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Helping Himself, or Grant Thornton's Ambition

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<h2> CHAPTER XXXI — THE HOUSEKEEPER'S CRIME </h2> It is not to be supposed that during this time the family of the missing boy were idle. The mysterious disappearance of his only son filled his father's heart with anguish, and he took immediate steps to penetrate the mystery. Not only was the fullest information given to the police, but an experienced detective connected with a private agency was detailed for the search. The matter also got into the papers, and Herbert, in his Western home, little suspected that his name had already become a household word in thousands of families. Days passed, and in spite of the efforts that were being made to discover him, no clew had been obtained by Herbert's friends, either as to his whereabouts, or as to the identity of the party or parties hat had abducted him. It is needless to say that Grant heartily sympathized with the afflicted father, and was sad on his own account, for he had become warmly attached to the little boy whose instant companion he had been in his hours of leisure. The only one in the house who took the matter coolly was Mrs. Estabrook, the housekeeper. She even ventured to suggest that Herbert had run away. “What do you mean, Mrs. Estabrook?” exclaimed the father, impatiently. “You ought to know my poor boy better than that!” “Boys are a worrisome set,” returned the housekeeper, composedly. “Only last week I read in the Herald about two boys who ran away from good homes and went out to kill Indians.” “Herbert was not that kind of a boy,” said Grant. “He had no fondness for adventure.” “I have known Herbert longer than you, young man,” retorted the housekeeper, with a sneer. “It is very clear that you didn't know him as well,” said Mr. Reynolds. Mrs. Estabrook sniffed, but said nothing. Without expressly saying so, it was evident that she dissented from Mr. Reynolds' opinion. The broker's loss unfitted him for work, and he left the details of office work to his subordinates, while nearly all his time was spent in interviews with the police authorities or in following up faint clews. His loss seemed to strengthen the intimacy and attachment between him and Grant, in whom he confided without reserve. When at home in the evening he talked over with Grant, whom he found a sympathetic listener, the traits of the stolen boy, and brought up reminiscences, trifling, perhaps, but touching, under the circumstances. To Mrs. Estabrook he seldom spoke of his son. Her cold and unsympathetic temperament repelled him. She had never preferred to feel any attachment for Herbert, and the boy, quick to read her want of feeling, never cared to be with her. One morning, after Mr. Reynolds and Grant had gone out, Mrs. Estabrook, on going to the hall, saw a letter on the table, which had been left by the postman. As curiosity was by no means lacking in the housekeeper's composition, she took it up, and peered at the address through her glasses. It was directed to Mr. Reynolds in a round, schoolboy hand. Mrs. Estabrook's heart gave a sudden jump of excitement. “It's Herbert's handwriting,” she said to herself. She examined the postmark, and found that it was mailed at Scipio, Illinois. She held the letter in her hand and considered what she should do. Should the letter come into the hands of Mr. Reynolds, the result would doubtless be that the boy would be recovered, and would reveal the name of his abductor. This would subject her favorite, Willis Ford, to arrest, and probably imprisonment. “He should have been more careful, and not allowed the boy to write,” said the housekeeper to herself. “Willis must have been very imprudent. If I only knew what was in the letter!” The housekeeper's curiosity became so ungovernable that she decided to open it. By steaming it, she could do it, and if it seemed expedient, paste it together again. She had little compunction in the matter. In a few minutes she was able to withdraw the letter from the envelope and read its contents. This is what Herbert wrote: “Scipio, ILL. “DEAR PAPA: I know you must have been very anxious about me. I would have written you before, but I have had no chance. Willis Ford found me playing in the street, and got me to go with him by saying you had sent for me. I thought it strange you should have sent Mr. Ford, but I didn't like to refuse, for fear it was true. We went on board a steamer in the harbor, and Mr. Ford took me in a stateroom. Then he put a handkerchief to my face, and I became sleepy. When I waked up, we were at sea. I don't know where I went, but when we came to land, some time the next day, we got into the cars and traveled for a couple of days. I begged Mr. Ford to take me home, but it made him cross. I think he hates you and Grant, and I think he took me away to spite you. I am sure he is a very wicked man. “Finally we came to this place. It is a small place in Illinois. The people who live here are Mr. and Mrs. Barton and their son Abner. Mr. Joel Barton is a drunkard. He gets drunk whenever he has money to buy whisky. Mrs. Barton is a hard-working woman, and she does about all the work that is done. Mr. Ford paid her some money in advance. She is a tall woman, and her voice sounds like a man's. She does not ill treat me, but I wish I were at home. Abner is a big, rough boy, a good deal older and larger than I am, but he is kind to me and he wants to come to New York. He says he will run away and take me with him, if we can get enough money to pay our fares. I don't think we could walk it so far. Abner might, for he is a good deal stronger than I am, but I know I should get very tired. “Now, dear papa, if you will send me money enough to pay for railroad tickets, Abner and I will start just as soon as we get it. I don't know as he ought to run away from home, but he says his father and mother don't care for him, and I don't believe they do. His father doesn't care for anything but whisky, and his mother is scolding him all the time. I don't think she would do that if she cared much for him, do you? “I have filled the paper, and must stop. Be sure to send the money to your loving son, “HERBERT REYNOLDS.” “How easy you write!” said Abner, in wonder, as he saw Herbert's letter growing long before his eyes. “It would take me a week to write as long a letter as that, and then I couldn't do it.” “I can't write so easy generally,” said the little boy, “but, you see, I have a good deal to write about.” “Then there's another thing,” said Abner. “I shouldn't know how to spell so many words. You must be an awful good scholar.” “I always liked to study,” said Herbert. “Don't you like to read and study?” “No; I'd rather play ball or go fishin', wouldn't you?” “I like to play part of the time, but I wouldn't like to grow up ignorant.” “I expect I'll always be a know-nothin', but I reckon I know as much as dad. The old man's awful ignorant. He don't care for nothin' but whisky.” “And I hope you won't be like him in that, Abner.” “No, I won't. I wouldn't like to have the boys flingin' stones at me, as they did at dad once when he was tight. I licked a couple of 'em.” Mrs. Estabrook read Herbert's letter with intense interest. She saw that the little boy's testimony would seriously incriminate Willis Ford, if he were recovered, as he would be if this letter came into his father's hands. “There's only one thing to do,” the housekeeper reflected, closing her thin lips tightly. She lit the gas jet in her chamber, and, without a trace of compunction, held the letter in the flame until it was thoroughly consumed. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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