Part 2

“We came away from Watertown,” said the girl. “It was my fault; there was a boy--a young man--I wanted to punish because he had flirted with another girl, and Father had an offer of a job here in New York, so I made him come. And Mother wanted to come. Father had taken to drink, and she thought he might quit it here, with so much else to interest him; but it was worse here, and he lost his place and was always drunk. So I got work, and Mother--”

The girl touched her forehead with her hand.

“But not badly,” urged the girl. “Oh, she is not bad! Father wants to send her to the asylum, but I know it would be worse for her there, so I wrote to the Society, and they sent some one, and they thought as I did; but Father was mad with anger. He swore he would cut all our throats. That was why I wanted you to hurry, when I thought you were from the Society.”

“Oh, I say, now!” exclaimed Morley Smith.

“Yes, I did not know what he would do if he came back and found you here, or found you taking Mother away. I don’t know what he will do if he comes back now. If he will listen while you tell him about the money--”

“Give him a bit, to get rid of him--what?” suggested Morley Smith.

“Yes, that was what I thought,” said the girl, “if the money is really mine. If he had a dollar or two, he would go out and not come back until it was all spent, and before then Miss Cardigan might come for Mother.”

“To take me where I can earn a great deal of money for Mary,” said the poor woman brightly. “Money to make Mary well.”

“I have been sick, you understand,” said the girl, “and I ought to be in a hospital now.”

The mother wandered to the door and looked out, listening.

“So you understand now why I was frightened when you spoke of John Dredd,” the girl said. “I had written to him.”

“For a bit of cash, what?” asked Morley Smith.

“Oh, no! Not that!” exclaimed the girl. “To say farewell, for--for the last time--forever! I thought Mother would be where she would be cared for, and Father has been nothing but cruel and unkind, and I am so ill and so sick of everything. I hoped I would be dead and through with everything by now, Mr. Cardigan! Then they put me off for a day, the people at the Society, and I had to wait, although I had written to John that I meant to--to die. So I was afraid he might have come. I was afraid he had received my letter and might be here, and I wanted to do what I had written--after Mother had gone. It was silly of me to think he had come, for I don’t know where John Dredd may be by now. He may be anywhere in the world, or dead. He probably does not care where I am, or whether I am dead or not. But now,” she said more cheerfully, “I will go to the hospital--if this money is mine. I will get well.”

“Jove, yes!” said Morley Smith. “There’s not a bit of doubt you are the girl.”

He felt in his pocket for something she might sign, and found the latest annual statement of his club. He made her sign her name to this--on the blank sheet--and tucked it carefully away in his inner pocket. This adventure was working out nicely. He had plunged into it, and he was getting out again, and that is the ultimate perfection in adventures. The few dollars meant nothing to him; he had more than he knew what to do with.

“Right-o!” he said cheerfully. “So now I’ll just be toddling along. Good night!”

“You are sure it is all right?” the girl asked as he drew on his coat and sought his hat and gloves. “It means so much to me--it means life, and health.”

“Quite sure!” said Morley Smith, and he bowed himself out of the room and closed the door. He was sure he heard the girl sob then. He stood an instant, with his hand on the knob, to make sure, and then opened the door enough to look inside. The girl was clasping her mother in her arms in an agony of love.

“I say!” said Morley Smith. “The chappy you mentioned--John Dredd--he is in the other room, what? I all but forgot the poor beggar!”

Again the girl made the quick, feminine gesture of smoothing her hair. She went white and put her hand to her heart, and then she smiled and walked toward the other door, bravely, and Morley Smith closed the door and turned.

Across the hall the door was open, and he had a momentary glimpse of the interior of just such another room as the one he had left, but by the poor bed a woman was kneeling, and a man stood at her side, his back to the door. His hand was on her shoulder and his head was bowed.

“Jove, yes!” said Morley Smith softly, but what he meant he did not know, although we can guess. He tiptoed down the stairs very quietly, and when he was in the drizzling outer air again, he repeated the words: “Jove, yes!”

Perhaps he meant that adventuring from a comfortable club chair was well worth while, for he stopped at the first florist’s and sent white flowers to the room where even the sympathy of a poor woman with mind estranged had been welcome.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 1918 issue of The Green Book Magazine.]