the dark, then stood up and furtively moved deeper into the room. "It's like a poison-pen tellygram," somebody breathed in a husky stage whisper.
Ada had reopened the sliding doors a foot, overcome by her own curiosity. "Did you get him yet?" she asked through them. "What does he say?"
Margaret Moran appeared in the opening, widened it and then stayed in it undecidedly. "She said our house doesn't answer. He could be out, but look at the time. And if he is, what's he done with Cookie? He wouldn't have him out with him at this hour. And the last thing he said was he wouldn't budge out of the house. There ought to be someone there with Cookie to watch him. . . ."
She looked helplessly from Ada to her mother to the doctor, who were the three nearest to her. "I don't like it. Don't you think I ought to start back "
A chorus of concerned protest went up.
"Now?"
"Why, you just stepped oif one bus, youll be dead!"
"Ah, Margaret, why don't you wait over until the morning at least?"
"It isn't that it's that telegram. I don't know, it gives me a creepy feeling, I can't shake it off. A thing like that isnt funny, it's it's malicious; there's something almost
dangerous about it. Anyone that would do that well, there's no telling what "
"Why don't you try just once more," the old family doctor suggested soothingly. "Maybe he's gotten back in the meantime. Then, if he hasn't and you still feel like going, ni drive you over to the bus station; my car's right outside now."
This time they didn't bother closing the doors at all; they didn't have to be told to be quiet. With one accord they all shifted out into the hall after her and fanned out in a wide half circle, ringing her and the telephone aTOund, listening in breathless sympathetic silence. It was as though she were holding a public audition for her innermost wifely distress.
Her voice shook a Httle. "Operator, get me the city again. That same number Seville 7-6262."
From time to time he could hear a splatter of quick running footsteps somewhere nearby, and a burst of crowing laughter from Cookie, and an "I see you!" from her. Mostly up and down the hall out there.
Hide-and-seek, he supposed tolerantly. They said there were two things that never changed, death and taxes; they should have added a third children's games. Even this she seemed to be able to go about in a soothing, fairly subdued way, without letting the kid be too boisterous about it. Must be the professional touch, that. He wondered how much kindergarten teachers earned. She was certainly good.
One time there was a stealthy, stalking cessation of sound, a little more long-drawn-out than the others, and he looked up to find her hiding herself just within the room doorway. She was standing with her back to him, peeping out around it into the hall. "Ready?" she called genially.
Cookie's answer came back with unexpected faintness. "Not yet wait."
She seemed to enjoy it as much as the kid. That was the right way to play with them, he supposed put your whole heart and soul into it. Children were quick to spot lack of enthusiasm. You could tell Cookie was already crazy about her. He was evidently seeing her in a different light than he had in the school, where she had to maintain a certain amount of discipline.
She turned her head, found him watching her approvingly. "He's gone into that little storage space built in beneath the staircase," she confided with a twinkle. And then, more seriously, "Is it safe for him to go in there?"
"Safe?" repeated Moran blankly. "Sure there's nothing in there, couple of old raincoats."
"Ready," a faint voice called.
She turned her head. "Here I come," she warned, and vanished from the doorway as unnoticeably as she had first appeared in it.
He could hear her pretendedly questing here and there for a preliminary moment or two, to keep up the relish of the game longer. Then a straining at woodwork and a muffled burst of gleeful acknowledgment.
Suddenly his name sounded with
Ada had reopened the sliding doors a foot, overcome by her own curiosity. "Did you get him yet?" she asked through them. "What does he say?"
Margaret Moran appeared in the opening, widened it and then stayed in it undecidedly. "She said our house doesn't answer. He could be out, but look at the time. And if he is, what's he done with Cookie? He wouldn't have him out with him at this hour. And the last thing he said was he wouldn't budge out of the house. There ought to be someone there with Cookie to watch him. . . ."
She looked helplessly from Ada to her mother to the doctor, who were the three nearest to her. "I don't like it. Don't you think I ought to start back "
A chorus of concerned protest went up.
"Now?"
"Why, you just stepped oif one bus, youll be dead!"
"Ah, Margaret, why don't you wait over until the morning at least?"
"It isn't that it's that telegram. I don't know, it gives me a creepy feeling, I can't shake it off. A thing like that isnt funny, it's it's malicious; there's something almost
dangerous about it. Anyone that would do that well, there's no telling what "
"Why don't you try just once more," the old family doctor suggested soothingly. "Maybe he's gotten back in the meantime. Then, if he hasn't and you still feel like going, ni drive you over to the bus station; my car's right outside now."
This time they didn't bother closing the doors at all; they didn't have to be told to be quiet. With one accord they all shifted out into the hall after her and fanned out in a wide half circle, ringing her and the telephone aTOund, listening in breathless sympathetic silence. It was as though she were holding a public audition for her innermost wifely distress.
Her voice shook a Httle. "Operator, get me the city again. That same number Seville 7-6262."
From time to time he could hear a splatter of quick running footsteps somewhere nearby, and a burst of crowing laughter from Cookie, and an "I see you!" from her. Mostly up and down the hall out there.
Hide-and-seek, he supposed tolerantly. They said there were two things that never changed, death and taxes; they should have added a third children's games. Even this she seemed to be able to go about in a soothing, fairly subdued way, without letting the kid be too boisterous about it. Must be the professional touch, that. He wondered how much kindergarten teachers earned. She was certainly good.
One time there was a stealthy, stalking cessation of sound, a little more long-drawn-out than the others, and he looked up to find her hiding herself just within the room doorway. She was standing with her back to him, peeping out around it into the hall. "Ready?" she called genially.
Cookie's answer came back with unexpected faintness. "Not yet wait."
She seemed to enjoy it as much as the kid. That was the right way to play with them, he supposed put your whole heart and soul into it. Children were quick to spot lack of enthusiasm. You could tell Cookie was already crazy about her. He was evidently seeing her in a different light than he had in the school, where she had to maintain a certain amount of discipline.
She turned her head, found him watching her approvingly. "He's gone into that little storage space built in beneath the staircase," she confided with a twinkle. And then, more seriously, "Is it safe for him to go in there?"
"Safe?" repeated Moran blankly. "Sure there's nothing in there, couple of old raincoats."
"Ready," a faint voice called.
She turned her head. "Here I come," she warned, and vanished from the doorway as unnoticeably as she had first appeared in it.
He could hear her pretendedly questing here and there for a preliminary moment or two, to keep up the relish of the game longer. Then a straining at woodwork and a muffled burst of gleeful acknowledgment.
Suddenly his name sounded with
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