Later, in a city cellar lair a meeting of angry, puzzled, incredulous men, and one, resolute, calm, fearless, indifferent, determined, dominating them all. Money going around, more than they had expected, yet only arousing suspicion; and then, before they could protest, the leader going out into the night alone, leaving them to voice their suspicions, and plot against him.
CHAPTER XII
When Judge Peterson woke up in the morning after a night of restless tossing, and an early morning doze, he called to his wife with a voice much like his old time vigor.
“Miranda, bring me my pants. I want to try how it seems to sit up. I’ve got to get out of here and find that little girl. There’s something queer about this business and I reckon it’s up to me to study it out.”
The anxious face of Miranda Peterson that had been creased all night with tormenting fears suddenly relaxed and a gleam of joy came into her eyes. This was her old time husband back again. The visitors hadn’t done him so much damage after all, perhaps had only given him an added incentive to get well. With a spring in her step and a light in her eye she swung the old-fashioned wardrobe door open and revealed his baggy trousers hung up by their suspenders just where she had put them the night he was taken sick.
“All right, father,” she said briskly, “There they are. You have your breakfast and as soon as the doctor comes we’ll ask him if you can put ’em on. There’s ham and eggs this morning, do you feel for ham or only eggs?”
“Both!” declared the indomitable old man, “I’ve got a lot to do today and I want strength. Mother, did you ever think that Mary Massey suspected her son’s wife of not being—well—exactly loyal to the family?”
Miranda Peterson paused in the open doorway:
“Yes, I did, father. The last time I was up there before she died she kind of tried to apologize to me for asking me to close the door while we talked. She said she knew Nan wasn’t very fond of Joyce, and she didn’t want her to know we were talking about her future, it might cause jealousy. She said Nan had accused her of thinking more of Joyce than she did of her own son’s wife, as of course she did. How could she help it? But I could see she was real uneasy about how they would get on when she was gone, especially when they found out about the house. She said then she was going to explain it all to Eugene right away. But you know she took worse that night and I suppose she never did get the chance. I think myself it was a great mistake, letting the children grow up without knowing all about it, but of course Mary Massey felt she must keep her sister’s dying request, and her sister hadn’t wanted Joyce to know she had money coming to her till she was twenty-one. She said she was afraid it would spoil her. Well, she isn’t spoiled, that’s one thing certain, but it always seems to me when you work real hard to escape one trouble, you’re like as not to run head on to another that’s about as bad. Look what’s happened now. I don’t blame Joyce Radway one little mite for not standing that Nannette. She’s got a tongue like a hissing serpent, and she can wind that light-minded, weak-chinned, bull-headed husband of hers around her little finger. How that poor bag of meal ever came to be Mary Massey’s son I can’t figure, even with a husband like Hiram Massey, for Mary Massey was the salt of the earth. Talking about salt, do you want your eggs on toast? And hot milk? Yes, I know. I’ll have ’em here in the jerk of a lamb’s tail, and then you’ll be ready to talk to the doctor when he comes.”
“All right, mother. And say, send Dan down. He’s about isn’t he? Well, I want him to go an errand. Send him in.”