given a good deal to have seen what it was—though she realized that she was getting to be nothing but an old snoop.
Waldo Emerson Macfarland sat on the platform, with Janey Davis at his side on a low chair. When he had waited long enough to make it very evident that Miss Withers was very, very tardy, he coughed, sneezed, and then tapped on the desk.
“Inspector Taylor has asked me …” he began.
“Sergeant,” corrected Miss Withers, sotto voce.
“Sergeant Taylor has asked me to get you all together, in a body, in one place, as it were,” he went on heavily. “Now that we are all together, of course with the exception of Miss Curran—”
Sergeant Taylor appeared in the doorway. “Say, who’s this Curran dame who doesn’t show up, huh?”
He was assured by the Principal that Miss Curran, who divided her time between this school and Washington Heights Number Two as an instructor in sewing and domestic science, was unavoidably absent due to an operation for appendicitis. “She has been at Brooklyn Hospital for more than ten days now,” the Principal informed him, “so I think she can play no possible part in this investigation.” Mr. Macfarland sniffled delicately. “We have not as yet got a substitute.”
The Sergeant waved his hand, and Macfarland drew a deep breath and prepared to go on with his speech. The shrilling of the telephone across the hall interrupted the course of his thoughts.
Janey Davis took her eyes from Bob Stevenson’s, and prepared to answer it, but the Sergeant waved her aside. “You go, Mulholland,” he ordered.
A moment later the big copper was back at the door. “It’s somebody for Miss Withers,” he announced, and winked heavily.
With every eye focussed upon her, Hildegarde Withers rose from her seat and passed out of the room. She cast a look of gratitude toward Mulholland for not announcing before them all the name of her caller.
It was, strangely, the librarian of the genealogy room at the Library. “We found the information you wanted,” she was told. “Luckily it was among the A’s, so it only took a few minutes. According to the records, Mr. Stevenson took out volume one, a rare book titled ‘The Addison Family Previous to 1812,’ by Robert Addison. He signed for it yesterday afternoon at exactly three-thirty, and returned it to the desk at a quarter of six.”
Miss Withers asked another question. “Oh, no. If Mr. Stevenson had left the library during the afternoon his book would have been collected by the pick-up boy and returned to the desk, since no books may be taken out. The boy makes his rounds every half hour. I’m sure you’re very welcome. No, I won’t speak of it to a soul.”
Miss Withers hung up the receiver. There was a noise in the hall. She looked out and caught the eye of a fellow-conspirator. It was Leland Stanford Jones. He came at her whisper, and handed her a key. She looked at him questioningly. But he shook his head. “It’s gone, teacher. I looked all through her desk!” Miss Withers patted his shoulder and motioned toward the door. Then she returned to the telephone, and made a call.
Surprised at the result, she made several more. Finally she put down the instrument and strode triumphantly back into the faculty meeting.
“I’d like to interrupt with one question,” she said. Mr. Macfarland looked annoyed.
“Yes, Miss Withers?”
“I’d like to know where it was that you learned that Miss Betty Curran, our domestic science teacher, was convalescing from an appendicitis operation at Brooklyn Hospital.”
Mr. Macfarland frowned. “She told me so, before she left. Why, we sent flowers—you remember that, Miss Withers! All the teachers contributed.”
Miss Withers nodded. “But did anybody go to see her?”
There was a general shaking of heads. “Brooklyn is a long way by subway, and besides, she asked us not to. Said she’d rather be alone.” Miss Strasmick looked at Hildegarde Withers. “Why?”
“Exactly.
Waldo Emerson Macfarland sat on the platform, with Janey Davis at his side on a low chair. When he had waited long enough to make it very evident that Miss Withers was very, very tardy, he coughed, sneezed, and then tapped on the desk.
“Inspector Taylor has asked me …” he began.
“Sergeant,” corrected Miss Withers, sotto voce.
“Sergeant Taylor has asked me to get you all together, in a body, in one place, as it were,” he went on heavily. “Now that we are all together, of course with the exception of Miss Curran—”
Sergeant Taylor appeared in the doorway. “Say, who’s this Curran dame who doesn’t show up, huh?”
He was assured by the Principal that Miss Curran, who divided her time between this school and Washington Heights Number Two as an instructor in sewing and domestic science, was unavoidably absent due to an operation for appendicitis. “She has been at Brooklyn Hospital for more than ten days now,” the Principal informed him, “so I think she can play no possible part in this investigation.” Mr. Macfarland sniffled delicately. “We have not as yet got a substitute.”
The Sergeant waved his hand, and Macfarland drew a deep breath and prepared to go on with his speech. The shrilling of the telephone across the hall interrupted the course of his thoughts.
Janey Davis took her eyes from Bob Stevenson’s, and prepared to answer it, but the Sergeant waved her aside. “You go, Mulholland,” he ordered.
A moment later the big copper was back at the door. “It’s somebody for Miss Withers,” he announced, and winked heavily.
With every eye focussed upon her, Hildegarde Withers rose from her seat and passed out of the room. She cast a look of gratitude toward Mulholland for not announcing before them all the name of her caller.
It was, strangely, the librarian of the genealogy room at the Library. “We found the information you wanted,” she was told. “Luckily it was among the A’s, so it only took a few minutes. According to the records, Mr. Stevenson took out volume one, a rare book titled ‘The Addison Family Previous to 1812,’ by Robert Addison. He signed for it yesterday afternoon at exactly three-thirty, and returned it to the desk at a quarter of six.”
Miss Withers asked another question. “Oh, no. If Mr. Stevenson had left the library during the afternoon his book would have been collected by the pick-up boy and returned to the desk, since no books may be taken out. The boy makes his rounds every half hour. I’m sure you’re very welcome. No, I won’t speak of it to a soul.”
Miss Withers hung up the receiver. There was a noise in the hall. She looked out and caught the eye of a fellow-conspirator. It was Leland Stanford Jones. He came at her whisper, and handed her a key. She looked at him questioningly. But he shook his head. “It’s gone, teacher. I looked all through her desk!” Miss Withers patted his shoulder and motioned toward the door. Then she returned to the telephone, and made a call.
Surprised at the result, she made several more. Finally she put down the instrument and strode triumphantly back into the faculty meeting.
“I’d like to interrupt with one question,” she said. Mr. Macfarland looked annoyed.
“Yes, Miss Withers?”
“I’d like to know where it was that you learned that Miss Betty Curran, our domestic science teacher, was convalescing from an appendicitis operation at Brooklyn Hospital.”
Mr. Macfarland frowned. “She told me so, before she left. Why, we sent flowers—you remember that, Miss Withers! All the teachers contributed.”
Miss Withers nodded. “But did anybody go to see her?”
There was a general shaking of heads. “Brooklyn is a long way by subway, and besides, she asked us not to. Said she’d rather be alone.” Miss Strasmick looked at Hildegarde Withers. “Why?”
“Exactly.
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