“I wish you would let me help you,” I
said unsteadily. “Let us make it a bargain:
each help the other!”
The girl shook her head with a sad little smile.
“I am only as unhappy as I deserve to be,”
she said. And when I protested and took a step
toward her she retreated, with her hands out before
her.
“Why don’t you ask me all the questions
you are thinking?” she demanded, with a catch
in her voice. “Oh, I know them. Or
are you afraid to ask?”
I looked at her, at the lines around her eyes, at
the drawn look about her mouth. Then I held
out my hand. “Afraid!” I said, as
she gave me hers. “There is nothing in
God’s green earth I am afraid of, save of trouble
for you. To ask questions would be to imply
a lack of faith. I ask you nothing. Some
day, perhaps, you will come to me yourself and let
me help you.”
The next moment I was out in the golden sunshine:
the birds were singing carols of joy: I walked
dizzily through rainbow-colored clouds, past the twins,
cherubs now, swinging on the gate. It was a
new world into which I stepped from the Carter farm-house
that morning, for—I had kissed her!
AT THE TABLE NEXT
McKnight and Hotchkiss were sauntering slowly down
the road as I caught up with them. As usual,
the little man was busy with some abstruse mental
problem.
“The idea is this,” he was saying, his
brows knitted in thought, “if a left-handed
man, standing in the position of the man in the picture,
should jump from a car, would he be likely to sprain
his right ankle? When a right-handed man prepares
for a leap of that kind, my theory is that he would
hold on with his right hand, and alight at the proper
time, on his right foot. Of course—”
“I imagine, although I don’t know,”
interrupted McKnight, “that a man either ambidextrous
or one-armed, jumping from the Washington Flier, would
be more likely to land on his head.”
“Anyhow,” I interposed, “what difference
does it make whether Sullivan used one hand or the
other? One pair of handcuffs will put both hands
out of commission.
As usual when one of his pet theories was attacked,
Hotchkiss looked aggrieved.
“My dear sir,” he expostulated, “don’t
you understand what bearing this has on the case?
How was the murdered man lying when he was found?”
“On his back,” I said promptly, “head
toward the engine.”
“Very well,” he retorted, “and what
then? Your heart lies under your fifth intercostal
space, and to reach it a right-handed blow would have
struck either down or directly in.
“But, gentleman, the point of entrance for the
stiletto was below the heart, striking up! As
Harrington lay with his head toward the engine, a
person in the aisle must have used the left hand.”
McKnight’s eyes sought mine and he winked at
me solemnly as I unostentatiously transferred the
hat I was carrying to my right hand. Long training
has largely counterbalanced heredity in my case, but
I still pitch ball, play tennis and carve with my left
hand. But Hotchkiss was too busy with his theories
to notice me.
