Part 14 (1/2)
”Did you get any mail?”
”No--yes--I dunno. 'Pears like I did get somethin'. If I did, it's in the pocket of my other coat.”
Going into the hall he returned with a small white package which he gave to Celestina.
”It ain't for me,” said she, after she had examined the address. ”It's Bob's.”
”Bob's, eh?” queried the inventor. ”I didn't notice, not havin' on my readin' gla.s.ses. So it's Bob's, is it?”
”Yes,” answered Celestina, eyeing the neat parcel curiously.
”Whoever's sendin' you a bundle all tied up with white paper an' pink string, Bob? It looks like it was jewelry.”
Quickly Willie sprang to the rescue.
”Oh, Bob's been gettin' some repairin' done for the Brewsters,”
explained he. ”Delight's buckle was broke an' knowin' the best place to send it, he mailed it up to town.”
”Oh,” responded Celestina, glancing from one to the other with a half satisfied air.
”Let's have the thing out an' see how it looks, Bob,” Willie went on.
Blus.h.i.+ngly Robert Morton undid the box.
Yes, there amid wrappings of tissue paper, on a bed of blue cotton wool, rested the buckle of silver, its burnished surface sparkling in the light.
He took it out and inspected it carefully.
”It is all O. K.,” observed he, with an attempt at indifference. ”See what a fine piece of work they made of it.”
The old man took from the table drawer a long leather case, drew out another pair of spectacles which he exchanged for the ones he was already wearing, and after scrutinizing the buckle and scowling at it for an interval he carried it to the window.
”What's the matter?” Bob demanded, instantly alert. ”Isn't the repairing properly done?”
”'Tain't the repairin' I'm lookin' at,” Willie returned slowly. ”I've no quarrel with that.”
Still he continued to twist and turn the disc of silver, now holding it at arm's length, now bringing it close to his eye with a puzzled intentness.
Robert Morton could stand the suspense no longer.
”What's wrong with it?” he at last burst out.
Willie did not look up but evidently he caught the note of impatience in the younger man's tone, for he drawled quizzically:
”Don't it strike you as a mite peculiar that a buckle should go to Boston with D. L. H. on it an' come home marked C. L. G.?”
”_What_!”
”That's what's on it--C. L. G. See for yourself.”
”It can't be.”
”Come an' have a look.”