Carey had lost no time when he read that note of appeal signed “Grace.” It was not his way to wait for a hat in any emergency, but he did not leave sagacity behind him when he swung himself into the already moving car that had come for him. He could think on the way, and he was taking no chances.
It was quite natural that Grace Kendall should have gone to see a sick pupil after Sunday school. It was not natural that any pupil would have lived out as far as Lamb’s Tavern; yet there were a hundred and one ways she might have gone there against her plans. He could question the messenger on the way and lose no time about it, nor excite the curiosity of his family. That had perhaps been one of Carey’s greatest cares all his life, amounting sometimes almost to a vice, to keep his family from finding out anything little or great connected with himself or anybody else. He had a code, and by that code all things not immediately concerning people were “none of their business.” His natural caution now caused him to get away from his house at once and excite no suspicion of danger. Grace had written to him rather than to her father with evident intention,—if she had written at all, a question he had at once recognized, but not as yet settled,—and it was easy to guess that she did not wish to worry her parents unnecessarily. He was inclined to be greatly elated that she had chosen him for her helper rather than some older acquaintance, and this was probably the moving factor in prompting him to act at once.
He would not have been the boy he was if he had not seen all these points at the first flash. The only thing he did not see and would not recognize was any danger to himself. He had always felt he could ably take care of himself, and he intended to do so now. Moreover, he expected and intended to return in time to go to that Christian Endeavor meeting.
He glanced at his watch as he dropped into the seat, and immediately sat forward, and prepared to investigate the situation. But the boy who had brought the note, and who had seemingly scuttled around to get into the front seat from the other side of the car, had disappeared, and a glance backward at the rapidly disappearing landscape gave no hint of his whereabouts. That was strange. He had evidently intended to go along. He had said, “Come on!” and hurried toward the car. Who was that kid, anyway? Where had he seen him?
For what had been a revealing fact to Cornelia, and would have greatly changed the view of things, was entirely unknown to Carey. Clytie Dodd kept her family in the background as much as possible, and to that end met her “gentlemen friends” in parks, or at soda-fountains, or by the wayside casually. She had a regular arrangement with a certain corner drug-store whereby telephone messages would reach her and bring her to the ’phone whenever she was at home; but her friends seldom came to her house, and never met her family. She had a hard-working, sensible father, an over-worked, fretful, tempestuous mother, and a swarm of little wild, outrageous brothers and sisters, none of whom approved of her high social aspirations. She found it healthier in every way to keep her domestic and social lives utterly apart; consequently Carey had never seen Sam Dodd, or his eyes might have instantly been opened. Sam was very useful to his sister on occasion when well primed with one of her hard-earned quarters, and could, if there were special inducement, even exercise a bit of detective ability. Sam knew how to disappear off the face of the earth, and he had done it thoroughly this time.
Carey leaned forward, and questioned the driver.
“What’s the matter? Anything serious?”
But the driver sat unmoved, staring ahead and making his car go slamming along, regardless of ruts or bumps, at a tremendous rate of speed. Carey did not object to the speed. He wanted to get back. He tried again, touching the man on the shoulder and shouting his question. The man turned after a second nudge, and stared resentfully, but appeared to be deaf.
Carey shouted a third time, and then the man gave evidence of being also dumb; but after a fourth attempt he gave forth the brief word: “I dunno. Lady jes’ hired me.”
The man did not look so stupid as he sounded, and Carey made several attempts to get further information, even to ask for a description of the lady who had sent him; but he answered either, “I dunno,” or, “Yep, I gezzo”; and Carey finally gave up. He dived into his pocket for the note once more, having a desire to study the handwriting of the young woman for whom he had newly acquired an admiration. It didn’t seem real that expedition. As he thought of it, it didn’t seem like that quiet, modest girl to send for a comparative stranger to help her in distress. It seemed more like Clytie. But that note had not been Clytie’s writing. Clytie affected a large, round, vertical hand like a young school-child, crude and unfinished. This letter had been delicately written by a finished hand on thick cream stationery. Where was that note? He was sure he had put it in his pocket.