“Certainly my dear, I will make that promise,” replied Mr. Dexter, with a beneficent smile, “now tell me what this mysterious thing is. I assure you I am very anxious to know.”
Then Laura told him the story with which my readers have been already made familiar—she described to him their acquaintance with Bruce and repeated what he had told her in regard to the old house and his instant recognition of it. As she proceeded, the old gentleman’s interest in her story grew stronger and stronger, and when she ended he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a hand that was by no means steady and exclaimed “What you tell me is very strange indeed! I remember the young man very well. He came up to my house one day to get some magazines and papers that I had there; and so he found Harry that very day did he? Well my dear, I scarcely know what to think of it, for strangely enough his story fits in with certain other things that I have learned within a year and makes it more than possible that—but after all what is the use of allowing such thoughts to enter my head?” and breaking off abruptly he rose from his chair pacing slowly up and down the floor talking indistinctly to himself as he did so.
And as he walked, Laura, who had become thoroughly excited over the mystery which she found as romantic and interesting as any she had ever found in a novel, watched him intently, carefully noting the effect that her words had had on him and wondering what the meaning of the whole matter was.
“Do you happen to know the address of this young man?” inquired Mr. Dexter suddenly stopping in his walk.
“Mr. Dexter * * * held out his hand for the address.”—Page [257].
“Yes,” said Laura, “I’ll run and get it for you, but you must never tell anybody that I did because it would make awful trouble for me.”
When she returned she found her father, her aunt and Harry in the room and for a moment she was at a loss what to do, but Mr. Dexter, who was anxiously looking for her, held out his hand for the address and said, as Laura placed the scrap of paper in it, “Remember, this is our secret, my little girl, and Harry is not to know anything about it.”
The way in which he said this and the smile with which his words were accompanied stimulated Harry’s curiosity and at the same time served to put the elders off the scent. Then the conversation was turned into other channels and in five minutes the incident had passed out of the minds of everyone but the two concerned in it.
That afternoon Laura spread her writing materials on the parlor table and sat down to write her regular weekly letter to her dear friend in America, Kitty Harriott. She had just written “Dear Kitty,” when a thought came into her mind that caused her to drop her pen and sit for a moment in deep meditation. Then with cheeks flushed with excitement, she continued as follows: