FLINDERS
If Halsey had only taken me fully into his confidence,
through the whole affair, it would have been much
simpler. If he had been altogether frank about
Jack Bailey, and if the day after the fire he had
told me what he suspected, there would have been no
harrowing period for all of us, with the boy in danger.
But young people refuse to profit by the experience
of their elders, and sometimes the elders are the
ones to suffer.
I was much used up the day after the fire, and Gertrude
insisted on my going out. The machine was temporarily
out of commission, and the carriage horses had been
sent to a farm for the summer. Gertrude finally
got a trap from the Casanova liveryman, and we went
out. Just as we turned from the drive into the
road we passed a woman. She had put down a small
valise, and stood inspecting the house and grounds
minutely. I should hardly have noticed her,
had it not been for the fact that she had been horribly
disfigured by smallpox.
“Ugh!” Gertrude said, when we had passed,
“what a face! I shall dream of it to-night.
Get up, Flinders.”
“Flinders?” I asked. “Is that
the horse’s name?”
“It is.” She flicked the horse’s
stubby mane with the whip. “He didn’t
look like a livery horse, and the liveryman said he
had bought him from the Armstrongs when they purchased
a couple of motors and cut down the stable.
Nice Flinders—good old boy!”
Flinders was certainly not a common name for a horse,
and yet the youngster at Richfield had named his prancing,
curly-haired little horse Flinders! It set me
to thinking.
At my request Halsey had already sent word of the
fire to the agent from whom we had secured the house.
Also, he had called Mr. Jamieson by telephone, and
somewhat guardedly had told him of the previous night’s
events. Mr. Jamieson promised to come out that
night, and to bring another man with him. I did
not consider it necessary to notify Mrs. Armstrong,
in the village. No doubt she knew of the fire,
and in view of my refusal to give up the house, an
interview would probably have been unpleasant enough.
But as we passed Doctor Walker’s white and
green house I thought of something.
“Stop here, Gertrude,” I said. “I
am going to get out.”
“To see Louise?” she asked.
“No, I want to ask this young Walker something.”
She was curious, I knew, but I did not wait to explain.
I went up the walk to the house, where a brass sign
at the side announced the office, and went in.
The reception-room was empty, but from the consulting-room
beyond came the sound of two voices, not very amicable.
“It is an outrageous figure,” some one
was storming. Then the doctor’s quiet
tone, evidently not arguing, merely stating something.
But I had not time to listen to some person probably
disputing his bill, so I coughed. The voices
ceased at once: a door closed somewhere, and
the doctor entered from the hall of the house.
He looked sufficiently surprised at seeing me.
