Sophie started. “Not yet,” she said with an apologetic look at the children.
“Not yet!” Mr. Schuyler exclaimed indignantly. “Very well, if you cannot be troubled to call —”
“I will do it right away,” said Sophie, hurrying to her desk.
Reynie leaped to his feet. “Please, Mr. Schuyler. Will you consider —”
But Mr. Schuyler wouldn’t let him finish. “No,” he said firmly. “I will not.” He turned and stalked past the librarian’s desk into one of the back rooms.
With the telephone in her hand, Sophie watched him go. She listened a moment, then turned to the children. “There is something wrong with this telephone,” she said quietly. “It is not working. I will try again in one or two minutes. Do you children wish to use the bathroom? It is downstairs.”
“The bathroom?” Sticky said.
Kate grabbed him and whispered, “She’s letting us go, Sticky. Move it.”
They went quickly to the door, pausing just long enough to cast grateful looks toward the young librarian.
“Thank you, Sophie,” Reynie whispered.
“Good luck, children,” Sophie whispered in reply. She watched them leave with an expression of great concern, no doubt wondering whether she’d done the right thing in letting them go. They were children, after all. Whatever they were doing, wherever they were going now — would they be safe?
It was a question shared by the children themselves.
And the answer was no.
The Phone Call, the money, and the Fateful Envelope
Reynie was confident now that Mr. Benedict and Number Two had gone to the island, wherever it was, and that Mr. Curtain had followed them there. Whether the children could follow them there, too, remained to be seen, but one thing was certain: if they failed, it would not be from a lack of hurrying.
“I’m sorry! I have to rest!” Reynie gasped, steering his bicycle off the road and into a patch of grass, where he shakily dismounted and flopped onto his back. His legs burned from calf to thigh, his lungs were heaving, and he could barely see for all the sweat stinging his eyes. They had been pedaling madly ever since they left the museum.
Hearing a strange, raspy sound nearby, Reynie wiped his eyes and turned his head to look. Sticky lay wheezing in the grass a few yards away, one leg under his bicycle, like a cavalry soldier whose horse had fallen on him in battle. Too winded to speak and too exhausted to dismount, he’d followed Reynie into the grass and simply let himself crash.
Kate came back to see what was the matter. She sat on her bicycle — by some miracle of balance she kept it upright without pedaling — and Constance sat in the basket. Both girls seemed disappointed.
“We need to hurry, you know,” said Constance, who otherwise wouldn’t have agreed to ride with Kate.
“I think . . . I’m done for,” Reynie panted. “You go on . . . without me.”
“Are you joking?” Kate asked, astonished.
Reynie nodded and hauled himself into a sitting position. He found he couldn’t breathe as well this way, however, and so he fell onto his back again. Constance frowned disapprovingly. Meanwhile, an old woman walking a miniature poodle had stopped to let the dog sniff at Sticky. Sticky could only blink at it and gasp. The old woman clucked, said something to the children in Dutch, and moved on.
The route from the museum to the hotel was a long, straight shot along a major thoroughfare, but to avoid attention (since the police might be looking for them) the children had kept to side streets. They were in a quiet neighborhood now. The patch of grass the boys had collapsed upon was actually a tiny park — a dreary one, unfortunately, scarcely larger than a parking space, with a single rotting bench and a single blighted elm tree.
“I’ve been thinking,” Kate said as the boys recovered. “What if Mr. Benedict meant for Thernbaakagen to be our last stop? What if he and Number Two took a quick trip to that island with the idea of returning before we got to the hotel? After all, he didn’t know about the island until he got here. It wouldn’t have been part of his original plans.”
Reynie had considered this but had kept the question to himself. He hadn’t wanted to discourage Constance. Sure enough, now that Kate had mentioned it, Constance’s troubled expression grew darker still.
“He may very well have tacked the island onto our trip,” Reynie said quickly. “In which case he’ll have left a clue at the hotel. And even if he hasn’t, we might be able to track down Han de Reizeger — the Benedicts’ friend. He’d be very old by now, but —”
“Oh,” Sticky said, looking uncomfortable. “Um, sorry. Han was already very old. He died a long time ago. Mr. Benedict’s aunt mentioned that in her letter.”
“She did?” Constance said, turning on him. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
Sticky clenched his teeth. “Because Mr. Schuyler came in before we got to it, Constance.”
“Can you tell us what it said?” Reynie asked.
“It was in English, actually,” Sticky said. “Shall I quote it? Or would you rather I —?”
“Absolutely,” said Kate. “Quote away.”
And so Sticky recited the letter:
My dear Anki,
I write in English this time, not only to show you how proficient I’ve become — I am a regular American now — but to encourage you and Dr. Benedict to practice it yourselves, as it has always struck me as ridiculous that you speak ten languages between you yet render your English so clumsily.
But forgive me. I meant first to offer condolences for the loss of your friend Han de Reizeger. It must be a comfort to you that he was so very old. And had he not lived a full and adventurous life? And did he not die traveling the world as he had always hoped he would? If only everyone could be so lucky!
I do regret the financial troubles mentioned in your last letter, Anki, but I cannot help you. I realize you’ve not gone so far as to ask openly for my help, but I thought the request implicit in your letter, and I am sorry to refuse it. As you should know, my own precarious situation prevents me. I scarcely have enough to pay rent, nor have I ever since Thiedric died these many years ago. But what is this trip you wish to make, anyway? If it is so urgent, must you keep it a secret from your own sister? It only seems proper that a request for traveling funds be accompanied by an explanation.
Regardless, I beg you not to attempt the experiment you mention. Sure, the government will pay you handsomely if you achieve success, but are you not concerned about the possibility of an accident? Is this not why others have refused? You may say that most lack your qualifications, but surely in all of Holland there are other scientists who might attempt such a thing.
Personally I believe it is in the nature of explosives to be explosive, and I do not see how you can make it otherwise. No matter how “noble the purpose,” as you say in your letter, no matter how many lives might be saved, I assure you no one could induce me to attempt such a thing! That, I suppose, is why I did not become a scientist myself. (That, and the fact that science is such a dull business — so much Latin and so many symbols. )
I am relieved, at least, that you intend to wait until the baby has come. But what is the hurry? The baby, the experiment, the mysterious journey — you write as if all must come so quickly! Take your time, Anki! It has never failed to annoy me, I must confess, the way you always write with both hands going at once, as if there were never a moment to be lost. Such haste is hardly proper in a woman to exhibit, however scientific she might think herself to be.