Chinese Orange Mystery Read Free

I’ll stop in for a minute. I’ve nothing to do, anyway. It gets so boring, Mrs. Shane. And then I do feel sorry for poor Mr. Osborne, cooped up in that office all day with not a living soul to talk to.”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Mrs. Shane with demoniac subtlety. “Only this morning there was a perfeckly stunning young lady. Something to do with Mr. Kirk’s book publishing—an author, I do think. She was in there with Mr. Osborne for the longest time—”
    “Well, and why shouldn’t she be?” murmured Miss Diversey. “I’m sure I don’t care, Mrs. Shane. And anyway it’s his work, isn’t it? Besides, Mr. Osborne isn’t the kind … Well, so long.”
    “So long,” said Mrs. Shane warmly.
    Miss Diversey strolled back the way she had come, her strides growing smaller and smaller as she approached the enchanted area before the closed door of Donald Kirk’s office. Finally, and by some miracle of chance precisely opposite the door, she came to a stop. Her cheeks tingling, she darted a glance over her shoulder at Mrs. Shane. That worthy dame, basking in the glow of acting a stout middle-aged Eros, was grinning broadly. So Miss Diversey smiled rather foolishly and put off all further pretense and knocked on the door.
    James Osborne called: “Come in,” in an absent tone and did not raise his pale face as Miss Diversey slipped with high-beating heart into the office. He was seated on a swivel-chair before a desk, working with silent concentration over a curious loose-leaf album with thick leaves faintly quadrilled and holding tiny rectangles of colored paper. He was a faded-looking man of forty-five, with nondescript sandy hair grizzled at the temples, a sharp beaten nose, and eyes imbedded in tired wrinkles. He worked over the bits of colored papers with unwavering attention, handling them with a small nickel tongs and the dexterity of long practice.
    Miss Diversey coughed.
    Osborne swung about, startled. “Why, Miss Diversey!” he exclaimed, dropping the tongs and scrambling to his feet. “Come in, come in. I’m dreadfully sorry—I was so absorbed …” A redness had come over his flat lined cheeks.
    “You go right back to work,” directed Miss Diversey. “I thought I’d look in, but since you’re busy—”
    “No. No, no, Miss Diversey, really. Sit down. I haven’t seen you for two days. I suppose Dr. Kirk has been keeping you busy?”
    Miss Diversey sat down, arranging her starched skirts primly. “Oh, we’re used to that, Mr. Osborne. He’s a little fussy, but he’s really a grand old man.”
    “I quite agree. Quite,” said Osborne. “A great scholar, Miss Diversey. He’s contributed a good deal, you know, to philology in his day. A great scholar.”
    Miss Diversey murmured something. Osborne stood in an eager, sloped attitude. The room was very quiet and warm. It was more like a den than an office, fitted out by some sensitive hand. Soft glass curtains and brown velvet drapes shrouded the windows overlooking the setback court. Donald Kirk’s desk was in a corner, heaped with books and albums. They both felt suddenly a sense of being alone with each other.
    “Working on those old stamps again, I see,” said Miss Diversey in a strained voice.
    “Yes. Yes, indeed.”
    “Whatever you men see in collecting postage stamps! Don’t you feel silly sometimes, Mr. Osborne? Grown men! Why, I’ve always thought only boys went in for that sort of thing.”
    “Oh, really no,” protested Osborne. “Most laymen think that about philately. And yet it absorbs the attention of millions of people all over the world. It’s a universal hobby, Miss Diversey. Do you know there’s one stamp in existence which is catalogued at fifty thousand dollars?”
    Miss Diversey’s eyes grew round. “No!”
    “I mean it. A bit of paper so messy you wouldn’t give it another look. I’ve seen photographs of it.” Osborne’s faded eyes glowed. “From British Guiana. It’s the only one of its