and was sorry for her.
On Sunday forenoon they went to the cathedral and in the afternoon took a boat to the blue grottoes. In the evening there was a concert in the hotel. All that day the two girls were arm in arm and chatting together, developing their mutual liking, while the old Colonel trudged along in their wake and was generally ignored in the conversation. On Monday they planned an excursion to Capri, "For you won't mind if we don't get you home until after dinner, will you?" asked Mary Louise.
Not at all, said Alora. "I want to make the most of this vacation."
Her father may mind, however, suggested the Colonel.
I don't care whether he does or not, retorted the girl, tossing her head. "He has no consideration for me, so why should I consider him?"
I don't like that attitude, dear, said Mary Louise frankly. "I—I don't wish to be snippy, you know, but you should not forget that he is your father."
That, replied Alora doggedly, "is merely my misfortune, and I'm not going to allow it to ruin all my life."
On Monday morning they had scarcely finished breakfast when Jason Jones appeared at the hotel, having driven over from the villa in his little automobile—a tiny foreign contrivance that reminded one of a child's cart but could cover the ground with considerable speed. They were sitting on the big piazza when Alora's father came striding up to them with a white, fear-struck face. In his trembling hands he held the morning Naples newspaper and without a word of greeting he said abruptly:
Have you heard the news?
Colonel Hathaway rose and bowed.
Good morning, Mr. Jones, said he. "I do not read the local newspapers, for my knowledge of Italian is indifferent."
So is mine, responded the artist, "but I know enough of their lingo to make out that Italy has entered this fool war. She's going to fight the Austrians," he continued, his voice shaking nervously, "and do you know what that will mean, sir?"
I can't imagine, replied the Colonel calmly.
It means that presently we'll have all that horde of Germans overrunning Italy. They'll conquer this helpless land as sure as fate, and we'll all be burned out and tortured and mutilated in the fiendish German way!
My dear sir, you are frightened without warrant, declared Colonel Hathaway. "It will take some time to conquer Italy, and I cannot imagine the Austrians acting as you suggest."
Back of the Austrians are the Germans, and those Prussians are worse than wild American Indians, insisted Jones. "If they got their clutches on my daughter it would be more horrible than death and I don't propose to leave her in danger a single minute. I'm going to quit this country. I've come for Alora. We must pack up and catch the first ship from Naples for America."
There was blank silence for a moment.
I'm not afraid, said Alora, with a laugh, "but if it means our getting out of this tiresome place and sailing for home, I'm glad that Italy's gone into the war."
Colonel Hathaway was grave and thoughtful. The agitation of the artist seemed to increase with every moment.
When does the next boat for America leave Naples? asked Mary Louise.
Tuesday, said Alora's father. "We've just time to pack our possessions and leave."
Time! cried his daughter, "why, I can pack all my possessions in an hour. Go home, sir, and fuss around as much as you like. I'll join you some time this evening."
He gave her a queer look, hesitating.
We are surely safe enough for the present, remarked the Colonel. "The first act of war will be to send all the soldiers to the north border. The fighting will be done in the Trentino for some time to come."
You don't know these people, said Jones, shifting uneasily from one foot to another. "They're all brigands by nature and many of them by profession. As soon as the soldiers are sent north, all law and order will cease and brigandage will be the order of the day!"
This is absurd! exclaimed the Colonel, testily. "You're not talking sense."
That's a matter of opinion, sir; but I know my own business, and I'm going to get out of here.
Wait a week longer, suggested Mary Louise. "We are to sail ourselves on the boat that leaves Naples a week from Tuesday, and it will be nice for Alora and me to travel home together."
No; I won't wait. Get your things, Alora, and come with me at once.
Have you made reservations on the boat? inquired Colonel Hathaway, refusing to be annoyed by the man's brusque words and rough demeanor.
I'll do that at once, by telephone. That's one reason I came over. I'll telephone the steamship office while the girl is getting ready.
I will go with you, said the Colonel, as the artist turned away.
While Jones used the telephone booth of the hotel Colonel Hathaway conversed with the proprietor, and afterward with the hall porter, who was better posted and spoke better English.
This is outrageous! roared the artist, furiously bursting from the booth. "To-morrow's boat is abandoned! The government requires it as a transport. Why? Why? Why?" and he wrung his hands despairingly.
