“No, no! Please go on.”
“There is not much more to tell. See!” He lifted the lid of the trunk. “Everything is spotlessly clean. A man’s shirts, a woman’s house dresses, little frocks and rompers for two tiny girls. Poor folks they are, like you and me. He was a soldier, too. There is a sharp-shooter’s medal on a pin cushion. There’s a child’s birth certificate, a doll with its nose kissed white, and a small Bible. They lost all that.
“And I—I shall send it back.”
“They will pay you,” said Petite Jeanne.
“They will not pay. They cannot. Some are always poor. These are like that.
“But this one—” His lips curled in sudden scorn. “This big boy who goes strutting through the world, he shall pay, and I shall pass it on to these who need and perhaps deserve it.
“But I am keeping you here!” he cried. “Here are the trunks we have saved for your own eyes. You will see that Weston has spoken truthfully. They are filled for the most part with junk. But now and then there is a story, a real story of some romantic life. See, this one opens easily. I have found a key for it.”
“Wait!” On Jeanne’s face was a look almost of distress. “You have told me so much. It seems so cruel that we should pry into their lives. It—it’s like coming upon people in the dark. I—I’m afraid. I—”
“Oh, come!” he laughed. “It’s not half as bad as that. Probably we won’t come upon anything of interest at all. Indeed that’s almost sure to be the case, and I am inclined to repent inviting you here.” So saying, he lifted the lid of the first of the row of trunks, and the show began.