He's got some kind a holt on these here trustees--'y gosh,
I'd like to know what 'tis. He c'n jest wrap 'em round his finger an'
make 'em app'int anybody he likes. Must be politics. There, it's recess!
I'll jest light out an' pay the schoolhouse a little visit."
Inside a capacious and official pocket of Mr. Crow's coat reposed a
letter from a law firm in Chicago. It asked if within the last two years
a young woman had applied for a position as teacher in the township
schools at Tinkletown. A description accompanied the inquiry, but it was
admitted she might have applied under a name not her own, which was
Marion Lovering. In explanation, the letter said she had left her home
in Chicago without the consent of her aunt, imbued with the idea that
she would sooner support herself than depend upon the charity of that
worthy though wealthy relative. The aunt had recently died, and counsel
for the estate was trying to establish proof concerning the actions and
whereabouts of Miss Lovering since her departure from Chicago.
The young woman often had said she would become a teacher, a tutor, a
governess, or a companion, and it was known that she had made her way to
that section of the world presided over by Anderson Crow--although the
distinguished lawyers did not put it in those words. A reward of five
hundred dollars for positive information concerning the "life of the
girl" while in "that or any other community" was promised.
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