 24 Irene was a great comfort to Mary Louise in this hour of trial. The chair-girl, beneath her gaiety of demeanor and lightness of speech, was deeply religious. Her absolute faith sounded so cheering that death was robbed of much of its horror, and her bereaved friend found solace. Mary Louise was able to talk freely of Mama B to Irene, while with Aunt Hannah she rather avoided reference to her mother. I've always longed to be more with Mama B and to learn and to know her better, she said to her friend, for though she was very loving and gentle to me while I was with her, she spent most of her life caring for Grandpa Jim, and they were away from me so much that I really didn't get to know Mama very well. I think she worried a good deal over Grandpa's troubles. She couldn't help that, of course, but I always hoped that someday the troubles would be over and we could all live happily together, and now that can never be. Irene, knowing more of the Hathaway family history than Mary Louise did, through the letter she had found in red, was often perplexed how to console her friend and still regard honesty and truth. Any deception, even when practiced through the best of motives, was abhorrent to her nature, so she avoided speaking of the present affliction and led Mary Louise to look to a future life for the motherly companionship she had missed on earth. That, said she, is the thought that has always given me the most comfort. We are both orphans, dear, and I'm sure your nature is as brave as my own, and that you can bear equally well the loss of your parents. And Mary Louise was really brave and tried hard to bear her grief with patient resignation. One thing she presently decided in her mind, although she did not mention it to Irene. She must find Grandpa Jim and go to him wherever he might be. Grandpa Jim and her mother had been inseparable companions. Mary Louise knew that her own present sorrow could be nothing when compared to that of her grandfather. And so it was her duty to find him and comfort him, to devote her whole life as her mother had done to caring for his wants and cheering his loneliness, so far indeed as she was able to do. Of course no one could quite take the place of Mama B. She was thinking in this vein as she sat in the den with Irene that Saturday afternoon. The chair girl, who sewed beautifully, was fixing over one of Mary Louise's black dresses, while Mary Louise sat opposite, listlessly watching her. The door into the hall was closed, but the glass door to the rear porch was wide open to let in the sun and air. And this simple scene was the setting for the drama about to be enacted. Mary Louise had her back half turned to the hall door, which Irene partially faced. And so it was that when the door opened softly and the chair girl raised her head to gaze with startled surprise at someone who stood in the doorway, Mary Louise first curiously eyed her friend's expressive face, and then rather languidly turned her head to glance over her shoulder. The next moment she sprang to her feet and rushed forward. Grandpa Jim! Oh! Grandpa Jim! she cried, and threw herself into the arms of a tall man who folded her to his breast in a close embrace. For a while they stood there silent, while Irene dropped her eyes to her lap, deeming the reunion too sacred to be observed by another. And then a little stir at the open porch door attracted her attention, and with a shock of repulsion she saw Agatha Lorde standing there with a cynical smile on her lovely face. Softly the sash of the window was raised, and the maid's Susan stood on the ground outside, leaned her elbows on the sill, and quietly regarded the scene within the den. The opening of the window arrested Colonel Weatherby's attention. He lifted his head, and with a quick glance took in the situation. Then still holding his granddaughter in his arms he advanced to the centre of the room and said sternly, addressing Agatha, Is this a deliberate intrusion, because I am here, or is it pure insolence? Forgive us if we intrude, Mr. Hathaway, replied Agatha. It was not our desire to interrupt your meeting with your granddaughter, but it has been so difficult in the past to secure an interview with you, sir, that we dared not risk missing you at this time. He regarded her with an expression of astonishment. That's it exactly, Mr. Weatherby Hathaway, remarked Susan mockingly from her window. Don't pay any attention to them, Grandpa Jim, begged Mary Louise, clinging to him. They're just two dreadful women who live down below here, and—and I realize who they are, said the old gentleman in a calm voice, and addressing Agatha again he continued, since you are determined to interview me, pray, step inside and be seated. Agatha shook her head with a smile. Nan Shelly laughed outright and retorted, Not yet, Hathaway, we can't afford to take chances with one who has dodged the whole department for ten years. Then you are government agents? He asked. That's it, sir. He turned his head toward the door by which he had entered, for there was an altercation going on in the hallway, and Mr. Connaught's voice could be heard angrily protesting. A moment later the lawyer came in, followed by the