The Window at the White Cat | Page 9

morning, and on the way I found and
interviewed the corner-man at Chestnut and Union. But he was of small
assistance. He remembered the incident, but the gentleman in the
taxicab had not been hurt and refused to give his name, saying he was
merely passing through the city from one railroad station to another,
and did not wish any notoriety.
At eleven o'clock Hunter called up; he said he was going after the affair
himself, but that it was hard to stick a dip net into the political puddle
without pulling out a lot more than you went after, or than it was
healthy to get. He was inclined to be facetious, and wanted to know if I
had come across any more k. v's. Whereupon I put away the notes I had
made about Delia and Mamie Brennan and I heard him chuckle as I
rang off.
I went to Bellwood that evening. It was a suburban town a dozen miles
from the city, with a picturesque station, surrounded by lawns and
cement walks. Streetcars had so far failed to spoil its tree-bordered
streets, and it was exclusive to the point of stagnation. The Maitland
place was at the head of the main street, which had at one time been its
drive. Miss Letitia, who was seventy, had had sufficient commercial
instinct, some years before, to cut her ancestral acres--their ancestral
acres, although Miss Jane hardly counted--into building lots, except
perhaps an acre which surrounded the house. Thus, the Maitland ladies
were reputed to be extremely wealthy. And as they never spent any
money, no doubt they were.

The homestead as I knew it, was one of impeccable housekeeping and
unmitigated gloom. There was a chill that rushed from the
old-fashioned center hall to greet the new-comer on the porch, and that
seemed to freeze up whatever in him was spontaneous and cheerful.
I had taken dinner at Bellwood before, and the memory was not
hilarious. Miss Letitia was deaf, but chose to ignore the fact. With
superb indifference she would break into the conversation with some
wholly alien remark that necessitated a reassembling of one's ideas,
making the meal a series of mental gymnastics. Miss Jane, through
long practice, and because she only skimmed the surface of
conversation, took her cerebral flights easily, but I am more unwieldy
of mind.
Nor was Miss Letitia's dominance wholly conversational. Her sister
Jane was her creature, alternately snubbed and bullied. To Miss Letitia,
Jane, in spite of her sixty-five years, was still a child, and sometimes a
bad one. Indeed many a child of ten is more sophisticated. Miss Letitia
gave her expurgated books to read, and forbade her to read divorce
court proceedings in the newspapers. Once, a recreant housemaid
presenting the establishment with a healthy male infant, Jane was sent
to the country for a month, and was only brought back when the house
had been fumigated throughout.
Poor Miss Jane! She met me with fluttering cordiality in the hall that
night, safe in being herself for once, with the knowledge that Miss
Letitia always received me from a throne-like horsehair sofa in the back
parlor. She wore a new lace cap, and was twitteringly excited.
"Our niece is here," she explained, as I took off my coat--everything
was "ours" with Jane; "mine" with Letitia--"and we are having an ice at
dinner. Please say that ices are not injurious, Mr. Knox. My sister is so
opposed to them and I had to beg for this."
"On the contrary, the doctors have ordered ices for my young
nephews," I said gravely, "and I dote on them myself."
Miss Jane beamed. Indeed, there was something almost unnaturally gay

about the little old lady all that evening. Perhaps it was the new lace
cap. Later, I tried to analyze her manner, to recall exactly what she had
said, to remember anything that could possibly help. But I could find
no clue to what followed.
Miss Letitia received me as usual, in the back parlor. Miss Fleming was
there also, sewing by a window, and in her strait white dress with her
hair drawn back and braided around her head, she looked even younger
than before. There was no time for conversation. Miss Letitia launched
at once into the extravagance of both molasses and butter on the
colored orphans' bread and after a glance at me, and a quick
comprehension from my face that I had no news for her, the girl at the
window bent over her sewing again.
"Molasses breeds worms," Miss Letitia said decisively. "So does pork.
And yet those children think Heaven means ham and molasses three
times a day."
"You have had no news at all?" Miss Fleming said cautiously, her head
bent over her work.
"None," I returned,