I do not know, sir, returned the Colonel, smiling at his futile passion.
The smile seemed to strike Jones like a blow. He stopped abruptly and stared at the other man for a full minute—intently, suspiciously. Then he relaxed.
You're right, said he coldly. "It's folly to quarrel with fate. I've booked for a week from Tuesday, Hathaway, and we must stick it out till then. Do you take the same boat?"
That is my intention.
Well, there's no objection. Now I'll go get Alora.
But Alora, hearing of the postponed sailing, positively refused to return home with him, and Mary Louise, supporting her new friend, urged her to extend her stay with her at the hotel. Strangely enough, the more he was opposed the more quiet and composed the artist became. He even ceased to tremble and an odd apathy settled over him.
The hall porter, said the Colonel, "thinks this is the safest place in Italy. The troops have been on the border for months and their positions are strongly fortified. There is no brigandage outside of Sicily, where the Mafia is not yet wholly suppressed."
Jones grinned rather sheepishly.
All right, take his word for it, said he. "And if you'll be responsible for the girl you may keep her till we're ready to sail. Perhaps that's the best way, after all." Then, without a word of good- bye, he entered his little motor car and started down the driveway.
A strange man, said the Colonel, looking after him. "I wonder if it really was the war that frightened him—or something else—or if he was actually frightened at all?"
Alora laughed.
You can't guess father, try as you may, she said. "Usually he is cold as ice, but once in awhile he gets these wild fits, which I find rather amusing. You can't understand that, of course, but if you were obliged to live under the same roof with Jason Jones you would welcome his outbursts as relief from the monotony of contemptuous silence."
Jason Jones urged his little car to its best speed until he gained his villa. Entering the ground, he was confronted by his factotum, the Italian, Silvio.
He sprang out and approached the man.
Is the prisoner safe? he whispered.
Certainly, Signore.
Is she still in the grape-house?
With the wine presses, Signore.
And she can't get out?
Unless she becomes small, like a rat, Signore.
Jones glanced around suspiciously, then fixed his gaze on a little outbuilding of stone, with a tiled roof, which stood quite removed from the others of the group.
Has she screamed, or cried out? he asked the man.
Not since I put her in, las' night, Signore.
Good. You've fed her?
The plenty. She eat very well. It's a nice lady, Signore.
She's dangerous. Listen, Silvio: we must keep her there a week longer.
If I am jailer a week, I mus' double my price, he asserted, shrugging his shoulders.
Nonsense!
The lady will offer me more to let her out. She say so.
What! You'd betray me?
Not if I have the gold—here, in my hand—now, Signore.
Jones grew red and then white. He eyed the man wickedly. He scowled, and Silvio smiled pleasantly. Silvio was big for an Italian; big and brawny; as his smile faded his face assumed a look of stubborn determination.
So you want the gold now, Silvio?
At once, if it please the Signore. The gendarmes are ugly if the law is broken. Their jails are not as pleasant as the grape-house. So the gold must be twice the amount we had spoken of, Signore.
And you will promise she shall not escape; that you'll keep her safe until—until I tell you to let her go?
That is our bargain, Signore.
Jones sighed regretfully.
Very well, then, Silvio, he said. "You're a robber—the son of a brigand—the spawn of a bandit! But come with me to the house, and you shall have your gold."
Alora stayed all that week with Mary Louise, hearing nothing of her father and almost forgetting her unhappiness in the society of her delightful new friend. It was Sunday evening when the Colonel and Mary Louise drove their guest over to the villa and the two parties did not see one another again until they met on the deck of the steamer in Naples on the following Tuesday morning.
The Joneses came aboard very quietly just at the last moment and at the gang-plank Alora's father was confronted by a grimy Italian boy who handed him a letter. Without pausing to read it, Jones hurried below, and he kept his stateroom until the ship was well out in the blue Mediterranean, on its way to Gibraltar and New York. But no one missed him, for Alora and Mary Louise were happy at being reunited and Gran'pa Jim was happy in seeing them happy.
In one of the middle-west states there is a delightful little city called Dorfield. It hasn't so many thousand inhabitants, but in all its aspects and its municipal equipment it is indeed a modern city. It has factories and a big farming community to support its streets of neat and progressive shops, and at the west side of the business district is a residence section where broad, wooded streets furnish the setting for many cozy homes. Some of the houses are old and picturesque, and some are new and imposing, but each has its flower-lit garden, its fruit and shade trees and its little garage or barn tucked away in the back yard.