little man with the fat nose, who bowed to Colonel Weatherby very respectfully, yet remained planted in the doorway. This is, uh, uh, very unfortunate, sir, very unfortunate, exclaimed Peter Connaught, chopping off each word with a sort of snarl. These confounded, secret service people have trailed us here. It doesn't matter, Mr. Connaught, replied the Colonel in a voice composed, but very weary. He seated himself in a chair, as he spoke, and Mary Louise sat on the arm of it, still embracing him. No, said a gormon, it really doesn't matter, sir. In fact, I'm sure you will feel relieved to have this affair off your mind, and be spared all further annoyance concerning it. The old gentleman looked at him steadily, but made no answer. It was Peter Connaught who faced the speaker and demanded, What do you mean by that statement? Mr. Hathaway knows what I mean. He can, in a few words, explain why he has for years borne the accusation of a crime of which he is innocent. Peter Connaught was so astounded he could do nothing but stare at the detective. Staring was the very best thing that Peter did, and he never stared harder in his life. The tears had been coursing down Mary Louise's cheeks, but now a glad look crossed her face. Do you hear that, Grandpa Jim? She cried. Of course you are innocent. I've always known that, but now even your enemies do. Mr. Hathaway looked long into the girl's eyes, which met his own hopefully, almost joyfully. Then he turned to O'Gorman. I cannot prove my innocence, he said. Do you mean that you will not? I will go with you and stand my trial. I will accept whatever punishment the law decrees. O'Gorman nodded his head. I know exactly how you feel about it, Mr. Hathaway, he said, and I sympathize with you most earnestly. Will you allow me to sit down a while? Thank you. He took a chair facing that of the hunted man. Agatha, seeing this, seated herself on the doorstep. Nan maintained her position, leaning through the open window. This, said O'Gorman, is a strange case. It has always been a strange case, sir, from the very beginning. Important government secrets of the United States were stolen and turned over to the agent of a foreign government, which is none too friendly to our own. It was considered, in its day, one of the most traitorous crimes in our history. And you, sir, a citizen of high standing and repute, were detected in the act of transferring many of these important papers to a spy, thus paroling the safety of the nation. You were caught red-handed, so to speak, but made your escape in a manner remarkable and even wonderful for its adornness and have for years evaded every effort on the part of our Secret Service Department to effect your capture. And yet, despite the absolute truth of this statement, you are innocent. No one cared to reply for a time. Some who had listened to O'Gorman were too startled to speak. Others were framed. Mary Louise stared at the detective with almost Peter Canant's expression, her eyes big and round. Irene thrilled with joyous anticipation, for in the presence of this sorrowing, hunted, white-haired old man whose years had been devoted to patient self-sacrifice, the humiliation the coming disclosure would thrust upon Mary Louise seemed now insignificant. Until this moment Irene had been determined to suppress the knowledge gained through the old letter in order to protect the feelings of her friend, but now a crying need for the truth to prevail was borne in upon her. She had thought that she alone knew the truth. To her astonishment, as well as satisfaction, the chair-girl now discovered that O'Gorman was equally well informed. CHAPTER XXV. SIMPLE JUSTICE. All eyes were turned upon Mr. Hathaway, who had laid a hand upon the head of his grandchild and was softly stroking her hair. At last he said, brokenly, repeating his former assertion, I cannot prove my innocence. But I can, declared O'Gorman positively, and I'm going to do it. No, no! said Hathaway, startled at his tone. It's this way, sir, explained the little man in a matter-of-fact voice. This chase after you has cost the government a heavy sum already, and your prosecution is likely to make public an affair which, under the circumstances, we consider it more diplomatic to hush up. Any danger to our country has passed, for information obtained ten years ago regarding our defenses, codes, and the like, is today worthless, because all conditions are completely changed. Only the crime of treason remains, a crime that deserves the severest punishment, but the guilty persons have escaped punishment and are now facing a higher tribunal, both the principle in this crime and his weak and foolish tool. So it is best for all concerned, Mr. Hathaway, that we get at the truth of this matter, and when it is clearly on record in the government files, declare the case closed for all time. The State Department has more important matters that demand its attention. The old man's head was bowed, his chin resting on his breast. It was now the turn of Mary Louise to smooth his thin gray cheeks. If you will make a statement, sir, continued O'Gorman, we shall be able to verify it. Slowly Hathaway raised his head. I have no statement to