The Lost House | Page 4

he was a picture of indifference, merging upon boredom.
But at the words of the boy his attitude both of mind and body
underwent an instant change. It was as though he were an actor, and the
words "thrown from the window " were his cue. It was as though he
were a dozing fox-terrier, and the voice of his master had whispered in
his ear: Sick'em!"
For a moment, with benign reproach, the Second Secretary regarded the
unhappy page, and then addressed him with laborious sarcasm.
"James," he said, "people do not communicate with ambassadors in
notes wrapped around half-crowns and hurled from windows. That is
the way one corresponds with an organ-grinder." Ford sprang to his
feet.
"And meanwhile," he exclaimed angrily, "the man will get away."
Without seeking permission, he ran past James, and through the empty
outer offices. In two minutes he returned, herding before him an
individual, seedy and soiled. In appearance the man suggested that in
life his place was to support a sandwich-board. Ford reluctantly
relinquished his hold upon a folded paper which he laid in front of the
Secretary.
"This man," he explained, "picked that out of the gutter in Sowell Street,
It's not addressed to any one, so you read it!"
I thought it was for the Ambassador!" said the Secretary.

The soiled person coughed deprecatingly, and pointed a dirty digit at
the paper. "On the inside," he suggested. The paper was wrapped
around a half-crown and folded in at each end. The diplomat opened it
hesitatingly, but having read what was written, laughed.
"There's nothing in THAT," he exclaimed. He passed the note to Ford.
The reporter fell upon it eagerly.
The note was written in pencil on an unruled piece of white paper. The
handwriting was that of a woman. What Ford read was:
"I am a prisoner in the street on which this paper is found. The house
faces east. I think I am on the top story. I was brought here three weeks
ago. They are trying to kill me. My uncle, Charles Ralph Pearsall, is
doing this to get my money. He is at Gerridge's Hotel in Craven Street,
Strand. He will tell you I am insane. My name is Dosia Pearsall Dale.
My home is at Dalesville, Kentucky, U. S. A. Everybody knows me
there, and knows I am not insane. If you would save a life take this at
once to the American Embassy, or to Scotland Yard. For God's sake,
help me."
When he had read the note, Ford continue to study it. Until he was
quite sure his voice would not betray his interest, he did not raise his
eyes.
"Why," he asked, "did you say that there's nothing in this?"
"Because," returned the diplomat conclusively, "we got a note like that,
or nearly like it, a week ago, and----"
Ford could not restrain a groan. "And you never told me!"
"There wasn't anything to tell," protested the diplomat. "We handed it
over to the police, and they reported there was nothing in it. They
couldn't find the man at that hotel, and, of course, they couldn't find the
house with no more to go on than----"
"And so," exclaimed Ford rudely, "they decided there was no man, and
no house!"
"Their theory," continued the Secretary patiently, "is that the girl is
confined in one of the numerous private sanatoriums in Sowell Street,
that she is insane, that because she's under restraint she IMAGINES the
nurses are trying to kill her and that her relatives are after her money.
Insane people are always thinking that. It's a very common delusion."
Ford's eyes were shining with a wicked joy. "So," he asked
indifferently, "you don't intend to do anything further?"

"What do you want us to do?" cried his friend. "Ring every door-bell in
Sowell Street and ask the parlor-maid if they're murdering a lady on the
top story?"
"Can I keep the paper?" demanded Ford. "You can keep a copy of it,"
consented the Secretary. "But if you think you're on the track of a big
newspaper sensation, I can tell you now you're not. That's the work of a
crazy woman, or it's a hoax. You amateur detectives----"
Ford was already seated at the table, scribbling a copy of the message,
and making marginal notes.
"Who brought the FIRST paper ?" he interrupted.
"A hansom-cab driver."
"What became of HIM? " snapped the amateur detective.
The Secretary looked inquiringly at James. "He drove away," said
James.
"He drove away, did he?"' roared Ford. "And that was a week ago! Ye
gods! What about Dalesville, Kentucky? Did you cable any one there?"
The dignity of the diplomat was becoming ruffled.
"We did not!" he answered. "If it wasn't true that her uncle was at