The Store Boy

CHAPTER XXVIII MRS. HILL'S MALICE

At this mo­ment there was a low knock on the door.

“Come in!” said Mrs. Hamil­ton.

Mrs. Hill, the house­keep­er, glid­ed in, with her usu­al stealthy step.

“I re­al­ly beg par­don for in­trud­ing,” she said, with a slight cough, “but I thought per­haps I might throw light on the mat­ter Mr. Lynx is in­ves­ti­gat­ing.”

“Well?” said the de­tec­tive, ey­ing her at­ten­tive­ly.

“I had oc­ca­sion to go in­to Ben's room to see if the girl had put things in or­der, when my at­ten­tion was drawn to a tick­et up­on the bu­reau. You can tell whether it is of im­por­tance,” and she hand­ed it, with an air of def­er­ence, to Mr. Lynx.

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Hamil­ton.

“It is a pawn tick­et,” an­swered Mr. Lynx at­ten­tive­ly.

“Let me see it, please!”

Mrs. Hamil­ton re­gard­ed it with min­gled pain and in­creduli­ty.

“I need not say,” con­tin­ued the house­keep­er, “that I was sur­prised and sad­dened at this ev­idence of the boy's de­prav­ity. Cousin Hamil­ton has been so kind to him that it seems like the height of in­grat­itude.”

“May I ask, madam,” said Mr. Lynx, “if your sus­pi­cions had fas­tened on this boy, Ben, be­fore you found the pawn tick­et?”

“To tell the truth, they had.”

“And what rea­son had you for form­ing such sus­pi­cions?”

“I knew that the boy fre­quent­ed gam­bling hous­es, and, of course, no salary, how­ev­er large, would be suf­fi­cient for a boy with such habits.”

Mrs. Hamil­ton did not speak, which some­what em­bar­rassed Mrs. Hill. Mr. Lynx, how­ev­er, was very af­fa­ble, and thanked her for her as­sis­tance.

“I felt it my du­ty to as­sist Cousin Hamil­ton,” said she, “though I am sor­ry for that un­grate­ful boy. I will now with­draw, and leave you to con­fer to­geth­er.”

Mrs. Hill would like to have been in­vit­ed to re­main, but such an in­vi­ta­tion was not giv­en.

“What do you think, Mr. Lynx?” asked Mrs. Hamil­ton.

“I think your house­keep­er does not like Ben Bar­clay,” he an­swered dry­ly.

“And you don't think him guilty?” she asked ea­ger­ly.

“No; the boy isn't fool enough, first, to give his own name at the pawn­bro­ker's, and next, to leave the tick­et ex­posed in his room.”

“How then did it come there?”

Mr. Lynx was saved the trou­ble of an­swer­ing by an­oth­er tap on the door.

“Who is it now?” he said.

He stepped to the door, and open­ing it, ad­mit­ted Su­san.

“What is it, Su­san,” asked Mrs. Hamil­ton, in some sur­prise.

“Did Mrs. Hill bring you a pawn tick­et, ma'am?”

“And what do you know about it?” de­mand­ed Mr. Lynx brusque­ly.

“And did she say she found it on Mas­ter Ben's bu­reau?”

“Yes, Su­san,” said the mis­tress; “what can you tell us about it?”

“I can tell you this, ma'am, that I saw Mas­ter Con­rad steal in­to the room this morn­ing, and put it there with his own hands.”

“Ha! this is some­thing to the pur­pose.” said the de­tec­tive briskly.

“Are you sure of this, Su­san?” asked Mrs. Hamil­ton, ev­ident­ly shocked.

“I can take my Bible oath of it, ma'am; and it's my be­lief that he's tryin' to get Mas­ter Ben in­to trou­ble.”

“Thank you, Su­san,” said her mis­tress. “You have done not on­ly Ben, but my­self, a valu­able ser­vice. You can go. I will see that you do not re­gret it.”

“Don't tell Mrs. Hill that I told you, or she'd be my en­emy for life!”

“I will see to that.”

As Su­san left the room, Mr. Lynx said:

“You won't re­quire my ser­vices any longer. It is clear enough who pawned the glass.”

“You mean--”

“I mean the boy Con­rad, whose moth­er was so anx­ious to fix the guilt up­on your young sec­re­tary. If you have the slight­est doubt about it, in­vite the young gen­tle­man to ac­com­pa­ny you to Simp­son's to re­deem the opera glass.”

“I will.”