Miss Lord came up to the Lodge that Saturday forenoon and proved so agreeable to Aunt Hannah and the girls that she was invited to stay to lunch. Mr. Conant was not present, for he had put a couple of sandwiches in his pocket and would not return home until dinner-time.
After luncheon they were all seated together on the benches at the edge of the bluff, which had become their favorite resort because the view was so wonderful. Mary Louise was doing a bit of fancy work, Irene was reading and Aunt Hannah, as she mended stockings, conversed in a desultory way with her guest.
If you don't mind, said Agatha, after a time, "I'll run in and get me a book. This seems the place and the hour for dreaming, rather than gossip, and as we are all in a dreamy mood a good old-fashioned romance seems to me quite fitting for the occasion."
Taking permission for granted, she rose and sauntered toward the house. There was a serious and questioning look in Irene's eyes as they followed the graceful form of Miss Lord, but Mary Louise and Aunt Hannah paid no heed to their visitor's going in to select a book, it seemed so natural a thing for her to do.
It was fully fifteen minutes before Agatha returned, book in hand. Irene glanced at the title and gave a sigh of relief. Without comment their guest resumed her seat and soon appeared to be immersed in her volume. Gradually the sun crossed the mountain and cast a black shadow over the plain below, a shadow which lengthened and advanced inch by inch until it shrouded the landscape spread beneath them.
That is my sun-dial, remarked Mary Louise, dropping her needlework to watch the shifting scene. "When the shadow passes the Huddle, it's four o'clock; by the time it reaches that group of oaks, it is four-thirty; at five o'clock it touches the creek, and then I know it's time to help Aunt Hannah with the dinner."
Agatha laughed.
Is it really so late? she asked. "I see the shadow has nearly reached the brook."
Oh! I didn't mean—
Of course not; but it's time I ran home, just the same. My maid Susan is a perfect tyrant and scolds me dreadfully if I'm late. May I take this book home, Irene? I'll return the others I have borrowed to-morrow.
To be sure, answered Irene. "I'm rich in books, you know."
When Miss Lord went away the party broke up, for Aunt Hannah was already thinking of dinner and Mary Louise wanted to make one of Uncle Peter's favorite desserts. So Irene wheeled her chair into the house and entering the den began a sharp inspection of the place, having in mind exactly the way it had looked when last she left it. But presently she breathed a sigh of relief and went into her own room, for the den had not been disturbed. She wheeled herself to a small table in a corner of her chamber and one glance confirmed her suspicions.
For half an hour she sat quietly thinking, considering many things that might prove very important in the near future. The chair-girl knew little of life save what she had gleaned from books, but in some ways that was quite equal to personal experiences. At dinner she asked:
Did you take a book from my room to-day, Mary Louise?
No, was the reply; "I have not been in your room since yesterday."
Nor you, Aunt Hannah?
No, my dear. What book is missing?
It was entitled 'The Siberian Exile.'
Good gracious! exclaimed Mary Louise. "Wasn't that the book you found the letter in?"
Yes.
And you say it is missing?
It has mysteriously disappeared.
Nonsense, said Uncle Peter, who had returned with a fine string of trout. "No one would care to steal an old book, and the thing hasn't legs, you know."
Nevertheless, said Irene gravely, "it is gone."
And the letter with it! added Mary Louise regretfully. "You ought to have let me read it while I could, Irene."
What letter are you talking about? asked the lawyer.
It is nothing important, Uncle Peter, Irene assured him. "The loss of the book does not worry me at all."
Nor did it, for she knew the letter was not in it. And, to avoid further questioning on the part of Mr. Conant, she managed to turn the conversation to less dangerous subjects.
Mr. Conant had just put on a comfortable smoking-jacket and slippers and seated himself in the den, pipe in mouth, when the old-fashioned knocker on the front door of the Lodge began to bang. It banged three times, so Mr. Conant rose and made for the door.
Mrs. Conant and Mary Louise were in the kitchen and Irene was in her own room. The lawyer reflected, with a deprecating glance at his unconventional costume, that their evening caller could be none other than their neighbor, the beautiful Miss Lord, so as he opened the door he regretted that his appearance was not more presentable.
But it was not Miss Lord who stood upon the porch awaiting admittance.
It was a strange girl, who asked in a meek voice:
Is this Hillcrest Lodge?
It is, replied the lawyer.
The girl came in without an invitation, bringing a carpet-bag in one hand and a bundle tied in a newspaper tucked under the other arm. As she stood in the lighted room she looked around inquiringly and said:
I am Sarah Judd. Where is Mrs. Morrison, please?
Mr. Conant stood and stared at her, his hands clasped behind his back in characteristic attitude. He could not remember ever having heard of Sarah Judd.
Mrs. Morrison, he said in his choppy voice, "is in Europe."
