The Man Who Fell Through the Earth

“Exactly. Do you know any telegrapher, Miss Raynor?”

“No, indeed!” and Olive looked astounded at the suggestion that she should number such among her acquaintances. “Are you sure?”

“Looks mighty like it. The short sentences and the elimination of personal pronouns seem to me to denote a telegraph girl’s diction. And she is very clever! She has sent the carbon copy of the letter and not the outside typing.”

“Why?” I asked.

“To make it less traceable. You know, typewriting is very nearly as individual as pen-writing. The differentiations of the machine as well as of the user’s technique, are almost invariably so pronounced as to make the writing recognizable. Now these peculiarities, while often clear on the first paper, are blurred more or less on the carbon copy. So ‘A Friend,’ thinking to be very canny, has sent the carbon. This is a new trick, though I’ve seen it done several times of late. But it isn’t so misleading as it is thought to be. For all the individual peculiarities of the typewriter, – I mean, the machine, are almost as visible on this as on the other. I’ve noticed them in this case, easily. And moreover, this would-be clever writer has overreached herself! For a carbon copy smudges so easily that it is almost impossible to touch it, even to fold the sheet, without leaving a telltale thumb or finger print! And this correspondent has most obligingly done so!”

“Really!” breathed Zizi, with a note of satisfaction in her low voice.

“And the peculiarities, – what are they?” asked Olive.

“The one that jumps out and hits me first is the elevated s. Look, – and you have to look closely, Miss Raynor, – in every instance the letter s is a tiny speck higher than the other letters.”

“Why, so it is,” and Olive examined the letter with deep interest; “but how can you find a machine with an elevated s?”

“It isn’t a sign-board, it’s a proof. When we think we have the right machine, the s will prove it, – not lead us to it.”

“Let me see,” begged Mrs. Vail, reaching for the paper. “A friend of mine is a stenographer; maybe she – ”

“Excuse me,” and Penny Wise folded the letter most carefully. “We can’t get any more finger prints on this paper, or we shall render it useless. Now, Miss Raynor, I’m going. I’ll take the letter, and I’ve little doubt it will be a great help to me in my work. I will report to you from time to time, but it may be a few days before I learn anything of importance. Zizi?”

“Yes; I’ll stay here,” and the girl sat quietly in her chair.

“That means she’ll take up her abode with you for the present, Miss Raynor,” and Wise smiled at Olive.

“Live here?”

“Yes, please. It is necessary, or she wouldn’t do it.”

“Oh, let her stay!” cried Mrs. Vail; “she’s so interesting – and queer!”

The object of her comment gave her an engaging smile, but said nothing, and beckoning me to go with him, Wise rose to take leave.

But I wanted to have a little further talk with Olive on several matters and I told Wise I’d join him a little later.

“Be goody-girl, Zizi,” he adjured as he went off, and she nodded her head, but with a saucy grimace at the detective.

“My room?” she said, inquiringly, with a pretty, shy glance at Olive. “I’m no trouble, – not a bit. Any little old room, you know.”

“You shall have it in a few moments,” and Olive went away to see the housemaids about it.

Mrs. Vail snatched at a chance to talk uninterruptedly to the strange girl.

“What is your work?” she inquired; “do you help Mr. Wise? Isn’t he wonderful! How you must admire him. I knew a detective once, – or, at least, a man who was going to be a detective, but – Oh, do tell me what your part of the work is!”

“I sit by,” returned Zizi, with a dear little grin that took off all edge of curtness.

“Sit by! Is that some technical term? I don’t quite understand.”

“I don’t always understand myself,” and the girl shook her head slowly; “but I just remain silent until Mr. Wise wants me to speak, – to tell him something, you know. Then I tell him.”

“But how do you know it?” I put in, fascinated by this strange child, for she looked little more than a child.

“Ooh!” Zizi shuddered, and drew her small self together, her black eyes round and uncanny-looking; “ooh! I donno how I know! I guess the bogie man tells me!”

Mrs. Vail shuddered too, and gave a little shriek.

“You’re a witch,” she cried; “own up, now, aren’t you a witch?”

“Yes, lady, lady! I am a witch, – a poor little witch girl!” and Zizi laughed outright at her own little joke.

If her smile had been charming, her laugh was more so. It was not only of a silvery trill, but it was infectious, and Mrs. Vail and I laughed in sympathy.

“What are you all laughing at?” said Olive, reappearing.

“At me,” and Zizi spoke humbly now; “I made ’em laugh. Sorry!”

“Come along with me, you funny child,” and Olive led her away, leaving me to be the victim of Mrs. Vail’s incessant stream of chatter.

The good lady volubly discussed the detective and his assistant and detailed many accounts of people she had known. Her acquaintance was seemingly a wide one!

At last Olive returned, smiling.

“I never saw anything like her!” she exclaimed; “I gave her a pretty little room, not far from mine. I don’t know, I’m sure, why she’s staying here, but I like to have her. Well, in about two minutes she had the furniture all changed about. Not the heavy pieces, of course, but she moved a small table and all the chairs, and finally unscrewed an electric light bulb from one place and put it on another, and then, after looking all about, she said, ‘Just one thing more!’ and if she didn’t spring up on to a table with one jump and take down quite a large picture! ‘There,’ she said, and she set it out in the hall; ‘I can’t bear that thing! Now this is a lovely room, and I thank you, Miss Raynor. The pink one we passed is yours, isn’t it?’

“‘Yes; how did you know?’ I asked her. And she said, ‘I saw a photograph of Mr. Manning on your bureau.’ Little rascal! I can’t help liking her!”

CHAPTER XI

Case Rivers

So absorbed was I in the new interests that had come into my life, so anxious to be of assistance to Olive Raynor, and so curious to watch the procedure of Pennington Wise, that I confess I forgot all about the poor chap I had seen at Bellevue Hospital, – the man who “fell through the earth”! And I’m not sure I should ever have thought of him again, save as a fleeting memory, if I hadn’t received a letter from him.

My dear Brice [he wrote]: I’ve no right to pilfer your time, but if you have a few minutes to squander, I wish you’d give them to me. I’m about to be discharged from the hospital, with a clean bill of health, – but with no hint or clew as to my cherished identity. The doctors – drat ’em! – say that some day my memory will spring, full-armed, back at me, but meanwhile, I must just sit tight and wait. Not being of a patient disposition, I’m going to get busy at acquiring a new identity, then, if the old one ever does spring a come-back, I’ll have two, – and can lead a double life! No, I’m not flippant, I’m philosophical. Well, if your offer didn’t have a string tied to it come in to see me, – please.

    Sincerely yours,
    Case Rivers.

P.S. – The doctors look upon me as a very important and interesting case, – hence my name.

I smiled at the note, and as I had taken a liking to the man from the start, I went at once to see him.

“No,” I assured him, after receiving his cordial welcome, “my offer had no string attached. I’m more than ready to help in any way I can, to find a niche for you in this old town and fit you into it. It doesn’t matter where you hail from, or how you got here; New York is an all-comers’ race, and the devil take the hindmost.”

“He won’t get me, then,” and Rivers nodded his head determinedly; “I may not be in the van, just at first, but give me half a chance, and I’ll make good!”

This was not bumptiousness or braggadocio, I could see, but an earnest determination. The man was sincere and he had a certain doggedness of purpose, which was evident in his looks and manner as well as in his words.