The Classic Mystery Collection - Arthur Conan Doyle [3826]
Her first words, just as I expected, were:
"There is nothing in the papers about the child in the wagon."
"No; everything does not get into the papers."
"Will what we saw and what we found in the bungalow last night?"
"I hardly think so. That is our own special clue, Mrs. Carew--if it is a clue."
"You seem to regard it as such."
With a shrug I declared that we had come upon a mystery of some kind.
"But the child is not dead? That you feel demonstrated--or don't you?"
"As I said last night, I do not know what to think. Ah; is that the little boy?"
"Yes," she gaily responded, as the glad step of a child was heard descending the stairs. "Harry! come here, Harry!" she cried, with that joyous accent which a child's presence seems to call out in some women. "Here is a gentleman who would like to shake hands with you."
A sprite of a child entered; a perfect sunbeam irradiating the whole room. If, under the confidence induced by the vision I had had of him on his knees the night before, any suspicion remained in my mind of his being Gwendolen Ocumpaugh in disguise, it vanished at sight of the fearless head, lifted high in boyish freedom, and the gay swish, swish of the whip in his nervous little hand.
"Harry is playing horse," he cried, galloping toward me in what he evidently considered true jockey style.
I made a gesture and stopped him.
"How do you do, little man? What did you say your name is?"
"Harry," this very stoutly.
"Harry what? Harry Carew?"
"No, Harry; just Harry."
"And how do you like it here?"
"I like it; I like it better than my old home."
"Where was your old home?"
"I don't know. I didn't like it."
"He was with uncongenial people, and he is very sensitive," put in Mrs. Carew, softly.
"I like it here," he repeated, "and I like the big ocean. I am going on the ocean. And I like horses. Get up, Dandy!" and he cracked his whip and was off again on his imaginary trot.
I felt very foolish over the doubts I had so openly evinced. This was not only a boy to the marrow of his bones, but he was, as any eye could see, the near relative she called him. In my embarrassment I rose; at all events I soon found myself standing near the door with Mrs. Carew.
"A fine fellow!" I enthusiastically exclaimed; "and startlingly like you in expression. He is your nephew, I believe?"
"Yes," she replied, somewhat wistfully I thought.
I felt that I should apologize for--well, perhaps for the change she must have discerned in my manner.
"The likeness caused me a shock. I was not prepared for it, I suppose."
She looked at me quite wonderingly.
"I have never heard any one speak of it before. I am glad that you see it." And she seemed glad, very glad.
But I know that for some reason she was gladder yet when I turned to depart. However, she did not hasten me.
"What are you going to do next?" she inquired, as she courteously led the way through the piles of heaped-up boxes and baskets, the number of which had rather grown than diminished since my visit the evening before. "Pardon my asking."
"Resort to my last means," said I. "See and talk with Mrs. Ocumpaugh."
An instant of hesitation on her part, so short, however, that I could hardly detect it, then she declared:
"But you can not do that."
"Why not?"
"She is ill; I am sure that they will let no one approach her. One of her maids was in this morning. She did not even ask me to come over."
"I am sorry," said I, "but I shall make the effort. The illness which affects Mrs. Ocumpaugh can be best cured by the restoration of her child."
"But you have not found Gwendolen?" she replied.
"No; but I have discovered footprints on the dust of the bungalow floor, and, as you know, a bit of candy which looks as if