Lost Man's Lane: A Second Episode in the Life of Amelia Butterworth. Green Anna Katharine
again aroused by the pouring in of letters containing inquiries in regard to a young man who had been sent there from Duluth to collect facts in a law case, and who after a certain date had failed to communicate with his firm or show up at any of the places where he was known. Instantly the village was in arms. Many remembered the young man, and some two or three of the villagers could recall the fact of having seen him go up the street with his hand-bag in his hand as if on his way to the Mountain-station. The landlord of the hotel could fix the very day at which he left his house, but inquiries at the station failed to establish the fact that he took train from there, nor were the most minute inquiries into his fate ever attended by the least result. He was not known to have carried much money, but he carried a very handsome watch and wore a ring of more than ordinary value, neither of which has ever shown up at any pawnbroker's known to the police. This was three years ago.
"The next occurrence of a like character did not take place till a year after. This time it was a poor old man from Hartford, who vanished almost as it were before the eyes of these astounded villagers. He had come to town to get subscriptions for a valuable book issued by a well-known publisher. He had been more or less successful, and was looking very cheerful and contented, when one morning, after making a sale at a certain farmhouse, he sat down to dine with the family, it being close on to noon. He had eaten several mouthfuls and was chatting quite freely, when suddenly they saw him pause, clap his hand to his pocket, and rise up very much disturbed. 'I have left my pocket-book behind me at Deacon Spear's,' he cried. 'I cannot eat with it out of my possession. Excuse me if I go for it.' And without any further apologies, he ran out of the house and down the road in the direction of Deacon Spear's. He never reached Deacon Spear's, nor was he ever seen in that village again or in his home in Hartford. This was the most astonishing mystery of all. Within a half-mile's radius, in a populous country town, this man disappeared as if the road had swallowed him and closed again. It was marvellous, it was incredible, and remained so even after the best efforts of the country police to solve the mystery had exhausted themselves. After this, the town began to acquire a bad name, and one or two families moved away. Yet no one was found who was willing to admit that these various persons had been the victims of foul play till a month later another case came to light of a young man who had left the village for the hillside station, and had never arrived at that or any other destination so far as could be learned. As he was a distant relative of a wealthy cattle owner in Iowa, who came on post-haste to inquire into his nephew's fate, the excitement ran high, and through his efforts and that of one of the town's leading citizens, the services of our office were called into play. But the result has been nil. We have found neither the bodies of these men nor any clue to their fate."
"Yet you have been there?" I suggested.
He nodded.
"Wonderful! And you came upon no suspicious house, no suspicious person?"
The finger with which he was rubbing his eyeglasses went round and round the rims with a slower and slower and still more thoughtful motion.
"Every town has its suspicious-looking houses," he slowly remarked, "and, as for persons, the most honest often wear a lowering look in which an unbridled imagination can see guilt. I never trust to appearances of that kind."
"What else can you trust in, when a case is as impenetrable as this one?" I asked.
His finger, going slower and slower, suddenly stopped.
"In my knowledge of persons," he replied. "In my knowledge of their fears, their hopes, and their individual concerns. If I were twenty years younger" – here he stole a glance at me in the mirror which made me bridle; did he think I was only twenty years younger than himself? – "I would," he went on, "make myself so acquainted with every man, woman, and child there, that – " Here he drew himself up with a jerk. "But the day for that is passed," said he. "I am too old and too crippled to succeed in such an undertaking. Having been there once, I am a marked man. My very walk betrays me. He whose good fortune it will be to get at the bottom of these people's hearts must awaken no suspicions as to his connection with the police. Indeed, I do not think that any man can succeed in doing this now."
I started. This was a frank showing of his hand at least. No man! It was then a woman's aid he was after. I laughed as I thought of it. I had not thought him either so presumptuous or so appreciative of talents of a character so directly in line with his own.
"Don't you agree with me, madam?"
I did agree with him; but I had a character of great dignity to maintain, so I simply surveyed him with an air of well-tempered severity.
"I do not know of any woman who would undertake such a task," I calmly observed.
"No?" he smiled with that air of forbearance which is so exasperating to me. "Well, perhaps there isn't any such woman to be found. It would take one of very uncommon characteristics, I own."
"Pish!" I cried. "Not so very!"
"Indeed, I think you have not fully taken in the case," he urged in quiet superiority. "The people there are of the higher order of country folk. Many of them are of extreme refinement. One family" – here his tone changed a trifle – "is poor enough and cultivated enough to interest even such a woman as yourself."
"Indeed!" I ejaculated, with just a touch of my father's hauteur to hide the stir of curiosity his words naturally evoked.
"It is in some such home," he continued with an ease that should have warned me he had started on this pursuit with a quiet determination to win, "that the clue will be found to the mystery we are considering. Yes, you may well look startled, but that conclusion is the one thing I brought away with me from – X., let us say. I regard it as one of some moment. What do you think of it?"
"Well," I admitted, "it makes me feel like recalling that pish I uttered a few minutes ago. It would take a woman of uncommon characteristics to assist you in this matter."
"I am glad we have got that far," said he.
"A lady," I went on.
"Most assuredly a lady."
I paused. Sometimes discreet silence is more sarcastic than speech.
"Well, what lady would lend herself to this scheme?" I demanded at last.
The tap, tap of his fingers on the rim of his glasses was my only answer.
"I do not know of any," said I.
His eyebrows rose perhaps a hair's-breadth, but I noted the implied sarcasm, and for an instant forgot my dignity.
"Now," said I, "this will not do. You mean me, Amelia Butterworth; a woman who – but I do not think it is necessary to tell you either who or what I am. You have presumed, sir – Now do not put on that look of innocence, and above all do not attempt to deny what is so manifestly in your thoughts, for that would make me feel like showing you the door."
"Then," he smiled, "I shall be sure to deny nothing. I am not anxious to leave – yet. Besides, whom could I mean but you? A lady visiting friends in this remote and beautiful region – what opportunities might she not have to probe this important mystery if, like yourself, she had tact, discretion, excellent understanding, and an experience which if not broad or deep is certainly such as to give her a certain confidence in herself, and an undoubted influence with the man fortunate enough to receive her advice."
"Bah!" I exclaimed. It was one of his favorite expressions. That was perhaps why I used it. "One would think I was a member of your police."
"You flatter us too deeply," was his deferential answer. "Such an honor as that would be beyond our deserts."
To this I gave but the faintest sniff. That he should think that I, Amelia Butterworth, could be amenable to such barefaced flattery! Then I faced him with some asperity, and said bluntly: "You waste your time. I have no more intention of meddling in another affair than – "
"You had in meddling in the first," he politely, too politely, interpolated. "I understand, madam."
I was angry, but made no show of being so. I was not willing he should see that I could be affected by anything he could say.
"The Van Burnams are my next-door neighbors," I remarked sweetly. "I had the best of excuses for