Aunt Jane's Nieces at Work
Forbes to return from Fairview a
man was shown into the room and sat down quietly in a corner.
He was a small, lean man, of unassuming appearance, with a thin face and
gray eyes set close together. When he looked at Tom Gates he scarcely
seemed to see him, and his manner conveyed the impression that he
disliked to attract notice.
"Waiting for Mr. Forbes, sir?" asked Tom.
"Yes," was the quiet reply.
Suddenly it struck the young man that this might be the detective who
called every evening to give his report, and if so Tom was anxious to
talk with him. So he ventured to say:
"It's Mr. Burke, isn't it?"
The man nodded, and looked out of the window.
"I'm Tom Gates, sir."
"Yes; I know."
"You've seen me before?" asked the youth, astonished.
"No; I've heard of you. That's all."
Tom flushed, remembering his recent crime. But he was eager to question
the detective.
"Have you heard anything of Lucy Rogers, Mr. Burke?"
"Not yet."
"Is there no trace of her at all?"
"A slight trace--nothing worth mentioning," said Mr. Burke.
For a few moments Tom sat in silence. Then he said:
"I thought I'd found her, day before yesterday."
"Yes?" There was little interest in the tone.
"There's a girl in the house, sir, one of the maids, who is the living
image of Lucy Rogers."
"You ought to be able to identify her," suggested the detective, his
gaze still out of the window.
"But they are not alike except in looks. Her form and face are identical
with Lucy's. I was so sure that I begged her to let me see if there was
a scar on her left arm; but she refused."
"Was there a scar on Lucy Rogers's left arm?"
"Yes, sir. Several years ago, when we were children, we were making
candy in the kitchen and Lucy burned herself badly. It left a broad scar
on her left forearm, which she will bear as long as she lives."
"It is well to know that," said Mr. Burke.
"This girl," continued Tom, musingly, "says her name is Eliza Parsons,
and she says it in Lucy's voice. But her manner is not the same at all.
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There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
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