1,99 €
Mehr erfahren.
In 'Crime Tears On' by Carolyn Wells, the reader is taken on a thrilling journey through a complex web of mystery and deception. Wells' literary style combines elements of traditional detective fiction with a keen eye for psychological depth, making this novel a standout in the genre. Set within the bustling city of New York, the book captures the essence of the time period with vivid descriptions and sharp dialogue, immersing the reader in a world filled with secrets and danger. Carolyn Wells, a prolific writer known for her mastery of the mystery genre, brings her years of experience to 'Crime Tears On'. Her background in poetry and humor shines through in the elegant prose and clever plot twists that keep the reader engaged until the very end. Wells' ability to create complex characters and intricate plots showcases her talent as a leading author in the mystery genre. I highly recommend 'Crime Tears On' to any reader who enjoys a well-crafted mystery novel filled with suspense and intrigue. Carolyn Wells' skillful storytelling and captivating narrative make this book a must-read for fans of the genre.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Ähnliche
Crime Tears On
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Craig Madison liked cocktail parties. He held that one could go to them without that feeling of responsibility which devolves on a guest at a dinner or a dance.
Not that Madison was a shirker. Upon occasion he gaily shouldered the onus of social duties and was the dependable holder-upper of many smart hostesses in their efforts at entertainment. One lovely October day, at the hour of dusk, he dropped in at Amy Crosby’s for a few moments and a few cocktails. A gay greeting to Amy and then he was lost in the chattering crowd. But Craig had a special faculty for sizing up a crowd and discovering quickly if it contained any people interesting to him. And failing, in the present instance, he was about to leave when across the room he saw an almost familiar face. Trying to place it, he stared, and suddenly, he knew.
It was Yvette Verne, the new film star that everybody was raving over. And the reason he didn’t know her just at first, he told himself, was that she wore civilian dress. In her pictures she was usually in foreign scenes and bizarre costumes, but here, in the home of New York’s society queens, and garbed in quite tailored elegance, Yvette Verne was charming in her own right.
With practised skill he made his way through the massed humanity that separated them, and had almost reached her, when he suddenly found she had disappeared. He thought she had turned into a small alcove room near which she had stood, and he followed the trail. A short corridor led to this room and as he stepped nearer he heard her voice, not loud, but tense with anger and, he thought, fright. He heard her say, ‘You are a brute and a cad. Leave this room, and never dare speak to me again.’
He couldn’t listen deliberately, and he half turned away, when he heard the man’s voice, raised a trifle and speaking in menacing tones.
‘Yes, I’ll go now; we don’t want a scene here. But you’ll take back every word you’ve said, you’ll beg my forgiveness, you’ll crave my pardon, you’ll grovel at my feet—’
‘Go! If you speak another word to me I shall scream!’
‘Don’t be silly!’
And with a light laugh the man came out of the little room and left the girl there. Madison had stepped back, and then came on as if just appearing. But the other paid no attention to him, and passed him without a glance. Then, giving free rein to his eager curiosity, Craig Madison walked straight into the little room where the actress stood, still quivering with fury.
‘Talk to me a few minutes,’ he said, smiling at her; ‘it’ll help you to get yourself collected—and somebody may drift in here any minute.’
‘Do I know you?’ and the big dark eyes looked at him, but not reprovingly.
‘You will, very soon. I’m Craig Madison, and something tells me you are Yvette Verne.’
‘And what if I am?’ A flashing smile showed him her dimples.
‘Only that now we’re friends, and I want you to forget the late unpleasantness somebody wished on you. But you’re calm already―’
‘Yes; that wretch was Billy Gomez, and while he is a pest, he’s not worth worrying about. But it will take a few minutes to regain my temper, and my good looks.’
She produced a vanity gadget and put it to use. Madison leaned against the door jamb and watched her. His acquaintance with artists of the screen was limited; he seldom cared to meet the lesser lights and few of the stars had come his way. Yvette Verne was one of his favourites and he admired her acting for the art it displayed. Naturalness was all very well, but it took art to put it over, in his opinion. And he liked her because she was dark. Bisque-doll blondes had begun to pall on him and the brunette beauty of this girl seemed to him a shady wood after a glaring sunlit beach.
She made short work of her cosmetics, and raised her finished face from the tiny mirror in which she had been gazing.
‘Better?’ she asked, as she put the little implements in their case.
