The Blue Lights: A Detective Story

by Frederic Arnold Kummer

It was her only chance, however, and she took it. Even as the footsteps of the approaching man sounded upon the landing outside, Grace flew across the room and into the closet, closing the door softly behind her. In her haste, one arm of a velveteen coat which hung upon a hook, became jammed in the door, with the result that it would not entirely close. She realized that it was too late to remedy the trouble now, and crouched back trembling with excitement.

The jamming of the door had caused it to remain slightly open, with a space half an inch broad between it and the casing. Through this, Grace could see a part of the room before her. She watched the door to the hallway intently, as it was thrown open.

The man she had seen in the pastry shop came in, several packages in his hands. These he placed upon a table, and at once began to prepare breakfast. A small alcohol lamp served for coffee, and butter, rolls, and fruit he produced from the paper bags before him. There was also a bottle of milk. Grace wondered if this was intended for the child.

The man went about his preparations silently. Grace occasionally obtained a good view of his face. He was apparently about thirty years of age, dark and swarthy. There was something familiar about his manner, his general appearance; although what it was, she could not tell. She was certain, however, that she had seen him before.

Once or twice he made a move, as though to approach the closet; but each time it was something else that claimed his attention. Once it was to get a package of cigarettes that lay upon one of the modeling stands. Grace wondered what she would have done, had he kept on toward her, and opened the closet door.

She fell to thinking, in momentary snatches, about home, and Richard. How curious it seemed for them both to be here in Paris, separated for all these days, yet so near each other! She wondered if Richard had written to her, and what he would think, not to have heard from her. Then she remembered that after all he had been in Paris but a few days—there was scarcely time for a letter to have reached him. She thought of Uncle Abe, pottering about among the flower beds, of Aunt Lucy grumbling good naturedly over her wash tubs, of Rose, singing her queer camp meeting songs in the spring twilight, of Don, and the other dogs, the chickens, and her beloved flowers, and wondered how all of them were getting along with Richard and herself both away.

Her reveries were interrupted by a sudden sound which made her start forward, tense with excitement. The man in the studio had gone for a moment beyond the line of her vision, into a corner of the room to her left. She could not see what he was doing there, and it was while waiting for him to reappear that she had fallen into her day dream.

The sound which startled her was the voice of a child, not crying, this time, but speaking clearly and distinctly. "I want to go home!" it said, in a high nervous voice. "I want to see my mamma!"

The man answered roughly, impatiently. "You can't go now. Be quiet and come and eat your breakfast."

He appeared suddenly in the line of view commanded by the crack in the door, and Grace saw that he held a small boy by one hand, and was leading him to the table. Here he placed him in a chair and set before him a glass of milk and a roll. "Hurry up now!" the man growled. "Eat your breakfast. I've got to go out."