about time I was picking up that Lockwood story again,” thought Rodman Wyatt, a couple of days later. “I'll just drop around to the garage and see what's doing.”
He dropped around to the garage, found Andrew Todd changing the oil in Lockwood's car, and, by dint of a little persuasion and a two-dollar bill, elicited certain information.
“Yes, sir, the boss is back from the South. Yes, sir, he goes ridin' pretty near every afternoon. I'm fixin' to take him out now, in 'bout half an hour. Yes, sir, him an' that Perfessor Veazie was down to Cha'leston, an' I drove 'em. That there Veazie—say, he's all right! He give me a fine tip, Veazie did. Daughter? Yes, sir, I reckon so; an' granddaughter, too. They're there to the house now; but look a here, mister—you ain't goin' to git me in no trouble, are you? You ain't goin' to put nothin' in no paper, sayin' I told you?”
“Paper? What paper?” Wyatt queried. “What makes you think I'm writing for a paper?”
“Oh, I know dog-goned well you are, mister!” Andrew's tone was accusatory. “Ain't much that chauffeurs don't git to know.”
“I guess that's right! Well—yes, I write; but your name won't appear in this.”
“It better not!” growled the negro with a look of menace. “I was goin' to leave, anyhow, an' so was Irene—that's my lady friend; but we both got a raise, so we're stayin', 'Twouldn't be healthy for you, nor no reporter, to git us in trouble!”
“Don't worry!” Wyatt laughed, and so departed.
During the hour that he let pass before calling at the Lockwood house—an hour to permit the old man, with his daughter and granddaughter, to get away in the car, so that he could interview Miss Grush undisturbed—exultation held him.
“By gad, the story's breaking now!” he rejoiced, as he walked down Beacon Street. “Talk about your scoops!”
He laughed for very joy.
A radiant March sun, such as only Boston can display, laughed with him. It sent snow water plashing, cascading, down the steep gutters. It made the asphalt steam. It coaxed the buds to life. It caused sparrows to chipper and fly with straws and bits of string to window crevices. It flung the pigeons in swooping storms of flight across the elm tops of the Common, soon now to be touched with vivid green. Spring and its magic were abroad in the land.
Self-satisfied, rather chesty, exceedingly well clad, and altogether pleased with the world and with his own cleverness—feeling himself a superior side-line spectator of human life, immune from being caught and spun in its maelstroms—Wyatt whistled and hummed to himself as he approached the Lockwood house.
“Some scoop!” he murmured. “Fine!”
Already he had planned his leading question to Miss Grush, pondering—villainously, after the manner of reporters—how to extract the whole story from her and still keep her sympathetic. He mounted the huge granite steps, youth's galliard self-sufficiency in his heart and a notebook in his pocket.
The perversities of human destiny, however, had unexpected things in store for him.
“No, sir—Miss Grush isn't in,” Irene informed him. “She's down town, shoppin'. Mr. Lockwood's out drivin'. Who shall I tell 'em called?”
At that moment Wyatt grew conscious of music—a piano—being played in the drawing-room. It was being played with a certain light and youthful touch that well accorded with the piece itself—Grieg's “Spring Song”—but was wholly out of keeping with the dignified asceticism of the old mansion.
Something, he could hardly tell what, seemed to have breathed another soul into the house. Somehow, as if by instinct, Wyatt felt that youth had entered there. Fresh life and joy had come to dwell in that sad place, so long a stranger to aught save memories and griefs of bygone years. For a pregnant minute he stood listening, on the threshold.
“Who'll I tell 'em?” Irene interrupted his listening.
Wyatt presented a perfectly correct card.
“Mr. Lockwood's daughter will do just as well,” said he.
“She's out, too—she's drivin' with Mr. Lockwood.”
His perceptions divided between Irene and the “Spring Song,” Wyatt stood pensive for a moment. Then, suddenly, with the timid and retiring manner of reporters the whole world over, he declared:
“I'll wait!”
“No, sir—you better come back again, I reckon,” judged the maid with some asperity. “It might be an hour before they—”
“Oh, I don't mind! I've got all the time there is.” Wyatt's voice was as brazen as the bulls of Colchis, tamed by Jason. “I'll just sit here in the hall and read.”
“You can't do that!” objected Irene, properly scandalized. Visions of sneak-thievery filled her mental vision. “No, sir—you better come back.”