“No. The hair was brown. The doll’s eyes opened and shut.”
“So you opened its eyes and said, ‘See the fire!’”
“No. I took the doll to the window and said, ‘See the tower.’”
“What sort of tower?” The air of the room grew tense, yet the girl did not know it.
“A brownstone tower. A round tower with a round flat roof of stone. There was a bell in the tower that rang and rang on Christmas Eve.”
“Could you draw it?” He pressed pencil and paper into her hand. She made a crude drawing, then held it up to him.
“It will do,” he breathed. “Now, one more question. What kind of a house was it you lived in then?”
“A red brick house—square and a little ugly.”
“Fine! Wonderful!” Rodney Angel relaxed. “I know that tower. There is only one such in all Chicago-land. It was built before the Civil War. It is a college tower. I doubt if there is more than one red brick house within sight of it. If there is not, then that is where you lived. And if you lived there, we will be able to find someone who knew that short, stout, jolly man who was your father.”
“My father!” the girl cried, “No! It can’t be! He is tall, slim and dignified.”