CHAPTER XXIX

The Mysterious Questioner

July brought Rosalie's visit to an end, and once more Tinkletown basked

in her smiles and yet wondered why they were so sad and wistful. She and

Bonner were much nearer, far dearer to one another than ever, and yet

not one effort had been made to bridge the chasm of silence concerning

the thing that lay uppermost in their minds. She only knew that Anderson

Crow had not "run down" his clew, nor had the New York sleuth reported

for weeks. Undoubtedly, the latter had given up the search, for the last

heard of him was when he left for Europe with his wife for a pleasure

trip of unknown duration. It looked so dark and hopeless to her, all of

it. Had Bonner pressed his demands upon her at the end of the visit in

Boston, it is possible--more than possible--that she would have faltered

in her resolution. After all, why should she deprive herself of

happiness if it was held out to her with the promise that it should

never end?

The summer turned steaming hot in the lowlands about Tinkletown, but in

the great hills across the river the air was cool, bright, and

invigorating. People began to hurry to their country homes from the

distant cities. Before the month was old, a score or more of beautiful

places were opened and filled with the sons and daughters of the rich.

Lazily they drifted and drove and walked through the wonderful hills,

famed throughout the world, and lazily they wondered why the rest of the

world lived. In the hills now were the Randalls, the Farnsworths, the

Brackens, the Brewsters, the Van Wagenens, the Rolfes and a host of

others. Tinkletown saw them occasionally as they came jaunting by in

their traps and brakes and automobiles--but it is extremely doubtful if

they saw Tinkletown in passing.

Anderson Crow swelled and blossomed in the radiance of his own

importance. In his old age he was becoming fastidious. Only in the

privacy of his own back yard did he go without the black alpaca coat; he

was beginning to despise the other days, when he had gone coatless from

dawn till dark, on the street or off. His badges were pinned neatly to

his lapel and not to his suspenders, as in the days of yore. His dignity

was the same, but the old sense of irritation was very much modified. In

these new days he was considerate--and patronising. Was he not one of

the wealthiest men in town--with his six thousand dollars laid by? Was

he not its most honoured citizen, not excepting the mayor and selectmen?

Was he not, above all, a close friend of the Bonners?

The Bonners were to spend August in the Congressman's home across the

big river. This fact alone was enough to stir the Crow establishment to

its most infinitesimal roots. Rosalie was to be one of the guests at the

house party, but her foster-sisters were not the kind to be envious.

They revelled with her in the preparations for that new season of

delight.

With the coming of the Bonners, Anderson once more revived his

resolution to unravel the mystery attending Rosalie's birth. For some

months this ambition had lain dormant, but now, with the approach of the

man she loved, the old marshal's devotion took fire and he swore daily

that the mystery should be cleared "whether it wanted to be or not."

He put poor old Alf Reesling through the "sweat box" time and again, and

worthless Tom Folly had many an unhappy night, wondering why the marshal

was shadowing him so persistently.

"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 cocktails."

"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 circumstances 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, passion 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--"

In vain he argued, pleaded, commanded. She was firm and she felt she was

right if not just. Underneath it all lurked the fear, the dreadful fear

that she may have been a child of love, the illegitimate offspring of

passion. It was the weight that crushed her almost to lifelessness; it

was the bar sinister.

"No, Wicker, I mean it," she said in the end resolutely. "Not until I

can give you a name in exchange for your own."

"Your name shall one day be Bonner if I have to wreck the social system

of the whole universe to uncover another one for you."

The automobile had been standing, by some extraordinary chance, in the

cool shade of a great oak for ten minutes or more, but it was a wise,

discreet old oak.