A ripple of laughter greeted this entry.
“From the sublime to the vexatious problems of everyday life,” commented Miss Susanna. She continued to read aloud the annotations of her famous kinsman. Short, and to the point, they revealed clearly the character of Brooke Hamilton—philosopher, sage, philanthropist, and lastly, unassuming country gentleman.
“This must be the book Uncle Brooke lost not more than a year before his death. He was greatly annoyed by the loss, and used to hunt for it by the hour. Many of the annotations contained dates which he could not remember, offhand. And to think that it’s been tucked away all these years in the Epictitus! Strange he didn’t find it again soon after he had lost it.” Miss Hamilton knitted thoughtful brows. “Ah, now I recall something that may have been the very reason he didn’t. A friend gave him a very fine copy of Epictitus on his birthday. He placed the new copy on his desk, in his study. It was in a much larger print than the other, and his eyes had begun to fail him considerably then.”
Miss Susanna turned leaf upon leaf of the notebook, reading aloud to her interested audience of two as she turned them. “There, I knew I was right about that.” She looked up triumphantly from the book, then read, “‘Have decided to offer the fifty-thousand conditional gift to Hamilton through the medium of “the one who may arise” in my college. I shall ask Norris to handle the matter for me. I can rely upon him for integrity, and at the same time be of financial service to him since he is hard put at present in his law business. I shall go to his office to talk things over with him tomorrow.’”
“This little book is a precious find to me, girls.” Miss Hamilton’s hands were trembling with the excitement of what she had just read. “Uncle Brooke had sometimes spoken vaguely to me of some such plan he had in mind for the college, but I never knew whether, or no, he had put it into execution. This annotation tells me that he must have done so. Once he had put his hand to the plow, he never turned back.”
The abstracted light in the old lady’s eyes spelled her absorbed listeners to silence. They continued to watch her as she turned the next leaf, waiting to hear more from her at will. The time-yellowed leaves of the note book continued to turn under her small fingers. She was evidently in search of further data concerning her kinsman’s avowed project.
“Ah; here it is!” she exclaimed. “‘Saw Norris last Tuesday. Have completed arrangements with him for the “Brooke Hamilton Honor Fund.” For particulars and necessary accompanying papers, see secret drawer.’”
“The secret drawer!” Marjorie cried. “It is in Mr. Brooke’s study desk, isn’t it? Didn’t you say once to me that there was a secret drawer in the desk?”
“Yes,” An oddly puzzled frown had sprung between Miss Hamilton’s brows. “I don’t understand what Uncle Brooke meant. There is nothing in the secret drawer in his study desk. I know that positively because Jonas and I examined it quite a long time after Uncle’s death. Jonas knew how to open it. I hadn’t known until he showed me. There were a few letters in it then, which I turned over to you, Marjorie, together with other material for the biography. None of those letters related to either this man Norris, or the honor fund. Please ring for Jonas, Leslie. He may know of another secret drawer here. I surely do not.” Miss Susanna looked nonplussed.
“Who is, or, more likely was, the man Norris to whom he intrusted the matter?” Leslie asked in her keen fashion. “If living, he would be a very old man now.”