The Black Eagle Mystery

He pushed back his chair all stirred and pale. Carol, with a catch of her breath, said my name – just "Molly," nothing more. But Babbitts, who didn't know where he was at, cried out:

"Did what? For Heaven's sake what's it all about?"

Then I told him – the whole thing – out it came with tears and sobs – all to him, every word of it, with not a voice to interrupt, and when it was done, down went my head on the table with my hair in the ice cream.

Well, what do you think happened? Was he mad – did he say, "You're a false, deceitful woman. Begone?" Oh, he didn't – he didn't! He got up and came around the table and Carol and Jack slipped away somewhere and left us alone.

Afterward in the parlor, me a sight with my nose red and the ice cream only half out of my hair, we talked it all out and they – Oh well, they said a lot of things – I can't tell you what – too many and sort of affecting. It made me feel awful uncomfortable, not knowing what to say, but Babbitts adored it, couldn't get enough of it, just sat there nodding like the Chinese image on the mantelpiece, while those two fine people sat and threw bouquets at his wife.

On the way up the street, we didn't say much, walking close together hand tucked in arm. But suddenly, up under one of those big arc lights in Gramercy Park, he stopped short, and looking strange and solemn, gave me a kiss, a good loud smack, and said, sort of husky:

"I love you more this evening, Morningdew, than I ever did since the first day I met you."

Well – that's the end. Jack and Carol are going to be married this spring and go to Firehill. Babbitts and I have a standing invitation down there for every Sunday and all summer if we want. There's a great lawsuit started to prove the claims of Mrs. Whitehall and Carol as Johnston Barker's wife and child. He died without a will, so in the end they'll get most all he left – piles and piles of money. It's in the Whitney office and last time I saw Mr. Whitney he told me Carol would some day be one of the richest women in New York.

It won't spoil her – she's not that kind – a grand, fine woman, true blue every inch of her. I've come to know her well and I'm satisfied she's just the girl I would have chosen for Jack Reddy. Queer, isn't it, the way things come about? Here was I, searching for a wife for him, turning them all down, and he goes and stumbles on the only one in the country I'd think good enough. That's the way it is with life – when it looks most like a muddle it's going straightest. It sure is sort of confusing – but it's a good old world after all.