The Daughter of Anderson Crow Part 34

"Alf," demanded Anderson during one of the sessions, "where were you on the night of February 18, 1883? Don't hesitate. Speak up. Where were you? Aha, you cain't answer. That looks suspicious."

"You bet I c'n answer," said Alf bravely, blinking his blear eyes. "I was in Tinkletown."

"What were you doin' that night?"

"I was sleepin'."

"At what time? Keerful now, don't lie."

"What time o' night did they leave her on your porch?" demanded Alf in turn.

"It was jest half past 'leven."

"You're right, Anderson. That's jest the time I was asleep."

"C'n you prove it? Got witnesses?"

"Yes, but they don't remember the night."

"Then it may go hard with you. Alf, I still believe you had somethin' to do with that case."

"I didn't, Anderson, so help me."

"Well, doggone it, somebody did," roared the marshal. "If it wasn't you, who was it? Answer that, sir."

"Why, consarn you, Anderson Crow, I didn't have any spare children to leave around on doorsteps. I've allus had trouble to keep from leavin'

myself there. Besides, it was a woman that left her, wasn't it? Well, consarn it, I'm not a woman, am I? Look at my whiskers, gee whiz! I--"

"I didn't say you left the baskit, Alf; I only said you'd somethin' to do with it. I remember that there was a strong smell of liquor around the place that night." In an instant Anderson was sniffing the air.

"Consarn ye, the same smell as now--yer drunk."

"Tom Folly drinks, too," protested Alf. "He drinks Martini c.o.c.ktails."

"Don't you?"

"Not any more. The last time I ordered one was in a Dutch eatin' house up to Boggs City. The waiter couldn't speak a word of English, an'

that's the reason I got so full. Every time I ordered 'dry Martini' he brought me three. He didn't know how to spell it. No, sir, Anderson; I'm not the woman you want. I was at home asleep that night. I remember jest as well as anything, that I said before goin' to bed that it was a good night to sleep. I remember lookin' at the kitchen clock an' seein' it was jest eighteen minutes after eleven. 'Nen I said--"

"That'll be all for to-day, Alf," interrupted the questioner, his gaze suddenly centering on something down the street. "You've told me that six hundred times in the last twenty years. Come on, I see the boys pitchin' horseshoes up by the blacksmith shop. I'll pitch you a game fer the seegars."

"I cain't pay if I lose," protested Alf.

"I know it," said Anderson; "I don't expect you to."

The first day that Bonner drove over in the automobile, to transplant Rosalie in the place across the river, found Anderson full of a new and startling sensation. He stealthily drew the big sunburnt young man into the stable, far from the house. Somehow, in spite of his smiles, Bonner was looking older and more serious. There was a set, determined expression about his mouth and eyes that struck Anderson as new.

"Say, Wick," began the marshal mysteriously, "I'm up a stump."

"What? Another?"

"No; jest the same one. I almost got track of somethin' to-day--not two hours ago. I met a man out yander near the cross-roads that I'm sure I seen aroun' here about the time Rosalie was left on the porch. An' the funny part of it was, he stopped me an' ast me about her. Doggone, I wish I'd ast him his name."

"You don't mean it!" cried Bonner, all interest. "Asked about her? Was he a stranger?"

"I think he was. Leastwise, he said he hadn't been aroun' here fer more'n twenty year. Y'see, it was this way. I was over to Lem Hudlow's to ask if he had any hogs stole last night--Lem lives nigh the poorhouse, you know. He said he hadn't missed any an' ast me if any hogs had been found. I tole him no, not that I knowed of, but I jest thought I'd ask; I thought mebby he'd had some stole. You never c'n tell, you know, an' it pays to be attendin' to business all the time. Well, I was drivin' back slow when up rode a feller on horseback. He was a fine-lookin' man 'bout fifty year old, I reckon, an' was dressed in all them new-fangled ridin' togs. 'Ain't this Mr. Crow, my old friend, the detective?' said he. 'Yes, sir,' said I. 'I guess you don't remember me,' says he. I told him I did, but I lied. It wouldn't do fer him to think I didn't know him an' me a detective, don't y'see?

"We chatted about the weather an' the crops, him ridin' longside the buckboard. Doggone, his face was familiar, but I couldn't place it.

