to the lake and threw it in. The story she just told you is a lie."
The crowd gasped.
There was a flurry of activity on the grass then. A fireman stood up with the infant in his arms. Another said to the policeman, "We're taking him to the wagon. Better bring his mother along."
The woman had turned to stare at Raymond. She looked at him as though she could not believe she had heard him say what he had just said. If she had any thought of answering him, though, the policeman dispelled it by saying, "Go with them, ma'am. I'll be right along."
He turned to Melanie, and she saw he was having trouble deciding where his duty lay. "Miss Skipworth," he said, "you suppose -you could do me a favor and take Raymond home? He's been missing since before noon, in case you don't know. Ran away from school.
If he was to disappear again now, I'd be in big trouble. But that woman and her baby . . ."
"I'll walk him home."
"Thanks."
Taking the boy's hand, she said, "Come on, Raymond," and was glad to get him and herself away from the onlookers who, after hearing him accuse the woman, were staring at him as though they too were incapable of believing he had said it. Leaving the small crowd behind, she said, "So you ran away from school, did you'? Why?"
"I wanted to."
"Well, I suppose that's as good a reason as any. Especially if you're the mayor's son. Where did you go?"
"I'm not telling."
"You're not telling. All right, I don't really want to know. But I would like to know why you told that awful lie back there about that poor woman."
"It wasn't a lie. That's what she did—she took the baby out of the carriage and threw it in the lake."
They were alone now on a path made almost dark by the broad, spreading crown of one of the largest trees in the park. Raymond's home was in sight. Still holding his hand, Melanie halted, forcing him to halt too. "Raymond Hostetter," she said, "I don't believe you."
He smiled. It was a frightening kind of smile, not childish at all but old and wise. "You will, though," he said calmly, and Melanie wondered whether his eyes were really the color they seemed to be.
If the tree under which they stood had been a turkey oak in the fall, with a turkey oak's flaming red leaves, she could have blamed the strange glow on that. But it wasn't. It was a live oak and its leaves were green.
A few minutes after seven that evening Dr. Norman Broderick—"Doc" he was called by nearly everyone—said good-bye to Olive and Jerri Jansen and locked his office door. He had no evening hours on Mondays and would not have seen these two so late in the day had not Olive seemed so distraught over the phone when requesting an appointment.
Lighting a cigarette—he allowed himself five a day now—he climbed a flight of stairs and entered his living room. A widower, he lived alone on a tree-lined street near the library, using the downstairs floor of the house for his practice and the remodeled upstairs for his living quarters. He was fifty-six years old and a fine specimen of manhood, with a mop of unruly dark hair that would have looked more appropriate on a medical student.
Strange, he thought, relaxing in his favorite chair to enjoy his smoke. Damned strange, the way little Jerri Jansen had answered some of his questions. What was the meaning of that repeated reference to a door?
In the beginning he had talked to the two of them together, thinking they had come only about Jerri's behavior at the concert. He knew about that, of course. Vin Otto had come for treatment last night after it happened. And Olive did talk about it for a while, mainly to bring out the point that the child did not remember the incident. Then she had gone on to talk about the frog and Elizabeth Peckham's accusatory telephone call.
This he found more interesting. Elizabeth had been a patient of his until a couple of years ago. Then for some reason she had switched to old Victor Yambor in the nearby town of Glendevon. Yambor had been Gustave
The crowd gasped.
There was a flurry of activity on the grass then. A fireman stood up with the infant in his arms. Another said to the policeman, "We're taking him to the wagon. Better bring his mother along."
The woman had turned to stare at Raymond. She looked at him as though she could not believe she had heard him say what he had just said. If she had any thought of answering him, though, the policeman dispelled it by saying, "Go with them, ma'am. I'll be right along."
He turned to Melanie, and she saw he was having trouble deciding where his duty lay. "Miss Skipworth," he said, "you suppose -you could do me a favor and take Raymond home? He's been missing since before noon, in case you don't know. Ran away from school.
If he was to disappear again now, I'd be in big trouble. But that woman and her baby . . ."
"I'll walk him home."
"Thanks."
Taking the boy's hand, she said, "Come on, Raymond," and was glad to get him and herself away from the onlookers who, after hearing him accuse the woman, were staring at him as though they too were incapable of believing he had said it. Leaving the small crowd behind, she said, "So you ran away from school, did you'? Why?"
"I wanted to."
"Well, I suppose that's as good a reason as any. Especially if you're the mayor's son. Where did you go?"
"I'm not telling."
"You're not telling. All right, I don't really want to know. But I would like to know why you told that awful lie back there about that poor woman."
"It wasn't a lie. That's what she did—she took the baby out of the carriage and threw it in the lake."
They were alone now on a path made almost dark by the broad, spreading crown of one of the largest trees in the park. Raymond's home was in sight. Still holding his hand, Melanie halted, forcing him to halt too. "Raymond Hostetter," she said, "I don't believe you."
He smiled. It was a frightening kind of smile, not childish at all but old and wise. "You will, though," he said calmly, and Melanie wondered whether his eyes were really the color they seemed to be.
If the tree under which they stood had been a turkey oak in the fall, with a turkey oak's flaming red leaves, she could have blamed the strange glow on that. But it wasn't. It was a live oak and its leaves were green.
A few minutes after seven that evening Dr. Norman Broderick—"Doc" he was called by nearly everyone—said good-bye to Olive and Jerri Jansen and locked his office door. He had no evening hours on Mondays and would not have seen these two so late in the day had not Olive seemed so distraught over the phone when requesting an appointment.
Lighting a cigarette—he allowed himself five a day now—he climbed a flight of stairs and entered his living room. A widower, he lived alone on a tree-lined street near the library, using the downstairs floor of the house for his practice and the remodeled upstairs for his living quarters. He was fifty-six years old and a fine specimen of manhood, with a mop of unruly dark hair that would have looked more appropriate on a medical student.
Strange, he thought, relaxing in his favorite chair to enjoy his smoke. Damned strange, the way little Jerri Jansen had answered some of his questions. What was the meaning of that repeated reference to a door?
In the beginning he had talked to the two of them together, thinking they had come only about Jerri's behavior at the concert. He knew about that, of course. Vin Otto had come for treatment last night after it happened. And Olive did talk about it for a while, mainly to bring out the point that the child did not remember the incident. Then she had gone on to talk about the frog and Elizabeth Peckham's accusatory telephone call.
This he found more interesting. Elizabeth had been a patient of his until a couple of years ago. Then for some reason she had switched to old Victor Yambor in the nearby town of Glendevon. Yambor had been Gustave
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