When you come to Oak Street there is a rambling frame house on the corner, set well back, where Peter Conant, the lawyer, lives with his good wife and his niece Irene Macfarlane, who is seventeen. This is one of the ancient dwellings of Dorfield, for the Conants are "old inhabitants." Right next them stands a more modern and expensive, if less attractive, mansion, with grounds twice as large and a velvet lawn that puts the Conants' carelessly-cropped grass to shame. But the two families are neighbors and friends nevertheless, for in the new house lives Colonel James Hathaway and his granddaughter Mary Louise Burrows. At least, they live there when at home and, although they seem persistent ramblers, they are glad to have this refuge to return to when wearied with traveling and sight-seeing.
One morning in June Mr. Conant was just seating himself at the breakfast table when a messenger-boy delivered a telegram—a "night letter" from New York. The lawyer, a short, thick-set man of middle age, with a stern countenance but mild blue eyes, laid aside his morning paper and read the telegram with his usual deliberation. Mrs. Conant silently poured the coffee, knowing any interference would annoy him. Irene, the niece, was a cripple and sat in her wheeled chair at the table, between her uncle and aunt. She was a pleasant-faced, happy little maid, consistently ignoring her withered limbs and thankful that from her knees up she was normal and that her wheeled chair rendered her fairly independent of assistance in all ordinary activities. Everyone loved Irene Macfarlane because of her brave and cheery acceptance of her misfortune, and her merry speech and spontaneous laughter rendered her, as "Aunt Hannah" often declared, "the light of the house." Irene was, moreover, an intimate and highly valued friend of her next door neighbor, Mary Louise Burrows.
Mr. Peter Conant, sipping his coffee reflectively, read the lengthy telegram a second time. Then he said, somewhat irritably and chopping his words into distinct syllables, as was his habit at all times:
I wonder why people imagine a lawyer's duties cover every phase of life? My clients use me as a real-estate agent, a horse trader, a purchasing agent, a father confessor, an automobile expert, a medical adviser, and sometimes—in their simplicity—as a banker!
What's wrong now, Peter? inquired Mrs. Conant with wifely sympathy.
Colonel Hathaway wants to know—
Oh, is Mary Louise coming back? cried Irene eagerly.
He frowned at her.
What does the Colonel wish to know, Peter?
I object to this unwarrantable cross-examination, said he. "It is customary to first allow one to state his case."
Forgive me, Uncle Peter!
Take your time, said Aunt Hannah, composedly buttering the toast. "You will, anyhow, and I'm sure Irene and I have both learned to curb our feminine curiosity."
He glanced at the telegram again.
Do you know if the Pelton place has been rented, my dear?
The Pelton place? Why, it wasn't rented yesterday, for I passed by there and saw the rent sign still in the window. Mr. Harlan is the agent.
I know. And where can we find a female house-servant, Hannah?
Now, see here, Peter; it's all very well for you to keep your own counsel, when there's a professional secret to be guarded, but if you want any help from me you've got to open your mouth and talk out plainly, so I can answer you in a sensible way.
You're always sensible, Hannah, he observed, quite unruffled by her demand. And then he ate a whole slice of toast and drank his coffee and handed his cup for more before he spoke another word.
Irene devoted herself to her breakfast. She knew Uncle Peter's ways and that it was useless to attempt to hurry him or force him to explain, until he was quite ready to do so. Aunt Hannah bided her time. Peter was a thoughtful man, and he was doubtless thinking. His wife was not only a clever helpmate but was noted for her consideration of her erratic spouse.
The Colonel, said Mr. Conant at last, "has run across a man who wants to make his home in Dorfield. A very sensible idea. The Colonel met the man in Europe. The man——"
What's the man's name? inquired Mrs. Conant.
He referred to the telegram.
Jones. Jason Jones.
I never heard of him.
He looked at her reproachfully.
Why should you, my dear? The Colonel found the man in Europe. We live in Dorfield. The man, it seems, has a daughter——
Oh, goody! cried Irene.
