“Are you sure it did go?” said the sheriff.
“Well, the property was sold, and we never saw anything afterwards of the money. And the estate wasn’t a bottomless well. It isn’t so strange, sir, that—that they had poor Aunt Margaret cared for.”
“At an insane asylum?”
“Yes, sir, for five years. I confess,” said the young man, jumping up and pacing the room—“I confess I think it was a horrible place, horrible. But they didn’t know. It was only after she recovered her senses and was released that we began to understand what she suffered. Not so much then, for she was shy of us all. She was so scared, poor thing! And then—we began to suspect that she was not cured of her delusions. Maybe there were consultations and talk about her, though indeed, sir, my mother has assured me many times that there was no intention of sending her back. But she is very shrewd, and she would notice how doors would be shut and the conversation would be changed when she entered a room, and her suspicions were aroused. She managed to raise some money on a mortgage, and she ran away, leaving not a trace behind her. My mother has reproached herself ever since. And we’ve tried to find her. It has preyed upon my mother’s mind that she might be living somewhere, poor and lonely and neglected. We are not rich people,” said the young man, lifting his head proudly, “but we have enough. I come to offer Aunt Margaret money, not to ask it. We’ve kept up the place, and bit by bit paid off the mortgage, though it has come hard sometimes. And it was awkward the title being in that kind of shape, and ma wouldn’t for a long time get it quieted.”
“But how did you ever find out she was here?”
The young Southerner smiled. “I reckon I owe being in this scrape at all to your gentlemen of the press. One of them wrote a kind of character-sketch about her, describing her—”
“I know. He’s the youngest man on the list, and an awful liar, but he does write a mighty readable story.”
“He did this time,” said Allerton, dryly; “so readable it was copied in the papers all over, I expect; anyhow, it was copied in our local sheet—inside, where they have the patent insides, you know. It was entitled ‘A Usurer, but Merciful!’ I showed it to my mother, and she was sure it was Aunt Margaret. Even the name was right, for her whole name is Margaret Clark Cary. She hadn’t the heart to cast the name away, and she thought, Clark being a common name, she wouldn’t be discovered.”
Amos, who had sat down, was nursing his ankle. “Do you suppose,” said he, slowly—“do you suppose that taking it to be the case she wasn’t so much hurt as the doctors supposed, that then she could get out of the room?”
“I don’t see how she could. She was in the room, in the bed, when I went out. I sat down before the door. She couldn’t pass me. I heard a screech after a while, a mighty queer sound, and I ran in. Sir, I give you my word of honor, the bed was empty! the room was empty!”