Death of a Robber Baron Read Online Free PDF Page A

boardinghouse table to gladly steal it—if they could.
    As live-in manager, Pamela had become vigilant and perceptive, often warding off a theft before it could take place. And she had grown more tactful, resolving disputes, allowing a suspected thief to save face. But she also had to retrieve stolen pieces. That had led to distressing encounters with thieves. One of them had threatened her with a knife.
    She had found no friends among the guests. Some were wary of her. Others resented her good breeding and her cultivated speech. The food was barely edible, and her room was unheated. If she complained, she received no sympathy from the flint-eyed cook, Mrs. Baker. “It’s your house. You can leave or sell it anytime you like.”
    Then, the neighborhood seemed to become more dangerous by the day. Her assailant’s stench still lingered in her nostrils. He would be watching for her, night after night, and would eventually pounce on her. Brenda was another worry. Her father might take her by surprise on the way to or from school.
    As Pamela lay on her cot and weighed these thoughts, Prescott’s offer looked more attractive by the minute. She would speak to him tomorrow.

C HAPTER 4
    A New Beginning
    23 March
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    T he next morning, Pamela awoke to doubts about her decision. But she put them aside. As she left the boardinghouse, a spasm of fear gripped her heart. Dennis Reilly might lie in wait. But after walking a block without an incident, she felt relieved. Perhaps he was nursing his wounds in some miserable hovel and thinking of all the dreadful things he’d do to her later. To be on the safe side, Brenda had gone by cab to her school. A less expensive arrangement would have to be made soon.
    Pamela gingerly approached the door to Prescott’s law office, screwed up her courage, and knocked. While investigating her husband, she had often come to these rooms that Prescott shared with two associates. A clerk opened the door and showed her into the parlor where she and Prescott usually met. It was the antechamber to his private office, which she had never seen.
    While waiting, she studied the familiar hangings on the walls. An engraving of a Raphael Madonna and Child showed the taste of a cultivated man. A Columbia College diploma certified his familiarity with science, philosophy, and the liberal arts. But neither the pictures nor the diploma told her much about the man’s character.
    Over a year ago, when they had been alone together in the parlor, he had begun to call her Pamela. In public, it was always Mrs. Thompson. In private once, she had asked him, “How shall I address you?”
    â€œJust call me Prescott, as others do. My given name, Jeremiah, conjures up the Old Testament and a mighty prophet’s dire message to a hard-necked people. That’s not at all how I think of myself—nor want to be thought of.”
    A clerk now interrupted Pamela’s recollections. “Mr. Prescott will be with you in a minute.”
    Shortly afterward, he walked into the parlor, then stopped in his tracks, and stared at her. “What’s happened to you?”
    â€œDennis Reilly attacked me yesterday.” She had tried unsuccessfully to conceal the bruises and the swollen lip.
    He sat facing her. “Give me the details.”
    She briefly described the assault, then added, “This morning, I asked neighbors about Reilly. They hadn’t seen him since the incident and didn’t know where he lived.”
    â€œHe may lie low for a few days, until his wounds heal.” Prescott tilted his head thoughtfully. “What exactly is his grudge against you?”
    â€œHow well do you know Brenda Reilly’s story?”
    â€œShe’s the young Irish girl, your ward, who lives with you in the boardinghouse. I gather that Dennis Reilly is her father.”
    Pamela nodded. “The story is painful to tell. And it isn’t over. It also involves more than Brenda,