Finally, he leaned over an' said, solemn-like: 'Have you still got the little girl that was left on your porch?' You bet I jumped when he said that. 'Yes,' says I, 'but she ain't a little girl now. She's growed up.' 'Is she purty?' he ast. 'Yes,' says I, 'purty as a speckled pup!'

'I'd like to see her,' he said. 'I hear she was a beautiful baby. I hope she is very, very happy.' 'What's that to you?' says I, sharp-like. 'I am very much interested in her, Mr. Crow,' he answered. 'Poor child, I have had her in mind for a long time,' he went on very solemn. I begin to suspect right away that he had a lot to do with her affairs. Somehow, I couldn't help thinkin' I'd seen him in Tinkletown about the time she was dropped--left, I mean.

"'You have given her a good eddication, I hope,' said he. 'Yes, she's got the best in town,' said I. 'The thousand dollars came all right every year?' 'Every February.' 'I should like to see her sometime, if I may, without her knowin' it, Mr. Crow.' 'An' why that way, sir?'

demanded I. 'It would probably annoy her if she thought I was regardin'

her as an object of curiosity,' said he. 'Tell her fer me,' he went on'

gittin' ready to whip up, 'that she has an unknown friend who would give anything he has to help her.' Goshed, if he didn't put the gad to his horse an' gallop off 'fore I could say another word. I was goin' to ask him a lot of questions, too."

"Can't you remember where and under what circ.u.mstances you saw him before?" cried Bonner, very much excited.

"I'm goin' to try to think it up to-night. He was a rich-lookin' feller an' he had a heavy black band aroun' one of his coat sleeves. Wick, I bet he's the man we want. I've made up my mind 'at he's her father!"

Bonner impatiently wormed all the information possible out of the marshal, especially as to the stranger's looks, voice, the direction taken when they parted company and then dismally concluded that an excellent opportunity had been hopelessly lost. Anderson said, in cross-examination, that the stranger had told him he "was leavin' at once fer New York and then going to Europe." His mother had died recently.

"I'll try to head him off at Boggs City," said Bonner; and half an hour later he was off at full speed in the big machine for the county seat, a roundabout way to Bonner Place. The New York train had gone, but no one had seen a man answering the description of Anderson's interviewer.

"I'm sorry, Rosalie," said Bonner some time later. He was taking her for a spin in the automobile. "It was a forlorn hope, and it is also quite probable that Mr. Crow's impressions are wrong. The man may have absolutely no connection with the matter. I'll admit it looks interesting, his manner and his questions, and there is a chance that he knows the true story. In any event, he did not go to New York to-day and he can't get another train until to-morrow. I'll pick up Mr. Crow in the morning and we'll run up here to have a look at him if he appears."

"I think it is a wild goose chase, Wicker," Rosalie said despairingly.

"Daddy Crow has done such things before."

"But this seems different. The man's actions were curious. He must have had some reason for being interested in you. I am absolutely wild with eagerness to solve this mystery, Rosalie. It means life to me."

"Oh, if you only could do it," she cried so fervently, that his heart leaped with pity for her.

"I love you, Rosalie. I would give my whole life to make you happy.

Listen, dearest--don't turn away from me! Are you afraid of me?" He was almost wailing it into her ear.

"I--I was only thinking of the danger, Wicker. You are not watching the road," she said, flushing a deep red. He laughed gaily for the first time in months.

"It is a wide road and clear," he said jubilantly. "We are alone and we are merely drifting. The machine is alive with happiness.

Rosalie--Rosalie, I could shout for joy! You _do_ love me? You will be my wife?"

She was white and silent and faint with the joy of it all and the pain of it all. Joy in the full knowledge that he loved her and had spoken in spite of the cloud that enveloped her, pain in the certainty that she could not accept the sacrifice. For a long time she sat staring straight down the broad road over which they were rolling.

"Wicker, you must not ask me now," she said at last, bravely and earnestly. "It is sweet to know that you love me. It is life to me--yes, life, Wicker. But, don't you see? No, no! You must not expect it. You must not ask it. Don't, don't, dear!" she cried, drawing away as he leaned toward her, pa.s.sion in his eyes, triumph in his face.

"But we love each other!" he cried. "What matters the rest? I want you--_you!_"

"Have you considered? Have you thought? I have, a thousand times, a thousand bitter thoughts. I cannot, I will not be your--your wife, Wicker, until--"