Who has become a friend of Mary Louise, therefore the Colonel wires to ask if there is a furnished house to rent at a modest price and if a competent female servant can be secured for the man and his daughter. He requests me to wire an answer promptly. That is the gist of the telegram, although the Colonel, in his usual extravagant way, has paid for more words than were required to express his meaning.
And what are you going to do about it? demanded Mrs. Conant.
I am endeavoring to gain information from my wife.
Very well. What does he mean by 'a modest price'? The Pelton place is expensive. The rent is sixty dollars a month, while a comfortable house like that of the Widow Harrington rents for fifteen dollars, with good, solid furniture.
Is Mrs. Harrington's house for rent? he asked.
Yes. She'll go to live with her married daughter as soon as she can find a tenant. The poor creature needs the money, and her house is just around the corner from here and her back yard backs up to the Colonel's back yard. Now, the Pelton place is two blocks from here, and the Peltons don't need the money, because they're already too rich and aristocratic to live in Dorfield any longer.
H-m-m! murmured Mr. Conant. "It occurs to me that a friend of Colonel Hathaway might desire a more luxurious home than that of the Widow Harrington."
Doesn't the telegram say 'a modest price'?
It does. I'll quote both places and let the man Jones take his choice. And how about the female servant, Hannah?
Leave that to me; I can hire plenty. But if Mr. Jason Jones takes the Pelton place he will want one kind of a servant, and if he takes Mrs. Harrington's house he'll want a different sort.
He gazed at her admiringly and passed his cup again, saying:
You've a logical mind, my dear. Had you been a man you might have become a fairly good lawyer.
No, Peter; not another drop. You've two cups already.
Are you sure, Hannah?
Absolutely positive!
Then, said he, rising with a sigh, "I'll go to the office."
To Mr. Conant's disappointment, to Mrs. Conant's delight, to Irene's satisfaction and the astonishment of all, Mr. Jason Jones selected Mrs. Harrington's modest house and ordered it rented and prepared for his arrival on the following Thursday. This was conveyed in a second telegram from Colonel Hathaway, who requested the lawyer to inform old Uncle Eben and Aunt Sally, the Colonel's own faithful colored servants and caretakers, that he and Mary Louise would return home on the same day.
You see, said Aunt Hannah, triumphantly, "I sized the Joneses up pretty well. It isn't necessary for a man to be rich to be a friend of the dear Colonel, for he considers a man, rather than a man's pocketbook."
Yet a man who can afford to travel abroad, with his daughter, began Mr. Conant, argumentatively, "should certainly be able and willing——"
What do you know about him, Peter? Perhaps he has spent his ready money in Europe and is now obliged to economize. Unless that is the case, why does he come to a sleepy little town like Dorfield, which is almost forgotten by the big world, to settle down?
"
Why, he's the Colonel's friend, retorted the lawyer, stiffly.
"
And Mary Louise is his daughter's friend, said Irene. "That accounts for it, of course, and they couldn't have picked a prettier place. Dorfield may be sleepy, and quiet, and half forgotten by the rest of the big world, but it's simply delightful as a residence. Didn't Colonel Hathaway choose it for a home? And the Colonel could afford to live at the Waldorf-Astoria, if he wanted to."
I know why you are pleased, Irene, remarked Aunt Hannah, smiling upon her niece. "You're going to have another girl friend."
She won't be as nice as Mary Louise, though, was the reply. "There's no girl in the world as sweet and lovely as Mary Louise!"
Or one that innocently gets into more trouble, declared Mr. Conant.
That, said Aunt Hannah, "is because she can't let other people's troubles alone."
Mr. Conant, who was Colonel Hathaway's lawyer and confidential agent, was at the train to meet his important client on his return to Dorfield. The first to alight from the coach was the Colonel, who greeted his lawyer with a cordial handclasp. Mary Louise kissed Peter Conant upon his impassive cheek and presented him to a pretty young girl who clung to her arm smiling, yet half bewildered by her arrival in a strange town. There seemed no one else with the party and Mr. Conant glanced over the crowd of passengers and said:
Mr. Jones did not accompany you, then?
Why, yes; I suppose he's here, answered the Colonel carelessly. "I believe he traveled another car."
I don't see him anywhere, added Mary Louise. "I wonder if anyone reminded him that this is the place to get off?"
Never mind, said Alora; "if father can't keep track of himself, let him go on to another station. I can't lose him for long, that's certain."
