The Lost House | Page 9

now the other," commanded Ford.
The house-fronts echoed back the cheering notes of "Dixie." Again
Ford was silent, and again The silence answered him. The accompanist
glared disgustedly at the darkened windows.
"They don't know them songs," he explained professionally. "Give 'em,
'Mollie Married the Marquis.'"
"I'll sing the first one again," said Ford. Once more he broke into the
pathetic cadences of the "Old Kentucky Home." But there was no
response. He was beginning to feel angry, absurd. He believed he bad

wasted precious moments, and, even as he sang, his mind was already
working upon a new plan. The song ceased, unfinished.
"It's no use!" he exclaimed. Remembering himself, he added: "We'll try
the next street."
But even as he spoke he leaped forward. Coming apparently from
nowhere, something white sank through the semi-darkness and fell at
his feet. It struck the pavement directly in front of the middle one of the
three houses. Ford fell upon it and clutched it in both hands. It was a
woman's glove. Ford raced back to the piano.
"Once more," he cried, "play 'Dixie'!"
He shouted out the chorus exultantly, triumphantly. Had he spoken it in
words, the message could not have carried more clearly.
Ford now believed he had found the house, found the woman, and was
eager only to get rid of his companion and, in his own person, return to
Sowell Street. But, lest the man might suspect there was in his actions
something more serious than a practical joke, he forced himself to sing
the new songs in three different streets. Then, pretending to tire of his
prank, he paid the musician and left him. He was happy, exultant,
tingling with excitement. Good-luck had been with him, and, hoping
that Gerridge's might yet yield some clew to Pearsall, he returned there.
Calling up the London office of the REPUBLIC, he directed that one of
his assistants, an English lad named Cuthbert, should at once join him
at that hotel. Cuthbert was but just out of Oxford. He wished to become
a writer of fiction, and, as a means of seeing many kinds of life at first
hand, was in training as a "Pressman." His admiration for Ford
amounted to almost hero-worship; and he regarded an "assignment"
with his chief as a joy and an honor. Full of enthusiasm, and as soon as
a taxicab could bring him, he arrived at Gerridge's, where, in a corner
of the deserted coffee-room, Ford explained the situation. Until he
could devise a way to enter the Sowell Street house. Cuthbert was to
watch over it.
"The number of the house is forty," Ford told him; "the name on the
door-plate, Dr. Prothero. Find out everything you can about him
without letting any one catch you at it. Better begin at the nearest
chemist's. Say you are on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and ask
the man to mix you a sedative, and recommend a physician. Show him
Prothero's name and address on a piece of paper, and say Prothero has

been recommended to you as a specialist on nervous troubles. Ask what
he thinks of him. Get him to talk. Then visit the trades-people and the
public-houses in the neighborhood, and say you are from some West
End shop where Prothero, wants to open an account. They may talk,
especially if his credit is bad. And, if you find out enough about him to
give me a working basis, I'll try to get into the house to-night.
Meanwhile, I'm going to make another quick search of this hotel for
Pearsall. I'm not satisfied he has not been here. For why should Miss
Dale, with all the hotels in London to choose from, have named this
particular one, unless she had good reason for it? Now, go, and meet
me in an hour in Sowell Street."
Cuthbert was at the door when he remembered he had brought with him
from the office Ford's mail and cablegrams. Among the latter was the
one for which Ford had asked.
"Wait," he commanded. "This is about the girl. You had better know
what it says." The cable read:
"Girl orphan, Dalesville named after her family, for three generations
mill-owners, father died four years ago, Pearsall brother-in-law until
she is twenty-one, which will be in three months. Girl well known,
extremely popular, lived Dalesville until last year, when went abroad
with uncle, since then reports of melancholia and nervous prostration,
before that health excellent--no signs insanity--none in family. Be
careful how handle Pearsall, was doctor, gave up practice to look after
estate, is prominent in local business and church circles, best reputation,
beware libel."
For the benefit of Cuthbert, Ford had been reading the cable aloud. The
last paragraph seemed especially to interest him, and he read