“Let them think what they choose,” was Major Simpson’s final decision. “It is not for me, Sylvester Simpson, to account to the young Burnetts for my method of tracking criminals.” And then he proceeded to justify himself for having talked too freely before a cub reporter and even persuaded himself that the publicity given the shoplifting episode was a stroke of finesse that only a master mind, such as his, would have been capable of originating.
“I can manage Charles,” he said to himself, “but I am not so sure of Theodore. He is an opinionated youngster.”
In the mean time the “opinionated youngster” was doubled up with laughter over the magazine section of the Sunday paper.
“Just when we thought we could put our hands on the criminals! Oh, Major Simpson, Major Simpson, what a legacy our father and grandfather left us in your portly person! And what will the little O’Gorman say to this?”
What the little O’Gorman thought we may never know, but what she said was:
“Oh, me, oh, my! As my father used to say; ‘The best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft aglee.’”
She then betook herself to the quiet and peace of her own little bedroom, there to work out a plan and incidentally to read a few pages in her book of books, hoping her clever father might have left some words of wisdom bearing more directly on misplaced publicity than on the schemes of mice and men.
Mrs. Leslie’s indignation knew no bounds when she read what the newspaper said about her.
“Dashing widow indeed! I never dashed in my life.”
“And certainly you never widded,” said Mary, trying not to laugh. “But, dearest, you should be proud that your coffee and doughnuts got into print, although anonymously. After all, nobody will know whose they were unless you tell them.”