There he is, up ahead, announced Mara Louise. "He's quarreling with his porter about something."
To save the tip, suggested Alora, scornfully.
Mary Louise rushed to greet an old colorful man with snow-white hair, who was picking up their hand baggage.
Oh, Uncle Eben, I'm so glad to see again! she exclaimed. "And how's Aunt Sallie? And is my pony well? And are the goldfish still alive? And——"
Bress yo' soul, Ma'y Weeze! said the delighted old servant, "ev'body's well an' joyful to see you-all back ag'in."
The Colonel shook Uncle Eben's hands—both of them—in a kindly but dignified manner. "I suppose the automobile is still running, Uncle?"
Not jes' dis yere minnit, Kun'l, with a glad chuckle, "but dat car's gwine ter run jes' as soon as we-all gits aboahd. What yo' think I's be'n doin' all winter, Kun'l, in dat lonesomeness house, 'cept keepin' dat car greased up?"
Did you grease it in the house, then, Uncle? asked Mary Louise gravely, but with twinkling eyes.
Old Eben chuckled again, for this was a happy hour for him, but while he chuckled he led them to where the automobile stood waiting. Behind the others slowly followed Jason Jones, carrying his own luggage and eyeing every detail of his surroundings in the manner of a countryman paying his first visit to town. He was inwardly sizing up Dorfield as a place of residence. When Jones got into the car the Colonel briefly introduced him to the lawyer.
This is Mr. Jones, Mr. Conant.
He looked at the lawyer and gave a slight nod, and Mr. Conant's bow was very stiff and formal. Already he had, with fair accuracy, grasped the relationship of the man to the others. Alora Jones seemed a fine girl—the right sort—and Mary Louise was evidently fond of her. The Colonel barely tolerated the man Jones, whom he did not like, for the daughter's sake. The girl herself lacked in respect for her father, and this unfilial attitude seemed condoned by both Mary Louise and the Colonel, which was evidence that there was something wrong about Jason Jones. With such a cue for guidance, Mr. Conant decided he had no use for Jason Jones, either.
Uncle Eben first drove the car to the Widow Harrington's cottage, where Mrs. Conant awaited the new tenants to introduce them to their servant and to assure them that everything was prepared for their convenience. Then they drove to Colonel Hathaway's home, where Irene was at the gate in her wheeled chair, a bunch of her choicest roses in her hand, ready to welcome her friend Mary Louise and to be kissed and hugged with girlish enthusiasm.
It was a happy homecoming, indeed, for Mary Louise. And Colonel Hathaway breathed a deep sigh of relief as he entered his own portals.
From now on, he said to his granddaughter that evening, "I am under no obligation to assist that impossible person, Jones, or to even associate with him. For your sake, my darling, I have suffered the infliction of his presence with fortitude, even going to the extent of locating him in our beloved town of Dorfield, that you and Alora might enjoy one another's society. But from this time forward Jason Jones is to be a distant acquaintance rather than a companion. Congratulate me, Mary Louise!"
I do, Gran'pa Jim, she replied soberly, "and I thank you, too. It has been a trial for both of us, but we've been really helpful to poor Alora. I want to try to bring a little happiness into her life and encourage her to become as sweet and lovable a girl as she has the nature to be, and this could never have been accomplished had we allowed her to drift in the sole companionship of her disagreeable father."
Alora formed an immediate friendship for crippled Irene Macfarlane, first based on sympathy and afterward on genuine admiration. That one condemned to pass her entire life in a wicker wheel-chair should be so bright and cheerful, with no word of protest or even a reference to her own misfortune, was deemed wonderful by Alora, and she soon found that Irene had an excuse or explanation for every seeming annoyance her friends suffered and delighted to console them. At the same time she allowed no one to console her, because she declared she needed no consolation.
Such a disposition invited confidence, and soon Irene knew more of Alora's past history, including her trials and tribulations, than even Mary Louise had yet learned, and was shocked and grieved at the girl's vengeful defiance of her father, due to his neglect and coldness as well as to his contemptible selfishness. But Irene had an excuse ready even for the artist.