‘Unnecessary, from my point of view, but I daresay you feel more fully dressed.’
‘Yes, I do. And more complacent, too. That man did stir me up, but you are a born anodyne.’
‘Not a compliment I care for. I can be a stimulant, if you like. May I?’
‘Not just now. I have a business engagement I must keep.’
‘Are you making a picture now?’
‘No, indeed, I’ve a two-months layoff, and I’m living my own life.’
For the next few moments Madison forgot the girl was there. He was weighing arguments on a finely adjusted mental scale. Uncle Harley? He’d simply love it. Aunt Cornelia? She was always persuadable and ready to do her part. Sheldon? None of his business, anyhow. The scale swung in favour of the plan that was rapidly taking shape, and without further consideration, Craig put it into words.
‘I say, how’d you like to come out to our place for a bit?’
‘A bit of what?’
‘Oh, fun, rest, recreation, whatever you’re most in need of.’
‘What makes you think I’m in need of anything?’
‘Everybody’s in need of something, though he may not know it. But just for a lark, take a chance and come out for a week-end. How about it?’
Craig Madison was very good looking, an attribute which took him far. Although nearly thirty, he had a boyish cajolery which oftener than not brought him what he wanted.
‘Where is out?’ she continued.
‘Oh, my home. You’ll hate it, it’s a fearful place, but it will be better soon. And our week-ends are fun. Do say you’ll come!’
‘But where is it? Is it in America?’
‘Oh, that. Why, yes, it’s on Long Island.’
‘What part of Long Island? Is it a secret?’
‘No—though it ought to be. Its up in the bleak northern reaches of Queen’s County, and—’
‘Haunted?’
‘Not that I know of! Its a lovely place. Silver Hill, you know. The paradise spot of the whole map!’
‘Your stories don’t hang together. When do you want me to come?’
‘Friday; the very next Friday you meet. I’ll come in and fetch you.’
‘Oh, no, you won’t. I’ll go in my own car. What have you in the line of family?’
Craig looked comically distressed.
‘Formidable,’ he said; ‘quite so.’
‘You don’t scare me at all. I eat up formidable people. A wife?’
‘You know I haven’t! Do I talk like a married man? But there’s an uncle of certain disturbing ways and uncertain temper. There’s an aunt, of great resource and sagacity, but who would include you out if for any reason my uncle didn’t take to you.’
‘How can he help taking to me?’ she asked, saucily. ‘Is he under his wife’s thumb?’
‘Oh, my aunt isn’t my uncle’s wife, they’re brother and sister. And I’ve a cousin there, a chap about my age, but better-mannered. And a secretary, with whom you must not fall in love. And a housekeeper who is a scream. That’s our ill-assorted family. Only a few people are coming this week-end; I doubt if you know any of them. Shall I ask Amy Crosby?’
‘Oh, please not. Amy’s a dear, but your list is long enough. I hate big house parties. Don’t tell me about the people, I like to puzzle them out myself. But tell me of the house. It must be a big one.’
‘It is—enormous. And a conglomeration of all the worst styles of architecture ever invented by man. And added to here and there by the successive Madisons who have lived in it. We are the Montauk Madisons, you know—a fact dear to the heart of Uncle Harley.’
‘Do you mean Harley Madison, the eccentric philanthropist?’
‘Is that what they call him? Well, it is descriptive.’
‘But he’s a great man! A celebrity for an uncle, if I choose? Of course. Is he nice?’
‘He’s a brick! A splendid all round man. Gets mad on every possible occasion, and forgets next moment what he was mad about. Then you’ll come on Friday?’
‘Yes, of course. What is uncle doing now, in a big way?’
‘Too big to tell about. But you may as well have an idea, for if you want to make good with him, you must talk about himself.’
‘Tell me, then.’
‘Well, this is his present enterprise. We live in a thinly settled, sprawling hamlet named, grandiosely, New Plymouth. The place hasn’t kept up the march of progress, nor has it noticed the tearing on of time. It didn’t have proper care and feeding, and yet it is a possible paradise. One day, my uncle saw this, and decided he was the one to rescue the poor little waif, and fix it all up nice and pretty like Cinderella. There are some few big houses, you understand, and some few influential men, who, uncle assumed, would help him with his project. Of course, anything Harley Madison has charge of is flaw-proof—angle iron, sunk hinge construction, and a guaranteed money-maker.’
