The Mystery of the Sycamore

“You criminal! You dishonest and dishonorable man!” she cried, her eyes blazing, her cheeks reddening with her righteous indignation.

“There, there, my girl, have a care. You haven’t thought it all out yet. Doubtless you’re going to say that neither your father nor mother want to remain here, if my statement is true.”

“Of course I say that! They won’t want to stay a minute! Who is the heir? Tell me!”

“And have you thought what it will mean to them to leave this place? Have you realized that your father has no business interests nor can he find any at his age? Do you remember that your mother has no funds outside the estate she inherited? Do you want to plunge them into penury, into pauperism, in their declining years?”

“Yes – if honesty requires it – ” but the sweet voice trembled at the thought.

“Honesty is a good thing – a fine policy – but you are a devoted daughter, and I remind you that to tell this thing I have told you, means disaster – ruin for you and your parents. Young Allen can’t support them – they are unaccustomed to deprivation – and,” he lowered his voice, “this heir I speak of has no knowledge of the truth. He misses nothing, since he hopes for nothing.”

Maida looked at him helplessly.

“I must think,” she said, brokenly. “Oh, you are cruel, to put this responsibility on me.”

“You know why I do it. I am not disinterested.”

CHAPTER IV

THE BIG SYCAMORE TREE

At the south door the Appleby car stood waiting.

Genevieve was saying good-bye to Maida, with the affection of an old friend.

“We’re coming back, you know,” she reminded, “in two or three days, and please say you’ll be glad to see me!”

“Of course,” Maida assented, but her lip trembled and her eyes showed signs of ready tears.

“Cheer up,” Genevieve babbled on. “I’m your friend – whatever comes with time!”

“So am I,” put in Curtis Keefe. “Good-bye for a few days, Miss Wheeler.”

How Maida did it, she scarcely knew herself, but she forced a smile, and even when Samuel Appleby gave her a warning glance at parting she bravely responded to his farewell words, and even gaily waved her hand as the car rolled down the drive.

Once out of earshot, Appleby broke out:

“I played my trump card! No, you needn’t ask me what I was, for I don’t propose to tell you. But it will take the trick, I’m sure. Why, it’s got to!”

“It must be something pretty forcible, then,” said Keefe, “for it looked to me about as likely as snow in summertime, that any of those rigid Puritans would ever give in an inch to your persuasions.”

“Or mine,” added Genevieve. “Never before have I failed so utterly to make any headway when I set out to be really persuasive.”

“You did your best, Miss Lane,” and Appleby looked at her with the air of one appraising the efficiency of a salesman. “I confess I didn’t think Wheeler would be quite such a hardshell – after all these years.”

“He’s just like concrete,” Keefe observed. “They all are. I didn’t know there were such conscientious people left in this wicked old world!”

“They’re not really in the world,” Appleby declared. “They’ve merely vegetated in that house of theirs, never going anywhere – ”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Appleby,” and Genevieve shook her head, “Boston isn’t the only burg on the planet! They often go to New York, and that’s going some!”

“Not really often – I asked Wheeler. He hasn’t been for five or six years, and though Maida goes occasionally, to visit friends, she soon runs back home to her father.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Keefe said, “they’re by no means mossbacks or hayseeds. They’re right there with the goods, when it comes to modern literature or up-to-date news – ”

“Oh, yes, they’re a highbrow bunch,” Appleby spoke impatiently; “but a recluse like that is no sort of a man! The truth is, I’m at the end of my patience! I’ve got to put this thing over with less palaver and circumlocution. I thought I’d give him a chance – just put the thing up to him squarely once – and, as he doesn’t see fit to meet me half-way, he’s got to be the loser, that’s all.”

“He seems to be the loser, as it is.” This from Keefe.

“But nothing to what’s coming to him! Why, the idea of my sparing him at all is ridiculous! If he doesn’t come down, he’s got to be wiped out! That’s what it amounts to!”

“Wiped out – how?”

“Figuratively and literally! Mentally, morally and physically! That’s how! I’ve stood all I can – I’ve waited long enough – too long – and now I’m going to play the game my own way! As I said, I played a trump card – I raised one pretty definite ruction just before we left. Now, that may do the business – and, it may not! If not, then desperate measures are necessary – and will be used!”

“Good gracious, Mr. Appleby!” Genevieve piped up from her fur collar which nearly muffled her little face. “You sound positively murderous!”

“Murder! Pooh, I’d kill Dan Wheeler in a minute, if that would help Sam! But I don’t want Wheeler dead – I want him alive – I want his help – his influence – yet, when he sits there looking like a stone wall, and about as easy to overthrow, I declare I could kill him! But I don’t intend to. It’s far more likely he’d kill me!”

“Why?” exclaimed Keefe. “Why should he? And – but you’re joking.”

“Not at all. Wheeler isn’t of the murderer type, or I’d be taking my life in my hands to go into his house! He hates me with all the strength of a hard, bigoted, but strictly just nature. He thinks I was unjust in the matter of his pardon, he thinks I was contemptible, and false to our old-time friendship; and he would be honestly and truly glad if I were dead. But – thank heaven – he’s no murderer!”

“Of course not!” cried Genevieve. “How you do talk! As if murder were an everyday performance! Why, people in our class don’t kill each other!”

The placid assumption of equality of class with her employer was so consistently Miss Lane’s usual attitude, that it caused no mental comment from either of her hearers. Her services were so valuable that any such little idiosyncrasy was tolerated.

“Of course we don’t – often,” agreed Appleby, “but I’d wager a good bit that if Dan Wheeler could bump me off without his conscience knowing it – off I’d go!”

“I don’t know about that,” said Genevieve, musingly – “but I do believe that girl would do it!”

“What?” cried Keefe. “Maida!”

“Yes; she’s a lamb for looks, but she’s got a lion’s heart – if anybody ever had one! Talk about a tigress protecting her cubs; it would be a milk-and-water performance beside Maida Wheeler shielding her father – or fighting for him – yes, or killing somebody for him!”

“Rubbish!” laughed Appleby. “Maida might be willing enough, in that lion heart of hers – but little girls don’t go around killing people.”

“I know it, and I don’t expect her to. But I only say she’s capable of it.”

“Goethe says – (Keefe spoke in his superior way) – ‘We are all capable of crime, even the best of us.’”

“I remember that phrase,” mused Appleby. “Is it Goethe’s? Well, I don’t say it’s literally true, for lots of people are too much of a jellyfish makeup to have such a capability. But I do believe there are lots of strong, forcible people, who are absolutely capable of crime – if the opportunity offers.”

“That’s it,” and Genevieve nodded her head wisely. “Opportunity is what counts. I’ve read detective stories, and they prove it. Be careful, Mr. Appleby, how you trust yourself alone with Mr. Wheeler.”

“That will do,” he reprimanded. “I can take care of myself, Miss Lane.”

Genevieve always knew when she had gone too far, and, instead of sulking, she tactfully changed the subject and entertained the others with her amusing chatter, at which she was a success.