make, he persisted. This is rank folly, exclaimed O'Gorman, but if you refuse to make the statement, I shall make it myself. I beg you, I implore you," said Hathaway, pleadingly. The detective rose and stood before him, looking not at the old man, but at the young girl, Mary Louise. Tell me, my child, he said gently, would you not rather see your grandfather, an honorable, high-minded gentleman, acquitted of an unjust accusation, even at the expense of some abasement and perhaps heartaches on your part, rather than allow him to continue to suffer disgrace in order to shield you from so slight an affliction? Sir! cried Hathaway indignantly, starting to his feet. How dare you throw the burden on this poor child! Have you no mercy? No compassion? Plenty, was the quiet reply. Sit down, sir. This girl is stronger than you think. She will not be made permanently unhappy by knowing the truth, I assure you. Hathaway regarded him with a look of anguish akin to fear. Then he turned and seated himself, again putting an arm around Mary Louise as if to shield her. And Irene, speaking very slowly, I am quite sure Mr. O'Gorman is right. Mary Louise is a brave girl, and she loves her grandfather. Then Mary Louise spoke, hesitatingly at first, for she could not yet comprehend the full import of the officer's words. If you mean, said she, that it will cause me sorrow and humiliation to free my grandfather from suspicion, and that he refuses to speak because he fears the truth will hurt me, then I ask you to speak out, Mr. O'Gorman. Of course, returned the little man, smiling at her approvingly. That is just what I intend to do. All these years, my girl, your grandfather has accepted reproach and disgrace in order to shield the good name of a woman and save her from a prison sale. And that woman was your mother. Oh! cried Mary Louise, uncovered her face with her hands. You brute! exclaimed Hathaway, highly incensed. But this is not all, continued O'Gorman unmoved. Your mother, Mary Louise, would have been condemned and imprisoned, and deservedly so in the eyes of the law, had the truth been known, and yet I assure you she was only guilty of folly and of ignorance of the terrible consequences that might have resulted from her act. She was weak enough to be loyal to a promise wrung from her in extremity, and therein lay her only fault. Your grandfather knew all this, and she was his daughter, his only child. When the accusation for your mother's crime fell on him, he ran away and so tacitly admitted his guilt, thus drawing suspicion from her. His reason for remaining hidden was that, had he been caught and brought to trial, he could not have lied or perjured himself under oath, even to save his dearly loved daughter from punishment. Now you understand why he could not submit to arrest, why, assisted by a small but powerful band of faithful friends, he has been able to evade capture during all these years. I admire him for that, but he has sacrificed himself long enough. Your mother's recent death renders her prosecution impossible. It is time the truth prevailed. In simple justice I will not allow this old man to embitter further his life, just to protect his grandchild from a knowledge of her mother's sin. Again a deathly silence pervaded the room. You—you are speaking at random, said Hathaway, in a voice choked with emotion. You have no proof of these dreadful statements. But I have, said Irene Bravely, believing at her duty to support O'Gorman. And so have I, asserted the quiet voice of Sarah Judd, who had entered the room unperceived. Hathaway regarded both the girls in surprise but said nothing. I think, said Officer O'Gorman, it will be best for us to read to Mr. Hathaway that letter. The letter which I found in the book? asked Irene eagerly. Yes, but do not disturb yourself, as she started to wheel her share close to the wall. Josie will get it. To Irene's astonishment Sarah Judd walked straight to the repeating rifle, opened the sliding plate in its stock, and took out the closely folded letter. Thus Nan Shelly and Agatha Lorde were no less surprised than Irene. Also they were deeply chagrined. But O'Gorman's slip in calling Sarah Judd Josie had conveyed to his associates information that somewhat modified their astonishment at the girls' cleverness, for everyone who knew O'Gorman had often heard of his daughter Josie, of whom he was accustomed to speak with infinite pride. He always said he was training her to follow his own profession, and that when the education was complete Josie O'Gorman would make a name for herself in the detective service. So Nan and Agatha exchanged meaning-glances and regarded the freckle-faced girl with new interest. I'm not much of a reader, said Josie, carefully unfolding the paper. Suppose we let Miss Irene read it. Her father nodded ascent and Josie handed the sheet to Irene. Mr. Hathaway had been growing uneasy and now addressed Officer O'Gorman in a protesting voice. Is this reading necessary, sir? Very necessary, Mr. Hathaway. What letter is this that you have referred to? A bit of information dating nearly ten years ago and written by one who perhaps knew more of the political intrigues of John and Beatrice