"I must go to the oflBce,'' he told her. "Have a good lunch. Forget it."
Johnny said, as he turned, "May I come back to yoiu: oflBce, sir?"
"You're John Sims, aren't you? Sad about Emily. Funerals upset my wife."
"ril follow you, sir.'' The lawyer looked at Johnny's tight face and said no more.
In the o£Bce, the lawyer told his switchboard to hold all calls. "Well?"
"I've been to see Clinton McCauley."
"Ah . . ." The lawyer sagged. His gray hair was a little startling above a sun-browned face. "I've been worrying about that ever since the boat docked. Emily turned to you, then? What does McCauley say?"
"What do you say," asked Johnny, "about this engagement?"
"I am horrified," said Copeland quietly.
"You think Bartee is the killer? You think McCauley is right?"
"No, I do not. But that makes no difference. I am horrified, just the same."
Johnny felt a little surge of confidence in the man. Still, he said severely, "What were you thinking of when you introduced them?"
"I couldn't help that," Copeland said. "I'll tell you about it. Dick Bartee came up one day last fall, to deliver a letter from his grandfather by hand. First time I had met
him. He was pleasant. I was cordial. That was that.
"About two months ago, he popped in again. Wanted advice. What did I know about some business people around this town? While we were talking, right here, Nan Padgett happened to come in with some papers. You know she's in the stenographer's pool, but she is rather my protege. I be-Heve she said, Tou wanted these, Mr. Copeland?' and I said, Thank you, Miss Padgett,' and that was absolutely all that was said. Oh, I suppose Nan smiled, as she naturally would, at the boss' guest. I did not introduce them to each other.
"Well, same day, Bartee asked me to lunch with him. I said I was rushed, but if he didn't mind eating in a hurry at my regular place . . . He said he didn't mind, so we went across the street. Now Nick's is mobbed but I have a table reserved every day, as I think I told him. We started past a long hne of people waiting, and there, wedged in the crowd, were Nan and Dorothy Padgett. Bartee stopped in his tracks. He said something hke, This yoimg lady mustn't starve, must she? Isn't there room for her too?' And before I could open my mouth he'd yanked up the velvet rope and Nan and Dorothy had ducked under, laughing.
"Well, I'm kind of uncle to them, you know. They've eaten at my table often enough. What was I to do? Say 'No, you can't sit at my table today.' Could I explain why not? Could I say, 'Because I don't want you to meet this man.' And could I have said why I didn't? I was stuck, I tell you. It happened so fast. Scattered my wdts. So l just put the best face I could on it. I introduced them and we had lunch, the four of us. Dick Bartee, it seemed to me, wasn't too much impressed. Anyhow, I suppose I assumed he'd go for Dorothy.
"Dorothy?''
"Why, yes. She gets the whistles."
"That's right. I guess she does."
"Nan's a sweet kid," Copeland said, "but Dorothy's a stunner. So we talked about everything but personahties. I saw to that. Then, it was over and everyone parted and I thought that was all. Had no idea he went on seeing Nan. I've been away over a month. Emily was gone, too, or she'd have stopped it. I wouldn't have had it happen."
Johimy chewed his Up.
The lawyer was staring at his polished desk. "Does Mc-Cauley want Nan told now? Does he want me to teli her?"
"What do you think of McCauley?" Johnny asked.
"I know the man's got this obsession . . ."
"Is it just an obsession?''
"I don't know. But if he says. Tell her' I will tell her. Does he say so?"
Johnny said, "Would you tell me about this money first? How much money is coming to Nan?"
"Plenty," Copeland said, and named a sum that made Johnny whistle. "It's supposed to be an inheritance from her dead parents—through Emily, handled by me. AH fixed years ago."
"Then it just comes to her?"
"Yes. At Emily's death. Or Nan reaching twenty-one. Whichever's first. It is hers, right now."
"Do you think Dick Bartee knew about that money?" The lawyer bhnked. "Could he have known?" Johnny pressed.
"The old man was supposed to keep the secret. I'm almost certain that he did."
"Why should Dick Bartee dehver a letter by hand? And what was in the letter? Was Nan's name in there?"
The law)'er stared. "I don't know why he brought it instead of mailing it. I don't think her name was there." The lawyer began to look startled. "I see what you mean. He did . . . yes, he did force that introduction. But the girls being in the restaiu-ant—that was just coincidence."
"Was it?" said Johnny.
"Of course, it . . . Wait a minute. He could have set out to cultivate me. If he knew that Nan worked in my office, he could have figured to find an opportunity to force an introduction, sooner or later, somehow. That's the way your mind's working?"
"I'm wondering," Johrmy admitted.
Copeland sent for the letter that Dick Bartee had de-hvered for his grandfather.
Dear Mr. Copeland: (it went)
Since you tell me Miss McCauley has not spent the the yearly allowance I've sent the child tliese seventeen years, and since you say it now amounts to a sizeable fortune, and since the child, now twenty years of age,
will come into this money in, at the least, another year, and is fully protected in the event of Miss McCauley's death by coming into the money at that time, if necessary—I write to announce that I have sent the last amount I shall send. The child is provided for. I am old. And faihng.
Having, therefore, just drafted what I am quite sure will be my final will, I want you and Miss McCauley to know that neither she nor the child receive any bequest therin, nor are they mentioned therein by any name. This means that upon my death, no one need discover the name Miss McCauley and the child now use. And no one can connect the girl with the terrible and pitiable past.
I believe that my duty in the whole matter has been discharged to Miss McCauley's satisfaction. I will say to you, and to Miss McCauley, whom I admire, that I now agree her course has been most kind and vsdse. I wish the httle girl all happiness.
Yours sincerely, Bartholomew Bartee
'Decent letter," said Johnny. '^And no Padgett named."
Copeland said slowly,. "The information about the money is there, isn't it?"
"Had the letter been tampered with?"
"I can't say." The lawyer thought of something that relaxed him. "But he would have no way to find" out where Nan was or under what name she and Emily were hving."
Johnny said pityingly, "I guess you don't have snooper's blood."
"What do you mean? How could he? There are no records he could get at. I'll swear to that. And I never told him."
"Nobody had to teU hun. There is one person he could locate, all right."
"Whor
"Clinton McCauley.''
"Well . . . yes."
"Emily said she went to see her brother once a month."
"Yes."
"Didn't Emily fight for her brother at the time of that crime? Wasn't she there, in Hestia?"
"Yes, she was."
"So Dick Bartee had seen her? Might know her when he saw her again?" "Possibly."
"What's to stop Dick Bartee from hangnng around watching who visits the prison? He'd certainly have a clue as to what she'd look like. Then, when he spots Emily, following her home? Then he knows where she lives and under what name. Wait a minute. Two girls!" Johnny jerked upright. "How could he know which girl was going to get the money? The names were changed."
The lawyer sat still and closed his eyes. In a moment he opened them and said, "Maybe I can tell you how. Listen. When we had lunch that day I said we talked about impersonal stufiF, One impersonal topic was politics. Dick Bartee said to the girls, 1 don't suppose you pretty young things can vote yet?' "
"And Dorothy said, "I can; she can't.' "And Nan said, 'But in another year, I can.' "So he knew which girl by her age, of course." "Uh huh," said Johnny.