Chapter 15 The Whispering Statue by Carolyn Keene
A PAGE FROM THE PAST
He glanced nervously at the girls, and they noticed a stray tear trickling down his furrowed cheek.
“No, today is the first time I ever told anyone. I shouldn’t have talked so much—promise you’ll never repeat the story,” he pleaded.
“Have no fear, we’ll surely guard your secret,” Nancy answered sympathetically.
“Oh, thank you, thank you,” the old man murmured gratefully, and without a word of farewell he arose and moved slowly away.
Returning to the Seaside Hotel, Nancy and her chums were greeted in the lobby by Mr. Drew. George and Bess went directly to their room. After they had gone the lawyer took his daughter aside for a quiet talk.
“I have news of the seaplane pilot, Nancy. I spent nearly an hour at the hospital today talking with the doctors as well as the patient.”
“Then the man has recovered consciousness?” Nancy asked eagerly.
“Yes. When I saw him he seemed little the worse for what he went through. Apparently you were right about the fellow having been drugged. The doctors feel certain of it, and I learned from the aviator that shortly before he took off in the seaplane a stranger accosted him. They struck up a friendly conversation, and the man treated him to a lunch with coffee.”
“Dropping a few pills into the coffee, I suppose,” said Nancy.
“So it would seem. While it is impossible to gain absolute evidence, in my own mind I am convinced that Wormrath is at the bottom of the matter.”
“Have you told Mr. Owen what you learned?”
“Not yet. The nurse said he wasn’t feeling as well as he was at first—shock, I suppose. If you have a few minutes to spare, Nancy, you might run up to his room.”
“I’ll be glad to, Dad,” she promised, “just as soon as I’ve written a letter.”
Nancy then told her father of her experience at the tourist park, and the manner in which she had gained Miss Morse’s address.
“I intend to write her immediately,” she declared, “but I’m afraid even now it may be too late. From the bit of letter I found I gather she intends to hand over the five thousand dollars to Mitza very shortly.”
Carson Drew nodded, scarcely heeding what his daughter was saying, for his mind was firmly fixed upon the Owen-Wormrath case. Nancy had intended to seek his advice, but realizing that he did not wish to be bothered just then, she said no more. Instead, she wrote a brief note to Miss Morse in which she told the woman of the suitcase still being at the hotel, and warning her to beware of Mitza.
“I’ve done practically all I can now,” she thought as she sealed the letter and dropped it into the mailbox. “I only hope it reaches Miss Morse in time to prevent her from acting rashly.”
Feeling that an important duty had been accomplished, Nancy next called at Mr. Owen’s room and was admitted by the nurse.
“How is the patient?” the girl inquired in a low tone.
“He is sleeping just at the moment,” the nurse replied, leading Nancy to the bedside. “He suffered a temporary relapse about three hours ago, but his sleep is natural now. When he awakens I believe he will be very nearly back to normal.”
Nancy sat down by the bed while the nurse lay down on a cot near by.
“Perhaps you would like to take a little walk out in the sunshine,” Nancy presently suggested. “Mr. Owen is sleeping and I don’t mind staying with him.”
The young woman thanked Nancy for her kindness, saying that she would enjoy a breath of fresh air.
“I’ll not be gone more than fifteen minutes,” she promised, closing the door softly as she went out.
Nancy picked up a magazine and started to read, but scarcely had she turned the first page when Mr. Owen’s eyelids opened. He gazed blankly about the room for a moment, then smiled at the girl.
“How do you feel, Mr. Owen?” she asked.
“Oh, much better, much better,” the man replied. “I feel as if I could eat a big meal. Do you suppose you could smuggle in a ‘T’ bone steak for me with French fried potatoes and a pot of coffee?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t until the nurse returns and says it will be all right,” Nancy smiled. “You mustn’t tire yourself by talking either, Mr. Owen.”
“Nonsense! There’s no sense in trying to make an invalid of me. Well, if I’m ordered not to talk, then you must do it for me!”
“I might tell you about my dog Togo,” the girl laughed, probing her mind for a topic which would amuse the man.
She related the terrier’s many mischievous little tricks and revealed how the dog had come into her possession. At first Nancy did not mention Mrs. Owen’s name, although she longed to do so. But she feared that the patient might become excited. However, she was overcome with curiosity to learn if the clubwoman were related to Mr. Owen, and finally broached the subject.
“Oh, yes, I must tell you about a curious coincidence,” she said casually, watching the man closely. “The woman whose pocketbook Togo dropped in the lake had the same name you have.”
“Owen?” The man asked in surprise.
“Yes. I don’t suppose you’re related to anyone in my state, are you?”
“Well, not to my knowledge. The truth is, I have very few relatives anywhere. I’m practically alone in the world.”
Mr. Owen lapsed into moody silence, gazing meditatively out of the window. Nancy realized that unwittingly she had reminded him of an unhappy phase of his life, and wished that she had refrained from broaching the subject.
“My wife died many years ago,” Mr. Owen murmured, speaking as if to himself. “At that time I was traveling in Borneo. I had gone into the interior and did not even know that she was ill. I did not reach this country until several months after her death.”
“A sad homecoming,” Nancy said sympathetically.
“Shortly after reaching the United States I was stricken with a fever,” Mr. Owen continued. “I spent six months in a hospital. When I finally reached Chicago, broken in health and hopelessly discouraged, I found our former home occupied by another family. No one could tell me where my wife had been buried.”
“Had you no friends in the city?”
“None. We had lived there only a month, when I left for Borneo. After what happened I could not bear to remain in Chicago. I went to Windham, and after years of struggle began to prosper in the silk and woolen business. I suppose you would call me a successful man now, but my life is empty and desolate. I’d give everything I own to see Alice just once again.”