Burroughs than has ever come to your own knowledge. The letter is authentic, then? Quite so. And your department knows of its existence? I am acting under the department's instructions, sir. Obligious Miss McFarlane, he added, turning to Irene, by reading the letter in full. CHAPTER XXVI. This sheet, explained Irene, is in fact but part of a letter. The first sheets are missing, so we don't know who it was addressed to, but it is signed at the end by the initials E. de Vee. The ambassador, cried Hathaway, caught off his guard by surprise. The same, said O'Gorman triumphantly. And it is all in his well-known handwriting. Read the letter, my girl. The first sentence, said Irene, is a continuation of something on a previous page, but I will read it just as it appears here. And then in a clear distinct voice that was audible to all present, she read as follows. Which forces me to abandon at once my post and your delightful country in order to avoid further complications. My greatest regret is in leaving Mrs. Burroughs in so unfortunate a predicament. The lady was absolutely loyal to us, and the calamity that has overtaken her is through no fault of her own. That you may understand this thoroughly, I will remind you that John Burroughs was in our employ. It was through our secret influence that he obtained his first government position, where he inspired confidence and became trusted implicitly. He did not acquire full control, however, until five years later, and during that time he met and married Beatrice Hathaway, the charming daughter of James J. Hathaway, a wealthy broker. That gave Burroughs added importance, and he was promoted to the high government position he occupied at the time of his death. Burroughs made for us secret copies of the fortifications on both the east and west coasts, including the number and caliber of guns, amounts of munitions stored, and other details. Also he obtained copies of the secret telegraph and naval codes, and the complete armaments of all war vessels, both in service and in process of construction. A part of this information, and some of the plans he delivered to me before he died, as you know, and he had the balance practically ready for delivery when he was taken with pneumonia, and unfortunately expired very suddenly. It was characteristic of the man's faithfulness that on his deathbed he made his wife promise to deliver the balance of the plans, and an important book of codes, to us as early as she could find an opportunity to do so. Mrs. Burroughs had previously been in her husband's confidence, and knew he was employed by us while holding his position with the government, so she readily promised to carry out his wishes, perhaps never dreaming of the difficulties that would confront her or the personal dangers she assumed, but she was faithful to her promise and afterward tried to fulfill it. Her father, the James J. Hathaway above mentioned, in whose mansion Mrs. Burroughs lived with her only child, is a staunch patriot. Had he known of our plot, he would have promptly denounced it, even sacrificing his son-in-law. I have no quarrel with him for that, you may well believe, as I value patriotism above all other personal qualities. But after the death of John Burroughs, it became very difficult for his wife to find a way to deliver to me the packet of plans without being detective. There's some oversight at the government office, which aroused suspicion immediately after his death. Burroughs was discovered to have made duplicates of many documents entrusted to him, and with the suspicion of the truth government agents were sent to interview Mrs. Burroughs and find out if the duplicates were still among her husband's papers. Being a clever woman, she succeeded in secreting the precious package and so foiled the detectives. Even her own father, who was very indignant that a member of his household should be accused of treason, had no suspicion that his daughter was in any way involved. But the house was watched, after that, and Mrs. Burroughs was constantly under surveillance, a fact of which she was fully aware. I also became aware of the difficulties that surrounded her, and although impatient to receive the package, I dared not press its delivery. Fortunately, no suspicion attached to me, and a year or so after her husband's death I met Mrs. Burroughs at the house of a mutual friend, on the occasion of a crowded reception, and secured an interview with her where we could not be overheard. We both believed that by this time the police espionage had been greatly relaxed, so I suggested that she boldly send the parcel to me, under an assumed name, at Carver's drugstore, where I had a confederate. An ordinary messenger would not do for this errand, but Mr. Hathaway drove past the drugstore every morning on his way to his office, and Mrs. Burroughs thought it would be quite safe to send the parcel by his hand, the man being wholly above suspicion. On the morning we had agreed upon for the attempt, the woman brought the innocent-looking package to her father as he was leaving the house, and asked him to deliver it at the drugstore on his way down. Thinking it was returned goods he consented, but at