‘Didn’t the few men in the place realize this?’
‘Most of them; but there are those who say Madison is lining his own pockets at the expense of all others concerned.’
‘But your uncle is big enough to combat and conquer all such ideas.’
‘Would be, if he were let alone. But in a multitude of counsellors there is trouble, and uncle is bothered to death with his enemies. I tell you so you’ll be kind to him, when your own tact advises you to do so; and you’ll let him alone, when he wants to be let alone. That’s the whole secret of dealing with his somewhat all-of-a-sudden disposition.’
‘Glad you told me. Can I help in any way?’
‘I doubt it. Uncle doesn’t want money, nor advice, nor assistance. But he does want sympathy. So if you could be his understanding little friend it might give him a bit of real pleasure, and it would constitute your good act for the day.’
‘Of course I’ll do anything I can, but I’m staying only a day or two, and you can’t establish sympathetic relations in a few minutes.’
‘I suppose not. Don’t let it bother you. See that chap who just came in?’
‘The one with the grave, studious face? Yes, I know, he’s Fleming Stone. How I’d love to meet him!’
‘Seems to me that for a film queen, who is chased round by cameramen and polite, deferential autograph-hunters, you are unduly interested in making new acquaintances. But Stone is a worthwhile friend to meet, because he always remembers you, and that means if you ever need him he’ll be at your service.’
‘At my service! I thought he was a detective!’
‘He is. But isn’t it among the possibilities that you may some day need the services of a detective?’
‘Possibly, but not probably. We can’t catch Mr. Stone now, though; see, he’s going away. You must introduce him to me some other time. And I must go now. Are you staying in town?’
‘What for we consider Manhattan a suburb of New Plymouth, but not a fit place to live in. Shall I tell you how to reach us on Friday.’
‘Not necessary. I have a chauffeur of pure gold. I just say New Plymouth, and he flies to it like a homing pigeon. Thank you ever so very lots for my invitation. I look forward to my visit with keenest joy. May I advise uncle about his improvements?
‘I’m by way of being a bit of a landscape gardener, and—’
‘Don’t plan. Wait until you see uncle, and then use your judgment as to what you shall say to him. But why is your interest all for him? My cousin Tom Sheldon and Ames, the secretary chap, are both worthy of your look-see.’
‘They’ll get it. Come with me to say good-bye to Amy.’
And Amy responded, gaily. ‘So nice of you to come, Craig. Come again, soon. Good-bye Yvette—I rather fancy you’re up to your old tricks! What a girl it is, to be sure. Come in again, both of you. Goodbye.’
And then Craig Madison put his new friend in her car, and went away with his mind and heart full of her allure—the deep, deep wells of her violet eyes and the glints of red gold in her brown hair.
JUST WHY the Madison house was called Silver Hill nobody knew for certain. It was said that an early ancestor had owned a silver mine, but even that wouldn’t account for the Hill part, for though the house was on a great slope of woods and grasslands, no imagination could call it a hill. The house itself was old and colonial, but it had been added so, so often and so culpably, that the colonial parts were difficult to discover. The present Madisons liked it, for the atmosphere was cosy and comfortable, and there were so many rooms that everybody could have as many as he wished.
Harley Madison, autocratic by nature and plutocratic by circumstances, ruled with an iron hand in a velvet glove. He seldom had reason to remove his glove in the house, but in the village he often went barehanded. A well set-up man of forty-five, he was heavy, but not fat, hale and hearty of appearance, with graying hair and merry blue eyes. He was not fond of responsibility, though his doings of late years had piled them high on his shoulders.
When his wife died ten years ago he felt lonely and helpless. His sister, Cornelia kept house for him. As the years passed, Cornelia became more and more efficient in the household, and at last began to help Harley with his business affairs, and was soon accomplishing as much of the work as he did himself.
Harley wanted to get through with all business and be a landowner and a gentleman of leisure. But somehow, suddenly he conceived a plan of rejuvenating the old and shabby village, and decided to put a lot of his money in it and a lot of Cornelia’s time. His sister made no objection to this. She was devoted to her brother and she loved responsibility and planning and achieving. She didn’t care very much about New Plymouth, but it was Harley’s hobby, and she was more than ready to help him.
The big enterprise he had undertaken would cost a great amount of money, but he had formed a sort of syndicate, and interested a few other men in the plan. He expected to put in the most capital, and therefore he expected to be at the head of the whole affair, and this was as it should be, for no other had his zeal and energy, or a sister to help him.
