The Black Eagle Mystery

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Bonner Geraldine. The Black Eagle Mystery

FOREWORD

CHAPTER I. MOLLY TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER II. MOLLY TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER III. JACK TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER IV. MOLLY TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER V. MOLLY TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER VI. JACK TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER VII. MOLLY TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER VIII. MOLLY TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER IX. JACK TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER X. MOLLY TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER XI. JACK TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER XII. JACK TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER XIII. JACK TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER XIV. MOLLY TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER XV. MOLLY TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER XVI. MOLLY TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER XVII. JACK TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER XVIII. JACK TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER XIX. JACK TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER XX. JACK TELLS THE STORY

CHAPTER XXI. MOLLY ENDS THE STORY

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"Hello!" said Babbitts from the sheets of the morning paper.

I'll call him Babbitts to you because that's the name you'll remember him by – that is if you know about the Hesketh Mystery. I generally call him "Soapy," the name the reporters gave him, and "Himself," which comes natural to me, my mother being Irish. Maybe you'll remember that too? And he calls me "Morningdew" – cute, isn't it? It's American for my last name Morgenthau – I was Molly Morgenthau before I was married.

.....

After he'd gone I tidied up the place, had the morning powwow with Isabella, and then drifted into the parlor. The sun was slanting bright through the windows and as I stood looking out at the thin covering of ice, glittering here and there on the roofs – there'd been rain before the frost – I got the idea I ought to go down and see Iola. She was a frail, high-strung little body and what had happened last night in the Black Eagle Building would put a crimp in her nerves for days to come, especially as just now she had worries of her own. Clara, her sister with whom she lived, had gone into the hair business – not selling it, brushing it on ladies' heads – and hadn't done well, so Iola was the main support of the two of them. Three years ago she'd left the telephone company to better herself, studying typing and stenography, and at first she'd had a hard time, getting into offices where the men were so fierce they scared her so she couldn't work, or so affectionate they scared her so she resigned her job. Then at last she landed a good place at Miss Whitehall's – Carol Whitehall, who had a real-estate scheme – villas and cottages out in New Jersey.

Now while you think of me in my blue serge suit and squirrel furs, with a red wing in my hat and a bunch of cherries pinned on my neckpiece, flashing under the city in the subway, I'll tell you about Carol Whitehall. She's important in this story – I guess you'd call her the heroine – for though the capital "I"s are thick in it, you've got to see that letter as nothing more than a hand holding a pen.

.....