“Alice?” Nancy inquired quickly. “Was that the name of your wife?”
“Yes, Alice Lenore. She was a very handsome woman.”
“I was just thinking,” Nancy murmured before she stopped to consider the effect her words might produce, “that the Mrs. Owen of my acquaintance easily could be named Alice, too.”
“What was that?” Mr. Owen demanded sharply. He grasped Nancy’s wrist, the fingers pressing into her flesh so hard that it hurt her.
“I don’t really know Mrs. Owen’s first name,” Nancy assured him quickly. “But I did chance to see a newspaper clipping which she kept in her pocketbook. It read: ‘Rexy, come home. All is forgiven. Alice.’ ”
A strange light suddenly came into the patients eyes and a bright flush crept over his pallid cheeks. He still gripped Nancy’s wrist.
“You are sure?” he rasped, fairly beside himself with subdued excitement. “Those were the exact words?”
“Why yes, I’m almost certain of it, Mr. Owen. Did you ever know anyone named Rexy?”
“Rexy was my nickname. But I can’t understand it—my wife is dead. She couldn’t have inserted the advertisement in the paper, and yet the names—Rexy and Alice—tell me, is Mrs. Owen a woman of middle age?”
“I should judge her to be around sixty.”
“Alice was only two years younger than myself and I am sixty-two now,” Mr. Owen murmured. “Tell me, is your friend a handsome woman?”
“I should consider her so,” Nancy answered, and described Mrs. Owen to the best of her ability.
“She is my wife, my Alice!” Mr. Owen cried, throwing aside the bed covers. “There has been some terrible mistake. She must be alive, and I am going to her!”
It required all of Nancy’s strength to keep Mr. Owen in bed. He struggled and tried to resist her as she placed the covers over him.
“Don’t try to keep me away from my wife! We’ve been separated so many years. I must go to her!”
“You’re in no condition to travel now,” Nancy insisted. “Why wouldn’t it be better to send a telegram to Mrs. Owen and find out if she really is your wife?”
“Yes, yes, send her a wire at once,” Mr. Owen urged. “Bring me paper and pencil and I’ll write it now.”
Nancy was sorry that she had broached the subject of the newspaper clipping. While she was elated over the relationship which appeared to exist between the two persons, she realized that Mr. Owen was too excited for his own good. She feared that he might have a relapse, particularly if it should develop that the clubwoman was not his wife after all.
“It doesn’t seem possible that my Alice may still be alive,” the man mumbled as he scribbled a few lines on the paper Nancy handed him. “And yet her death was never actually confirmed. Oh, I don’t dare hope for such good fortune.”
“We’ll soon know the truth,” Nancy replied soothingly. “Until then you must remain calm and prepare yourself for a possible disappointment.”
“Will you send the wire right away?” Mr. Owen pleaded.
“Yes, this very instant.”
Nancy telephoned the local telegraph office, repeating the message as Mr. Owen had written it.
“How long will it take before we can receive a reply?” the man asked nervously.
“Oh, several hours at least. You must try to rest, Mr. Owen.”
“I can’t rest until I know the truth. Oh, if only I dared hope——”
The patient began to roll and toss on the bed, throwing his head about restlessly. Once he tried to get up, and Nancy had to restrain him forcibly.
“I wish the nurse would return,” she said to herself anxiously.
Even to the girl’s untrained eye it was evident that the man had taken a turn for the worse. Her conscience troubled her, for she realized that she had been the cause of the relapse.
“I didn’t intend to excite him,” she comforted herself. “I only wanted to help him.”
Just then the door opened and the nurse entered. Without removing her hat she rushed to the bedside.
“What have you done to him?” she demanded angrily of Nancy.
“Nothing,” the girl murmured contritely. “We talked and——”
“You’ve excited him, that’s what you’ve done. Oh, I shouldn’t have left him for a minute! Call a doctor at once, then go away and don’t allow anyone to enter this room!”
It was a new experience for Nancy to be ordered about, but she accepted the reprimand meekly. She flew to the telephone, and since she did not know the name of a local doctor she asked the house physician to come upstairs immediately.
“I shouldn’t have spoken so harshly,” the nurse apologized. “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault——”
“But it was,” Nancy replied, accepting full responsibility. “I’ll go away now.”
She slipped out into the hall, and was standing just outside the door as her father came down the carpeted corridor.
“How is Mr. Owen?” he inquired cheerfully, and was startled to glimpse Nancy’s downcast face. “He’s not worse?”
“Yes, he is, Dad, and I’m the cause of it, too. Oh, I feel very contrite.”
After listening to her account of the conversation with the sick man, Mr. Drew did not spare his daughter’s feelings.
“It was a very foolish thing to do, Nancy. In the first place, you’re far from certain that Mrs. Owen is my client’s wife. Such a supposition sounds a bit preposterous to me.”
“But everything tallies,” Nancy Drew protested, moved to defend herself. “Mr. Owen’s nickname is Rexy, and his wife’s name was Alice——”
“Even so, you should have known better. Alice Owen is a fairly common name. You’ve led Mr. Owen to hope that his wife may be alive. Now, if he learns it is all a mistake I shudder to think of the result.”
“You mean—he might die?” Nancy gasped, completely shaken. “I didn’t realize he was so ill. He seemed strong and cheerful.”
“Mr. Owen has a powerful will,” Carson Drew replied grimly, “but he has a weak heart. You meant well, Nancy, but this time I’m afraid that in your great zeal to solve mysteries you have overstepped yourself.”
“What can I do, Dad?” the girl asked unhappily.
“There is nothing anyone can do,” her father returned gravely. “We must wait for the reply to your telegram, and hope that the news will be favorable.”