Lawrence, his brain whirling, pressed a hand over the pocket containing the photograph.
“Oh, Pretty, Pretty!” he said in a whisper. “Are you my mother, dear?”
CHAPTER VIII
An hour passed, during which a whirling horde of hopes, ambitions and anticipations, not unmixed with fears, passed through Lawrence’s mind. There was so much to hope for; so little to build on. It had been a long while since the day when Moll went down to the river with the two little children, the hapless babies whose tender little feet had been so rudely torn from the pleasant paths that Fate had set for them. Lawrence thought sadly of the little brother who had gone down in the sly and ruthless current of the Ohio River.
At first he could scarcely wait to share his news with Mr. Ridgeway; then the habits of a lifetime of self-dependence commenced to assert themselves. Mr. Ridgeway was involved in an adventure that might turn out to have a serious, indeed possibly a fatal outcome. Lawrence smiled. The knowledge that had come to him in such a strange and unexpected way seemed of more importance than all the crown jewels in the world. Jewels!...
Why, he had a chance at last for a name, for a home, for people of his own! The thought made him dizzier than any flight through the uncharted upper reaches of endless ether. Yet after all, the affair did not touch his new employer and friend, and Lawrence doubted the wisdom of bothering him about it. It would be better, he finally decided, to wait until the job was over, and then hurry back to Louisville. It would be easy enough to find out from the records or old files of the papers when two little children and their nurse had been drowned. That was all that he needed to know. It made him wild to think that he had lived so many years, poor, cast-off, lonely, in the same city with his own people. That they might have left Louisville did not occur to Lawrence. He imagined them still there, still sadly and tenderly grieving for the lost babies.
Yes, he would wait! He would see the thing through himself. Then he would return to Mr. Ridgeway and tell him the glad news. Perhaps his mother and father would accompany him. But like a cloud came the thought, suppose in all the passing years death had overtaken father or mother, perhaps both?
Lawrence could scarcely endure the thought, and put it from him with a determined effort to let nothing mar his happiness. But all the more he decided he would keep it all locked in his own breast until the present task was well accomplished. He felt tenderly of the flat square in his pocket, the outline of the case holding the photograph. A warmth seemed to spread from it. No, she at least—mother, sister, some one, the owner of that loving and beautiful face—was waiting for him. On earth, living, he felt that some day he should greet her. He patted the case. “Oh, who are you, dear?” he whispered.
Mr. Ridgeway came rushing up and jumped into the machine.
“It is all set now!” he exclaimed. “Everything ready! Everything arranged! I have just sent one of the White House messengers with instructions to O’Brien. The man will return to my private secretary with O’Brien’s personal receipt. I have also sent a telegram to the man in charge at Barnegat. I want you to drop me at the house and take the car up to your apartment. Have you a suitcase? Pack in it just what you will need while we are in the dirigible. When we get across, we will buy everything we need in the way of clothes. As soon as you get your things packed, come back and join me. We will spend the night quietly at home, and about four o’clock tomorrow morning we will go to the field, stuff the suitcases in one of the airplanes, and sail down to Barnegat. At dawn, O’Brien is to make a fuss around the field, and will start off with the dirigible that is there. If any chasing is to be done, those scoundrels will chase him. He is to have a good crew with him and is to follow our general direction but keep out of sight of us. We can pick him up by wireless any time. I don’t believe there is a flaw in the whole thing!”