Poor Mr. Jones! she said one day, when the three girls were together and had been discussing Alora's troubles; "think what a trial must have been to him to be saddled with the care of a child he had not seen since babyhood and had no especial interest in. As for affection between them, it could not sprout nor grow because there was no mutual understanding to germinate it. Your father's life, my dear, had been wrecked by his separation from your mother and the money meant little to him at that period of his life when you were left to his care. But did he refuse the obligation so inconsiderately thrust upon him? No. Although a man of reserved nature—almost a recluse—self absorbed and shrinking from association others, he accepted the care of an eleven year old child and, without being able to change his disposition to suit her requirements, has guarded her health and safety ever since."
So that he can use my money, added Alora, with a shrug.
But you admit that he doesn't squander money on himself.
I don't know what he does with it. If he wants books, he buys them; he bought a rickety automobile in Italy and never took me to ride in it; but his extravagance seems to end there. I've read some letters that he left around, showing that he is investing thousands in his own name—what for, I can't guess, as he is too miserly ever to have a use for it.
Well, he may be intending to endow some deserving charity, suggested Irene. "And, as for his not loving you, Alora, I fancy you have never tried to win your father's love."
No one could love that man.
You have never been able to get beneath his reserve. You came to him from a luxurious life, a petted and pampered child, and his simple tastes and unemotional nature repelled you from the first. Is it not so?
I'm not sure, Irene. I needed sympathy and affection. Had my father been different, had he shown love for me, or even fatherly consideration, I would have responded eagerly. But he ignored me. There has never been any companionship between us. He has guarded my personal safety because I was of financial value to him. Once, when I contracted a fever, he was really worried, and hired a skillful doctor and a trained nurse; but he never entered my sickroom. When I was well, he reproached me for costing him so much money. I told him it was my money, and he was costing me more than I could ever cost him. I reminded him he would have been a beggar, but for my income, and that shut him up at once.
There's the whole trouble, declared Irene. "Constant friction and a lack of consideration for one another. Such remarks could not have made him more gracious toward you, Alora, and you did not appreciate his care in furnishing you with the means of recovery."
Had I died, said the girl, "my fortune would have gone to a bunch of third-cousins whom I have never seen. That would have stopped father's right to the income, you see."
Irene sighed and Mary Louise smiled. It was almost impossible to defend Mr. Jones consistently, with Alora present to accuse him.
The artist at first took little interest in his new home. The cottage was small and not very cheerful, but it was cheap, and all that Jason Jones seemed to care for was a place to stay that was not expensive. He continued his reading and had a book in his hand from morning till night. He seldom left the cottage except for a trip to the public library or to a book-store, and never spoke to anyone unless it was necessary.
Their maid was Jane Gladys O'Donnel, stout and good-natured, an indifferent cook and rather untidy. She was twenty years old and the eldest of a large and impoverished family. Her mother was a laundress—"took in washin'"—and her earnings, with the wages of Jane Gladys, must suffice to feed many hungry mouths. That was why Mrs. Conant had hired Jane Gladys. Aunt Hannah knew the girl was not very competent, but she was cheap, so Mr. Jones accepted her without protest. Alora had lived so long abroad that she did not know what a competent American housemaid is.
One forenoon—they had now been a month at Dorfield—Mr. Jones was seated on the little front porch, reading as usual, when a queer buzzing in the air overhead aroused his attention.
What's that? he called sharply, and Jane Gladys, who was dusting in the little room behind him, replied:
That, sor, is only Steve Kane's flyin' machine.
A what?
A flyin'-machine, sor. Kane has a facthry fer makin' the crazy things in the town yonder—over by the South Side.
Indeed! He got up and went into the yard to watch the far-away speck in the sky that was humming so persistently. "Why, there's another! There are two of them," he exclaimed, as if to himself.
There might be a dozen, sor, 'cause there's a school for airy—airy—airy-flyin' over by Kane's facthry, where they teaches the folks to fly that buy the machines.
He stood a long time, watching the sky. When the last aeroplane had disappeared he resumed his reading. But the next day he watched for the machines again, abandoning his book to follow the course of the flyers.
Where did you say that factory is located? he asked Jane Gladys.
Over by the gas works, sor, be the South Side. Ye takes the Ellem street car, at the four corners. On a Sunday there be crowds a-watchin' the air-divils.