the moment he delivered the parcel a couple of detectives appeared and arrested him, opening the package before him to prove its important contents. I witnessed this disaster to our plot with my own eyes, but managed to escape without being arrested, as a partner in the conspiracy, and thus I succeeded in protecting the good name of my beloved country, which must never be known in this connection. Hathaway was absolutely stupefied at the charge against him. Becoming violently indignant, he knocked down the officers and escaped with the contents of the package. He then returned home and demanded an explanation from his daughter, who confessed all. It was then that Hathaway showed the stuff he was made of, to use an Americanism. He insisted on shielding his daughter to whom he was devotedly attached, and in taking the responsibility on his own shoulders. The penalty of this crime is imprisonment for life, and he would not allow Mrs. Burroughs to endure it. Being arrested he did not deny his guilt, but cheerfully suffered imprisonment. Before the day set for his trial, however, he managed to escape, and since then he has so cleverly hidden himself that the authorities remain ignorant of his whereabouts. His wife and his grandchild also disappeared, and it was found that his vast business interests had been legally transferred to some of his most intimate friends, doubtless for his future benefit. The government's secret service was helpless. No one save I knew that Hathaway was shielding his daughter, whose promise to her dead husband had led her to betray her country to the representative of a foreign power such as our own. Yet Hathaway, even in sacrificing his name and reputation, revolted at suffering lifelong imprisonment, nor dared he stand trial through danger of being forced to confess the truth. So he remains in hiding, and I have hopes that he will be able, through his many influential friends, to save himself from capture for many months to come. This is the truth of the matter, dear friend, and as this explanation must never get beyond your own knowledge I charge you to destroy this letter as soon as it is read. When you are abroad next year we will meet and consider this and other matters in which we are mutually interested. I would not have ventured to put this on paper, were it not for my desire to leave someone in this country posted on the Hathaway case. You will understand from the foregoing that the situation has become too delicate for me to remain here. But if you can, give aid to Hathaway, whom I greatly admire, for we are in a way responsible for his troubles. As for Mrs. Burroughs I consider her a woman of character and honour. That she might keep a pledge made to her dead husband she sinned against the law without realizing the enormity of her offence. If any one is to blame it is poor John Burroughs, who was not justified in demanding so dangerous a pledge from his wife, but he was dying at the time and his judgment was impaired. Let us be just to all and so remain just to ourselves. Write me at the old address and believe me to be yours most faithfully, E. DeVee, 16 September 1905. During Irene's reading the others maintained an intense silence. Even when she had ended, the silence continued for a time, while all considered with various feelings the remarkable statement they had just heard. It was O'Gorman who first spoke. If you will assert, Mr. Hathaway, that the ambassador's statement is correct, to the best of your knowledge and belief, I have the authority of our department to promise that the charge against you will promptly be dropped and withdrawn, and that you will be a judged innocent of any offence against the law. It is true that you assisted a guilty person to escape punishment, and are therefore liable for what is called misprision of treason, but we shall not press that for, as I have said before, we prefer, since no real harm has resulted, to allow the case to be filed without further publicity. Do you admit the truth of the statements contained in this letter? I believe them to be true, said Mr. Hathaway in a low voice. Mary Louise was nestling close in his arms, and now she raised her head tenderly to kiss his cheek. She was not sobbing. She did not even appear to be humbled or heartbroken. Perhaps she did not realize at the moment how gravely her father and mother had sinned against the laws of their country. That realization might come to her later, but just now she was happy in the vindication of Grandpa Jim, a triumph that overshadowed all else. I'll take this letter for our files, said Officer O'Gorman, folding it carefully before placing it in his pocket-book. And now, sir, I hope you will permit me to congratulate you and wish you many years of happiness with your granddaughter, who first won my admiration by her steadfast faith in your innocence. She's a good girl, is Mary Louise, and almost as clever as my Josie here. From Nan, come Agatha, let's go back to Bigby's. Our business here is finished. End of Chapter 26. End of Mary Louise by L. Frank Baum. Read by Cibella Denton in Carrollton, Georgia, in January and February 2009. For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org.