The Girl at Central. Bonner Geraldine
a woman?"
She began to laugh again, and if I'd been the man at the other end of the wire that laugh would have made me wild.
"Which do you think?" she asked.
"I don't think, I know," and I knew that he was mad.
"Well, if you know," she said as sweet as pie, "I needn't tell you any more. I'll say good-bye."
"No," he shouted, "don't hang up – wait. What do you want to torment me for?" Then he got sort of coaxing, "It isn't kind to treat a fellow this way. Can't you tell me who it is?"
"No, that's a secret. You can't know a thing till I choose to tell you and I don't choose now."
"If I come over Sunday afternoon will you see me?"
"What time?"
"Any time you say – I'm your humble slave, as you know."
"I'm going out about seven."
"Where?"
"That's another secret."
I think a child listening to that conversation would have seen he was getting madder every minute and yet he was so afraid she'd cut him off that he had to keep it under and talk pleasant.
"Look here," he said, "I've something I want to say to you awfully. If I run over in my car and get there round six-thirty, can you see me for a few minutes?"
She didn't answer at once. Then she said slow as if she was undecided:
"Not at the house."
"I didn't mean at the house. Say in Maple Lane, by the gate. I won't keep you more than five or ten minutes."
"Six-thirty's rather late."
"Well, any time you say."
"Can't you be there exactly at six-fifteen?"
"If that's a condition."
"It is. If you're late you won't find me. I'll be gone" – she began to laugh again – "taking my secret with me."
"I'll be there on the dot."
"Very well, then, you can come – at the gate just as the clock marks one quarter after six. And, maybe, if you're good, I'll tell you the secret. Good-bye until then – try not to be too curious. It's a bad habit and I've seen signs of it in you lately. Good-bye."
Before he could say another word she'd disconnected.
I leaned back in my chair thinking it over. What was she up to? What was the secret? And who was the man? "Run over in his car" – that looked like someone from one of the big estates. How many of them had she buzzing round her?
And then, for all I was so downhearted, I couldn't help smiling to think of those two supposing they were talking so secluded and an East Side tenement girl taking it all in. Little did I guess then that me breaking the rules that way, instead of destroying me was going to – But that doesn't come in here.
And now I come to Sunday the twenty-first, a date I'll never forget.
It seemed to me afterward that Nature knew of the tragedy and prepared for it. The weather was duller and grayer than it had been on Saturday, not a breath of air stirring and the sky all mottled over with clouds, dark and heavy looking. A full moon was due and as I went to the Exchange I thought of the sweethearts that had dates to walk out in the moonlight and how disappointed they'd be.
Things weren't cheerful at the Exchange either. I found Minnie Trail, the night operator, as white as a ghost, saying she felt as if one of her sick headaches was coming on and if it did would I stay on over time? I knew those headaches – they ran along sometimes till eight or nine. I told her to go right home to bed and I'd hold the fort till she was able to relieve me. We often did turns like that, one for the other. It's one of the advantages of being in a small country office – no one picks on you for acting human.
About ten I had a call from Anne Hennessey. "Have you got anything on for this evening, Molly?"
"I have not. This is Longwood, not gay Paree."
"Then I'll come round to Galways, about seven and we'll go to the Gilt Edge for supper. I want to talk to you."
The Gilt Edge Lunch was where I took my meals, a nice clean little joint close to the office. But I didn't know when I'd get my supper that night, so I called back:
"That's all right, sister, but come to the Exchange. Minnie's head's on the blink and I'll stay on here late. Anything up?"
"Yes. I don't want to talk about it over the wire. There's been another row here – yesterday morning. It's horrible; I can't stand it. I'll tell you more this evening. So long."
I put my elbows on the table and sat forward thinking. If you'd asked me a year ago what I wanted most in the world I'd have said money. But I'd learnt considerable since then. "Money don't do it," I said to myself. "Look at the Fowlers with their jewels and their millions scrapping till even the housekeeper on a fancy salary with a private bath can't stand it."
And there came up in my mind the memory of the East Side tenement where I was raised. I thought of my poor father, most killed with work, and my mother eking things out, doing housecleaning and never a hard word to each other or to me.
The night settled down early, black, dark and very still. At seven Anne Hennessey came in and sat down by the radiator, which was making queer noises with the heat coming up. Supper time's like dinner – few calls – so I turned round in my chair, ready for a good talk, and asked about the trouble at Mapleshade.
"Oh, it was another quarrel yesterday morning at breakfast and with Harper, the butler, hearing every word. He said it was the worst they'd ever had. He's a self-respecting, high-class servant and was shocked."
"Sylvia and the Doctor again?"
"Yes, and poor Mrs. Fowler crying behind the coffee pot."
"The same old subject?"
"Oh, of course. It's young Reddy this time. Sylvia's been out a good deal this autumn in her car; several times she's been gone nearly the whole day. When the Doctor questioned her she'd either be evasive or sulky. On Friday someone told him they'd seen her far up on the turnpike with Jack Reddy in his racer."
I fired up, I couldn't help it.
"Why should he be mad about that? Isn't Mr. Reddy good enough for her?"
"I think he is. I told you before I thought the best thing she could do would be to marry him. But – " she looked round to see that no one was coming in – "don't say a word of what I'm going to tell you. I have no right to repeat what I hear as an employee but I'm worried and don't know what's the best thing to do. Mrs. Fowler has as good as told me that her husband's lost all his money and it's Sylvia's that's running Mapleshade. And what I think is that the Doctor doesn't want her to marry anyone. It isn't her he minds losing; it's thirty thousand a year."
"But when she comes of age she can do what she wants and if he makes it so disagreeable she won't want to live there."
"That's two years off yet. He may recoup himself in that time."
"Oh, I see. But he can't do any good by fighting with her."
"Molly, you're a wise little woman. Of course he can't, but he doesn't know it. He treats that hot-headed, high-spirited girl like a child of five. Mark my words, there's going to be trouble at Mapleshade."
I thought of the telephone message I'd overheard the day before and it came to me suddenly what "the secret" might be. Could Sylvia have been planning to run away? I didn't say anything – it's natural to me and you get trained along those lines in the telephone business – and I sat turning it over in my mind as Anne went on.
"I'd leave to-morrow only I'm so sorry for Mrs. Fowler. She's as helpless as a baby and seems to cling to me. The other day she told me about her first marriage – how her husband didn't care for her but was crazy about Sylvia – that's why he left her almost all his money."
I wasn't listening much, still thinking about "the secret." If she wasrunning away was she going alone or with Jack Reddy? My eyes