Footprints by Kay Cleaver Strahan

I

Sunday, October 14, 1900.

Dear Judy: Dr. Joe came home with us last evening, and spent the night here. This afternoon he talked to Grandfather, Uncle Phineas, Chris, and me.

He had heard from Mr. Ward, who had been to see the insurance people. He said that they were inclined to hedge. They had hoped to have it proved that Father's death was suicidal. Mr. Ward writes, however, that they haven't a legal leg to stand on, and that he thinks he will have the money for us within two weeks.

Grandfather asked me whether I had thought about what you and Lucy and I would do with the money. I had not, of course. I hadn't realized that the money would come to the three of us. I told Grandfather we'd do whatever he advised. He said we should have to think it over. We dropped the discussion there.

This evening, when he got me alone, Chris said, flat, that I should have to let him have five thousand dollars. That is, he said if I'd pay the Brindley mortgage so that he could get another mortgage to the extent of five thousand dollars, that would satisfy him. But, in some way, he had to have at least five thousand at once-enough for Irene and him to get back to New York and live until he had made a success of his writing. Otherwise, he said, he should be forced to accept the offer he had for selling the place. He was certain that I would understand why he could not ask Irene to remain on Q 2 Ranch. No man, he said, could ask any sensitive woman to continue life in a place where such a horror had occurred.

I said, "Shall we cast lots for the garments, Chris? " and walked away. But it isn't as decent as that. It is refined blackmailing-though I don't know why I modify it.

If we do get the money, he'll get his five thousand, won't he, Judy? Cheap at the price, to be rid of them. The other five thousand will carry us along to safety.

In passing, I wonder whether Irene knew that Chris wouldn't expect or ask her to stay on a place where a horror had occurred? Sorry. That is spite-cad's talk-nothing else.

Thank the Lord we'll get Lucy away from this rotten, spite-ridden, fear-ridden hole before long. I wish we might get Grandfather away for a while, too. He has aged, in the past week. I wish, also, that I could keep him from finding out about this last brash move of Chris's, but I don't know how to do it.

I'm foundered on this writing business, Judy. It is doing no good. I think I shall pass it up. But I do want to tell you that I have decided I was clear off about Grandfather's suspecting me. I surely had a brainstorm, right, there for a few days.

Your loving brother, Neal.

II

Monday, October 15, 1900.

Dear Judy: Your letter in answer to my first one to you came this morning. I'm glad that you think I did right when I told you the truth. But I am sorry that you thought my purpose in writing to you was to gain comfort and consolation for myself.

It is gratifying, of course, to know that you are sure I did not go into Father's room and murder him in cold blood. Gratifying, too, to be assured that you can't believe I murdered Father, not even by mistake for Chris. As a matter of fact, I had reached both conclusions some time ago.

Your judgment, from a few thousand miles of distance, that we were all mistaken about nobody hiding in the house, and, probably, all mistaken about there being no footprints in the snow, is also reassuring. And nothing could be more inspirational than your repeated assertion that, until I come to my senses and realize that no member of the family _could possibly_ have done such a wicked thing, I'll be useless as an aid in discovering the real criminal. Too, your persistent demands that I stop being foolish, hysterical, and begin to think calmly and sanely and search for "clues" (Lord, Jude, that searching for clues came near to being the last straw! ), and evolve some sensible theory and some reasonable plan of action, have been carefully noted.

Sorry, but to date I have evolved no such theory or plan. However, other members of the family have been less dilatory. I shall give you the two theories in vogue at present. You may have them to play with, but I should advise against your putting them in your mouth, because, I fear, they might rub off and give you a tummy ache.

The first theory was constructed by Olympe and is, I believe, exclusively her own. It was this theory which succeeded in frightening Lucy-I had given the child credit for much better sense-out of her wits. At Lucy's earnest solicitation, Olympe graciously allowed Lucy to repeat the production to me. The author, modestly, declined a direct discussion of it.

Lucy tells me that she has enlightened you, to some extent, concerning a gentleman unfortunately named Archie Biggil-ex-husband of Irene's. That she has told you of his, perhaps belated, ardency; of his jealousy, his passion, and other interesting emotions. Sweet stuff for a kid like Lucy to have been consuming!