He started to read again, but gave it up and glanced nervously up and down the little porch. Jane Gladys noted this with surprise, for he was usually quiet and unobservant, "like th' toad in th' garden, what squats under a bush all day an' fergits he's alive till a fly lights on his nose," as she expressed it to the family at home.
After lunch Mr. Jones went to town and after making inquiries took the car to the aviation works and field. He watched the construction of flying machines in the factory and saw one or two pupils take short flights in the air. And Jason Jones was so interested that he was late to dinner that evening.
Next day he was at the aviation field again, and from that time he haunted the place, silent and composed but watching every detail of manufacture and listening to the experts as they instructed the pupils. These were not many—three altogether—although Stephen Kane's aeroplane was now admitted to be one of the safest and most reliable ever invented. And one day one of the instructors, noticing the silent man who had watched so long, invited him to take a flight, thinking perhaps to frighten him; but Jason Jones promptly accepted the invitation and with perfect composure endured the strange experience and returned to ground with heightened color but no other evidence of excitement. Could Alora have seen him that day she would have acquitted him of cowardice.
But Alora knew nothing of her father's odd fancy for some time after he became interested in aeroplanes. She was not often at home during the day, frequently taking lunch with Mary Louise or Irene and passing much of her time in their company. She had no interest whatever in her father's movements and Jane Gladys didn't think to mention the matter to her, for "flyin'-machines" had ceased to be a novelty in Dorfield and the sound of their buzzing through the air was heard many times a day. But in turning over a pile of her father's books one day in his absence, Alora found several treatises on aviation and was almost startled to find that Jason Jones cared for any reading aside from light novels.
She had been hunting, at the time, for a novel to read herself, so turning from the aviation literature to a shelf of fiction she began searching for an interesting title. Presently, as she drew out one of her father's books, it opened by accident at a place where a letter had been tucked in—a letter written on soiled and coarse paper of a foreign make. It was addressed: "Sig. Jaysn Jones, at the Steamer Hercules to sail for New York, U.S.A." Opening it, she found it signed: "Silvio Alleghero."
That was their man-servant in Italy, so with a smile of anticipated amusement she read the letter. It was brief, indeed, but the girl's expression soon changed to a puzzled look, for the scrawl said:
Honored Signore: At your command I have this morning, three hours after your departure for Naples, allowed the prisoner to escape.
How funny! she exclaimed, knitting her brows. "I can't remember any prisoner at the villa. Perhaps it was the cat. It would be just like Silvio to consider the release of a cat a important event."
She replaced the letter in the book and after selecting another novel forgot Silvio's epistle entirely.
Another time, when Alora happened to be at home for their noon-day luncheon and her father did not appear, Jane Gladys quietly remarked in answer to her query that "th' ol' man was prob'ly over to the flyin'- machine works."
Does he go there often? she asked in surprise.
Why, he mostly lives there, asserted the maid.
Alora laughed, and afterward told Mary Louise, as a bit of humorous gossip, that the man who had heretofore failed to find any interest in life had at last succumbed to the fascination of the aeroplane.
Well, I'm glad of it, said Mary Louise. "I've often wondered, Lory, how your father could be so infatuated with novel-reading, absorbing stories of human interest, if they have any interest at all, with such avidity, while the real people all around him failed to interest him at all. I have thought perhaps he read to keep his mind from—from other things that it would make him unhappy to dwell upon."
I have thought so, too, replied Alora, musingly. "And this queer fancy of his for a new and unusual invention may serve the same purpose. But I, too, am glad he has found a diversion that will keep him away from home. That barn of a cottage will become more homelike without his eternal presence."
Peter Conant, the lawyer, had paid little heed to Jason Jones since the latter's arrival in Dorfield. He had heard his wife and Irene gossip about the girl and her father and state that Alora was an heiress and Mr. Jones merely the guardian of her fortune until she came of age, but his legal mind decided that the girl's "fortune" must be a modest one, since they lived so economically and dressed so plainly. Colonel Hathaway, who might have undeceived him in this regard, seldom spoke to the lawyer of anything but his own affairs and had forborne to mention Mr. Jones and his personal affairs in any way.
Therefore Mr. Conant was somewhat surprised when one morning Jason Jones called at his office and asked for an interview. The lawyer was busy that day, and attaching little importance to his caller he demanded brusquely:
Well, sir, what can I do for you?