Also, the business meant a greatly changed will to be put into the hands of his executors when the proper time came. Up to now, his will, had been simple, leaving his entire fortune to his sister and his two nephews who lived with him, with ample provision for dependents and for charities. But now he proposed to bequeath his large estate in a different manner. Two-thirds of his possessions would go to the town he was now building up, and which he hoped would be a city by that time. The third of his estate would be divided equally among his sister and his two nephews. He had discussed this with Cornelia and she had agreed to his wishes. She was not mercenary and wanted only enough to live in the way she had always lived, which she could easily do on the legacy she would receive.
As to the boys, Cornelia pointed out that they were his nephews, not sons, and would doubtless he satisfied with whatever their uncle chose to give them. She held that since Harley had made his own fortune it was his right to do as he chose with it, and there should be no criticism. No one contradicted her, because no one knew anything about it, except Harley’s lawyer, who was against the whole improvement project, and so could not be expected to advise Harley as he wanted to be advised.
Cornelia Madison was an admirable character. She did so many things and did them so well that she could scarcely help realizing the fact and becoming a little conceited over it. Not that she was a vain woman, but she had achieved a certain consciousness of power and satisfaction in her own ability. She never showed this feeling, however, and her two nephews adored her. The servants gave her both respect and admiration.
And so the Madison household, self-contained, was a peaceful, happy place. But when it brushed up against or ran counter to the inhabitants of the village all was not beer and skittles. Many of the ladies of the town had stopped calling at Silver Hill, and those who did come were consumed with curiosity or anxious to air a grievance.
Cornelia received those who came with pleasant cordiality, yet with an edge of hauteur that was removed only if they behaved themselves as she thought they ought to. Although forty years old, Cornelia Madison could have passed for less. She was active and agile as a girl, her brown hair was short and clustered all over her head in natural ringlets. Her large calm eyes were; now blue and now gray, and humorous wrinkles at the corners kept them from ever being severe. Children and dogs liked her, though she seldom had occasion to play with either of them.
But the kingpin, the cap sheaf of the whole establishment was Mrs. Hetty Garson, housekeeper. Really, Cornelia was the keeper of the house, but Cornelia was of the chatelaine type. Had she happened in the Middle Ages, she would have adored going about with a big ring of jangling keys and a long peaked headgear with a cluttering veil.
So, at Silver Hill, Cornelia was the housekeeper de luxe; Hetty was the working model. And work she did! And she could get work out of other people. Why, if Hetty got after her, even that perky little Agnes, the parlor maid, would do some work and like it!
Agnes was a thorn in Hetty’s flesh. She was so pretty that the young men in the family couldn’t help looking at her, and the more Hetty warned her not to notice these looks, the more coy and self-conscious Aggie became, and consequently, the prettier.
Miss Cornelia was meticulous about her employees’ uniforms, and the parlor maid wore a neat black silk frock and a filmy white apron with frills. On her yellow hair sat a bit of pleated white stuff like a tiara, with a scrap of black velvet by way of mooring.
Hetty, too, wore black silk, taffeta in the morning, grosgrain of an afternoon. She was tall and thin, scrawny is a better word, and her muscular power was evident. Not exactly a member of the family, she was a privileged character, and on Sunday evening, as Craig was telling his uncle about the film star he had met and invited to the home, Hetty walked into the living-room and sat down to listen.
‘Do I take it,’ she said, ‘that a bold-faced jig from the movies is coming to this house?’
‘Be careful what you talk, Hetty,’ said Craig. ‘The lady is a friend of mine, and I forbid any further expressions such as that you just used. Miss Verne will come on Friday and remain over the week-end. You will watch your step. Get me?’
Hetty flounced out of the room, and Harley Madison said, in his quiet way, ‘I sometimes think, Cornelia, that we’ve spoiled Hetty, and if we’re not careful she’ll get out of hand.’
‘I’m afraid that’s true, Harley,’ his sister agreed. ‘I’ll speak to her. And I can assure you, Craig, that Hetty will do or say nothing that can possibly annoy Miss Verne.’
‘You bet she won’t,’ said Tom Sheldon.
‘I say, Craig, how did you manage to get her? Those film stars are hard to come by. Maybe she won’t come, after all.’
