Aunt Jane's Nieces on Vacation Part 28

"Before his accident, or whatever it was that made him lose his memory, he was an unusual man, a man of exceptional ability. You know that."

"We are all inclined to admit it," answered Patsy. "But what then?"

"Men of ability," declared Hetty slowly, "are of two cla.s.ses: the very successful, who attain high and honorable positions, or the clever scoundrels who fasten themselves like leeches on humanity and bleed their victims with heartless unconcern. What will you gain if you unmask the past of Thursday Smith? You uncover a rogue or a man of affairs, and in either case you will lose your pressman. Better leave the curtain drawn, Miss Doyle, and accept Thursday Smith as he is."

There was so much good sense in this reasoning that all three girls were impressed and began to regret that Uncle John had called Fogerty to untangle the skein. But it was now too late for such repentance and, after all, they were curious to discover who their remarkable employee really was.

Even while the awkward silence that had fallen upon the group of girls continued, the door opened to admit Uncle John, Fogerty, Major Doyle and Arthur Weldon. Except for the detective they were stern-faced and uncompromising.

CHAPTER XXII

UNMASKED

Quintus Fogerty was as unlike the typical detective as one could imagine. Small in size, slight and boyish, his years could not readily be determined by the ordinary observer. His face was deeply furrowed and lined, yet a few paces away it seemed the face of a boy of eighteen. His cold gray eyes were persistently staring but conveyed no inkling of his thoughts. His brick-red hair was as unkempt as if it had never known a comb, yet the attire of the great detective was as fastidiously neat as if he had dressed for an important social function. Taken altogether there was something mistrustful and uncanny about Fogerty's looks, and his habit of eternally puffing cigarettes rendered his companionship unpleasant. Yet of the man's professional ability there was no doubt; Mr. Merrick and Arthur Weldon had had occasion to employ him before, with results that justified their faith in him.

The detective greeted the young ladies with polite bows, supplemented by an aimless compliment on the neatness of their office.

"Never would have recognized it as a newspaper sanctum," said he in his thin, piping voice. "No litter, no stale pipes lying about, no cursing and quarreling, no excitement whatever. The editorial room is the index to the workshop; I'll see if the mechanical department is kept as neatly."

He opened the door to the back room, pa.s.sed through and closed it softly behind him. Mr. Merrick made a dive for the door and followed Fogerty.

"What's the verdict, Arthur?" asked Louise curiously.

"Why, I--I believe the verdict isn't rendered yet," he hastily replied, and followed Mr. Merrick into the pressroom.

"Now, then," cried Patsy, grabbing the major firmly, "you'll not stir a step, sir, until you tell us the news!"

"What news, Patricia?" Inquired the old gentleman blandly.

"Who was Thursday Smith?"

"The identical individual he is now," said the Major.

"Don't prevaricate, sir! Who was he? What did he do? What is his right name?"

"Is it because you are especially interested in this man, my dear, or are ye simply consumed with feminine curiosity?"

"Be good, Daddy! Tell us all about it," said Patsy coaxingly.

"The man Thursday, then, was likely enough the brother of Robinson Crusoe's man Friday."

"Major, you're trifling!"

"Or mayhap an ex-president of the United States, or forby the senator from Oklahoma. Belike he was once minister to Borneo, an' came home in a hurry an' forgot who he was. But John Merrick will be wanting me."

He escaped and opened the door. Then, with his hand on the k.n.o.b, he turned and added:

"Why don't ye come in, me journalistic investigators, and see the fun for yerselves? I suspect there's an item in store for ye."

Then he went in, and they took the hint and entered the pressroom in a fluttering group. Fogerty stood with his hands in his pockets intently watching the Dwyer girls set type, while at his elbow Mr. Merrick was explaining in a casual voice how many "m's" were required to make a newspaper column. In another part of the long room Arthur Weldon was leaning over a table containing the half-empty forms, as if critically examining them. Smith, arrayed in overalls and jumper, was cleaning and oiling the big press.

"A daily newspaper," said the major, loudly, as he held up a warning finger to the bevy of nieces, behind whom Hetty's pale face appeared, "means a daily grind for all concerned in it. There's no vacation for the paper, no hyphens, no skipping a day or two if it has a bad cold; it's the tyrant that leads its slaves by the nose, metaphorically, and has no conscience. Just as regularly as the world rolls 'round the press rolls out the newspaper, and human life or death makes little difference to either of the revolutionists."

While he spoke the Major led the way across the room to the stereotyping plant, which brought his party to a position near the press. Smith glanced at them and went on with his work. It was not unusual to have the pressroom thus invaded.

Presently Fogerty strolled over, smoking his eternal cigarette, and stood watching the pressman, as if interested in the oiling of the complicated machine. Smith, feeling himself under observation, glanced up again in an unconcerned way, and as he faced the detective Fogerty gave a cleverly a.s.sumed start and exclaimed:

"Good G.o.d!"

Instantly Thursday Smith straightened up and looked at the man questioningly. Fogerty stretched out his hand and said, as if in wonder:

"Why, Melville, old man, what are you doing here? We wondered what had become of you, all these months. Shake hands, my boy! I'm glad I've found you."

Smith leaned against the press and stared at him with dilated eyes.

Everyone in the room was regarding the scene with intense but repressed excitement.

"What's wrong, Harold?" continued Fogerty, as if hurt by the other's hesitation to acknowledge their acquaintance. "You haven't forgotten me, have you? I'm McCormick, you know, and you and I have had many a good time together in the past."

Smith pa.s.sed his hand across his forehead with a dazed gesture.

"What name did you call me, sir?" he asked.

"Melville; Harold Melville, of East Sixty-sixth street. I'm sure I'm right. There can't be two like you in the world, you know."

Thursday Smith stepped down from the platform and with a staggering gait walked to a stool, on which he weakly sank. He wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead and looked at Fogerty with a half frightened air.

"And you--are--McCormick?" he faltered.

"Of course."

Smith stared a moment and then shook his head.

"It's no use," he said despairingly; "I can't recall a single memory of either Harold Melville or--or his friend McCormick. Pardon me, sir; I must confess my mind is absolutely blank concerning all my life previous to the last two years. Until this moment I--I could not recall my own name."

"H'm," muttered Fogerty; "you recall it now, don't you?"

"No. You tell me my name is Melville, and you seem to recognize me as a man whom you once knew. I accept your statement in good faith, but I cannot corroborate it from my own knowledge."

"That's queer," retorted Fogerty, his cold eyes fixed upon the man's face.

"Let me explain, please," said Smith, and related his curious experience in practically the same words he had employed when confiding it to Mr.

Merrick. "I had hoped," he concluded, "that if ever I met one who knew me formerly, or heard my right name mentioned, my memory would come back to me; but in this I am sorely disappointed. Did you know me well, sir?"

"Pretty well," answered the detective, after a slight hesitation.