The man seated himself and glanced around the room before replying. The big desk, littered with papers, the cabinet files and stiff chairs seemed to meet his approval. In the outer office a girl was busily clicking a typewriter.
You are Colonel Hathaway's lawyer, I believe? said Jones.
I have that honor, sir.
That's why I came to you. The Colonel is a prosperous man and has judgment. I want your advice about investing some money.
Peter Conant regarded him with a speculative gaze. The thought flashed through his mind that if Jones had any money to invest he might better buy himself a new necktie and have his shoes repaired, or even invest in a new dress for his daughter, who needed it. But he merely said in his peculiar way of chopping each word off short as he uttered it:
How much have you to invest?
Not a great deal at this moment, but I am I constantly receiving dividends and interest on my daughter's securities and so, if I am going to live in Dorfield, I shall need a lawyer to advise me how to reinvest the money, as well as how to make out the papers properly. I don't want to make any mistakes and get robbed—even by my lawyer. But I'll pay you a fair price. Perhaps I should explain that while the income is derived from my daughter's property the investments are to be made in my name.
Why so?
The income belongs to me, by my dead wife's will, as long as Alora is alive and in my keeping. When the girl is eighteen she will manage her own affairs, and I'll be quit of her—and out of any further income, as well. So I'm investing now to secure my future.
I see. How old is your daughter at this time?
Fifteen.
So you've three years more to grab the income.
Exactly.
How much money do you wish to invest to-day?
Twelve thousand dollars.
Peter Conant sat up straight in his chair.
And you say this is but part of the income?
The estate is valued at nearly two million dollars.
The lawyer gave a low whistle of amazement. Beside this enormous sum, even Colonel Hathaway's holdings shrank into insignificance.
You surprise me, he said. "I imagine, then, that you can afford to live somewhat better than you do."
That is none of your business.
True. Good day, Mr. Jones.
Eh?
I won't accept you as a client.
Why not, sir?
Thank you for asking. In the first place, I don't like you, said Peter Conant. "Nor do I approve of your treating your daughter—a great heiress—as you do, and hoarding all her enormous income for your personal use. You're not toting fair. It is an unjust arrangement and I'll have nothing to do with it."
Jason Jones sat still and stared at him.
Good day, sir! repeated the lawyer, curtly.
The man did not move. Peter turned to his papers.
See here, the artist presently remarked; "let's come to an understanding. I don't like you, either. You're insulting. But you're honest, and I think I could trust you."
I'm not especially honest, retorted the lawyer, "but I'm particular. I don't need clients, and I don't want a client I'm ashamed of."
Still the man did not offer to go. Instead, he reflected for awhile in his stolid, unemotional way, while Peter Conant frowned and examined the papers on his desk.
I believe you'll see the thing in a different light if you read my wife's will, said Jones. "I've brought a copy of it with me, thinking it might help you to understand my affairs."
Is it an attested copy? asked the lawyer, turning around again.
Yes.
Let me see it.
Mr. Conant decided to read the will, with the idea that he might find in it some way to assist Alora. When he had finished the document he was disappointed. Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, a woman clever enough to make a fortune, had been foolish enough to give her former husband autocratic power over her money during her daughter's minority. Had the man been a gentleman, the folly would have been mitigated, but Jason Jones, in Mr. Conant's opinion, was a selfish, miserly, conscienceless rascal. Enjoying a yearly income that was a small fortune in itself, he had neglected to educate his daughter properly, to clothe her as befitted her station in life or to show her ordinary fatherly consideration. Affection and kindness seemed foreign to the man's nature. He handed the will back and said:
You have taken an unfair advantage of the confidence reposed in you by your dead wife, who doubtless loved her child. Legally your actions cannot be assailed, but morally they should ostracize you from decent society. As I said before, I do not want your business. I'll have nothing to do with you.
Jones remained unruffled.
I'm a stranger in the city, he remarked. "Perhaps you will recommend me to some good lawyer."
No. There are a score of lawyers in town. Make your own choice.
The man rose and put on his hat.
I said you were honest, and I was right, he calmly remarked. "I'll say now that you are a fool, and I'm right in that, also," and with these words he walked away.
That was his only protest to the humiliating rebuff. He showed no anger. He did not seem annoyed. He simply rode down in the elevator, examined the directory, and selected another lawyer in the same building.