‘Maybe she won’t,’ said Craig, placidly. ‘But she wasn’t a bit actressy, just a natural, well-bred girl.’
‘That so?’ Harley looked up from the paper he was reading. ‘I thought she’d be slangy and unconventional. Sure she isn’t?’
‘Maybe she is. I saw her only a short time, and I may have misjudged her. But it seemed to me she’d please Aunt Cornelia.’
‘What’s she like?’ Ames inquired. ‘Doth she look the same on the stage as off?’
‘Almost,’ Craig answered, ‘but not quite. Off stage, she can talk impromptu, say whatever she chooses, and make natural and unrehearsed gestures. So, she does not seem different.’
‘She’s lovely on the screen, anyway,’ Ames summed up, and then he turned his attention back to the bit of work he was doing for Madison.
‘The estimates for the Town Hall are quite a bit more than we expected,’ he said, and Madison listened attentively.
‘If you two are going to talk estimates, do go to the study,’ Cornelia said, pleasantly. ‘I want to hear a little more about this paragon, we are to entertain. Not curiosity, Craig, but I must know where to place her. Anita Boyce is coming, and she always has the best chamber. Shall I take it away from her, and give it to your friend?’
‘I don’t think so, Aunt Corny. Let Mrs. Boyce keep it, and put Yvette in some smaller room, something pretty and pleasant.’
‘I think that would be better. Is she a—a lady, Craig?’
‘She certainly is. Lay your doubts aside. I think she’ll fit herself right in with our crowd. And if she doesn’t like us, she can go home.’
‘Oh, she’ll like us.’ Miss Cornelia looked haughty. ‘The question is whether we’ll like her. But if we don’t, we needn’t ask her again.’
Chapter 2
Harley Madison was a fine man. The fact that he was quick of thought, curt of speech and outspoken as to his opinions did not detract from the fineness or his nature. Nor did the fact that he was autocratic and pig-headed lessen his sterling worth. The trouble was that his fellow men did not believe the abovementioned, self-evident truths, and that’s why the one-time peaceful village of New Plymouth was more like a line of embattled farmers than a placid, easy-going community.
Though not so very many miles from settlements that prided themselves on being the Long Island of to-day and even the Long Island of to-morrow, New Plymouth was without doubt the Long Island of yesterday and the Long Island of the day before yesterday.
To this none of the townfolk objected, until Harley Madison told them they ought to object and told them why and how. It was the how that made the trouble. For though the citizens of the hamlet were by no means lacking in this world’s goods, they had an ineradicable notion that they wanted to spend their money in a way that would bring them acclaim and honor. And Mr. Madison’s way of putting all their donations in a common fund, and spending from it such sums as were needed left each donor uncertain whether he had contributed to the new town hall or the floral park.
For, you must understand, the plans were not on a niggardly scale. The town was to be made all beautiful within, and in Mr. Madison’s opinion it mattered not a jot which man paid for which added beauty. One thing was certain, Mr. Madison informed them, the architect of every new building was to be above criticism. He had himself engaged New York architects of renown, and he made it clear that if this made too great inroads on the building fund, he would attend to these bills personally.
Speaking now, from the platform of the old town hall, he held his audience’s attention. His splendid physical strength lent dignity to his few but forceful gestures, and his glowing personality swayed his hearers and convinced them that what he said was right. Harley Madison never made trouble, unless he wanted to do so. And now he had come to a point in his enterprise where he was inviting trouble.
He had asked several men to speak this evening and put into words the objections they felt toward his management of the work. Job Hendricks, the oldest citizen, and after Madison the wealthiest one, declared that it was human nature to want credit for any good work well done. For his part, he wanted to present a library to the rejuvenated town, and he proposed that the Hendricks Library should stand well forward among the libraries of the country. He had many rare books to grace its shelves, and he would endow it sufficiently to preserve it as long as New Plymouth should stand.
At the end of Job’s speech, Madison said, quietly: ‘Then I gather that you want to present the town with a first-class library, but the gift is contingent on permission to call the building by your name?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Hendricks told him.
‘And a mean little size it is,’ declared Madison. ‘A noble gift spoiled by a stipulation that it shall be an advertisement of the generosity of the donor! Perhaps a gold statue of Mr. Job Hendricks, gentleman, in the lobby.’
‘And no reason why that shouldn’t be,’ responded Job, angrily, for already snickers were audible here and there.
‘Yes, there are reasons, Hendricks, and one is that such a thing establishes a precedent. If you do that, others will want the same privilege.’
‘We do,’ sang out a raucous and unpleasant voice, the voice of Henry Potter, the butcher. ‘That’s what we do want, Mr. Madison. Here’s me, ready and willin’ to donate a park, a first-class affair, complete, with fountain, and a few busts, mebbe. Now, why shouldn’t that pleasure ground be called Potter Park, and why shouldn’t my noble features, cast in endurin’ bronze, decorate the mall surroundin’ the bandstand?’
Clarence Mason, a millionaire owner of very good oil stock, took up the tale.
‘I hadn’t thought of a Potter Park,’ he said, ‘‘and I hope no one will miscall it the Potter’s Field, but I’ve no right to object to this naming business when I myself have toyed with the idea of Mason Hospital. A fine hospital is among the first of a city’s needs, and as you all know, it is usual to call a hospital by the name of its donor. I seem to see the new town in my mind’s eye, looking like a modern paradise.’
‘Looks more like a modern Main Street to me.’ Thus Harley Madison let his annoyance show plainly. He had heard rumors of this element of vain benefactors, and it jarred his aesthetic sense and also aroused a more practical and valid objection.
The meeting was informal. As president of the association, Madison sat on the platform, but so did several others, and many were tipped back in their chairs or sitting on the edge of a table. It was an open forum, and every man could speak his mind. Madison had intended this night to suggest that they organise themselves into a proper body, with rules and by-laws and officers.
He didn’t understand those things himself, but Hiram Riley was an old and reliable lawyer who could do up the matter in proper shape. This matter of plastering names all over everything must be settled first, though, and Harley Madison decided to settle it.
He didn’t use many words, but he told them plainly that this whole thing was his project. That he was ready to contribute a great deal of money, also time and influence, which three elements would surely make for success. He could probably make more of these three necessary contributions than any one else present, perhaps than all of those present. But he did not want his name celebrated in any way. His goal was a fine, thriving town, eventually a city, and he would make no apology for saying that if his support were withdrawn, the village of New Plymouth would remain in its present dilapidated and sordid condition till Judgment Day.
He would put forth another argument for his opinion, and then he would leave it to his colleagues to decide on their course. This argument was that if these men, who wanted their names permanently and blatantly in the public eye, had their way, the less wealthy but no less worthy and loyal citizens, who could not present a monument to their own fame and glory, would be dissuaded from doing anything at all, and lose interest in the movement and frustrate entirely the ambitions of himself and of those he had considered his co-workers.
To some of those present, this speech, which Madison ended with dramatic suddenness, seemed a tempest in a teapot. To a few others and to Madison himself, it was the key of the whole situation. He knew that the men, to whose attitude he was objecting, had more self-aggrandisement in their minds than a gold-lettered name. They had plans for the spending of public moneys and the dictating of public procedure, which were secret, indeed, yet Madison knew of their existence.
He was honestly willing to do all he had to do, to give all he had to give, to use his widespread influence to the utmost; with no recognition. His one desire was to make that negligible little wilderness, among the Queen’s County blossom like the rose. And he could not work with men who were secretly modelling their plans on Atlantic City or Coney Island. For he knew Potter Park meant no sylvan glades and shaded paths, but an amusement park. He had long since seen the undeveloped beauty in the environs of the village, and he had bought many acres of good brown earth, had improved it and sold it. At a profit? Yes, but getting only a well-deserved return for his wise and efficient work on it.
Harley Madison knew, too, that there was an undercurrent of hostility, secret but palpable, at least to him. He was intuitive and keen witted. He did not propose to combat this element unless some overt act made it necessary; but he was not going to work with it, and that left him no choice but to resign from his own enterprise. He did not want to carry on further without some more definite information, so he left the question of emblazoned names drift away, and brought up one or two less dangerous subjects. He even introduced a spirit of levity into his conversation, and fairly early he declared he must go home, but the others could discuss plans at their leisure.
As Hiram Riley said after he had gone, he didn’t fool anybody. ‘He was flabbergasted, that’s what he was,’ Riley declared. ‘He wanted to get away and think it over by himself. That’s Madison, never talks till he’s thunk it well over. Do you know what I believe? I believe he’ll resign.’
‘Resign from what?’ asked Potter. ‘He ain’t got any position to resign from.’