The girl stared at him in return, as if stupified. Then she sat down in the nearest chair and continued to stare. Finding her determined on silence, Mr. Conant spoke again.
The Morrisons are spending the summer abroad. I and my family are occupying the Lodge in their absence. I—eh—eh—I am Mr. Conant, of Dorfield.
The girl sighed drearily. She was quite small, about seventeen years of age and dressed in a faded gingham over which she wore a black cloth coat that was rusty and frayed. A black straw hat, fearfully decorated with red velvet and mussed artificial flowers, was tipped over her forehead. Her features were not bad, but her nose was blotched, her face strongly freckled and her red hair very untidy. Only the mild blue eyes redeemed the unattractive face—eyes very like those of Mary Louise in expression, mused Mr. Conant, as he critically eyed the girl.
I have come here to work, she said after a long pause, during which she seemed trying to collect her thoughts. "I am Sarah Judd. Mrs. Morrison said I must come here on Saturday, the tenth day of July, to go to work. This is the tenth day of July."
H-m—h-m; I see. When did Mrs. Morrison tell you that?
It was last September.
Oh; so she hired you a year in advance and didn't tell you, afterward, that she was going abroad?
I didn't see her since, sir.
Mr. Conant was perplexed. He went into the kitchen and told Aunt Hannah about it and the good woman came at once to interview Sarah Judd, followed by Mary Louise, who had just finished wiping the dishes.
This seems very unfortunate for you, began Mrs. Conant, regarding the strange girl with mild interest. "I suppose, when Mrs. Morrison engaged you, she expected to pass the summer at the Lodge, and afterward she forgot to notify you."
Sarah Judd considered this soberly; then nodded her head.
I've walked all the way from Millbank, she said with another sigh.
Then you've had nothing to eat! exclaimed Mary Louise, with ready sympathy. "May I get her something, Aunt Hannah?"
Of course, my dear.
Both Mr. and Mrs. Conant felt rather embarrassed.
I regret, said the latter, "that we do not need a maid at present. We do our own housework, you see."
I have left a good place in Albany to come here, said Sarah, plaintively.
You should have written to Mrs. Morrison, declared the lawyer, "asking if she still required your services. Many unforeseen things may happen during a period of ten months."
Mrs. Morrison, she have paid me a month in advance, asserted the girl, in justification. "And she paid me my expenses to come here, too. She said I must not fail her; I should come to the Lodge on the tenth of July and do the work at the Lodge. She did not say she would be here. She did not say you would be here. She told me to come and work, and she paid me a month in advance, so I could give the money to my sister, who needed it then. And I must do as Mrs. Morrison says. I am paid to work at the Lodge and so I must work at the Lodge. I cannot help that, can I?"
The lawyer was a man of experience, but this queer complication astonished him. He exchanged a questioning glance with his wife.
In any event, said Mrs. Conant, "the girl must stay here to-night, for it would be cruel to ask her to find her way down the mountain in the dark. We will put her in the maid's room, Peter, and to-morrow we can decide what to do with her."
Very well, agreed Mr. Conant and retreated to the den to have his smoke.
Mary Louise arranged some food on the kitchen table for Sarah Judd and after the girl had eaten, Mrs. Conant took her to the maid's room, which was a very pleasant and well furnished apartment quite in keeping with all the comfortable appointments at Hillcrest Lodge, although it was built behind the kitchen and formed a little wing of its own.
Sarah Judd accepted these favors with meek resignation. Since her one long speech of explanation she had maintained silence. Leaving her in her room, the family congregated in the den, where Mr. Conant was telling Irene about the queer arrival and the unfortunate misunderstanding that had occasioned it.
The girl is not to blame, said Mary Louise. "She seems an honest little thing, resolved to do her duty. It is all Mrs. Morrison's fault."
Doesn't look like a very competent servant, either, observed Mr.
Conant, comfortably puffing his pipe.
You can't tell that from appearances, Peter, replied Mrs. Conant. "She can at least wash dishes and sweep and do the drudgery. Why not keep her?"
Oh, my dear!
Mrs. Morrison has paid her a month's wages, and Molly Morrison wouldn't have done that had not the girl been competent. It won't cost us anything to keep her—except her food—and it seems a shame to cast her adrift just because the Morrisons forgot to notify her they had changed their plans.
Also, added Mary Louise, "Sarah Judd will be useful to us. This is Aunt Hannah's vacation, as well as a vacation for the rest of us, and a rest from cooking and housework would do her a heap of good."
Looking at it from that viewpoint, said Peter, after puffing his pipe reflectively, "I approve of our keeping Sarah Judd. I believe it will please the Morrisons better than for us to send her away, and—it surely won't hurt Hannah to be a lady of leisure for a month or so."
And so Sarah Judd's fate was decided. She prepared their Sunday morning breakfast and cooked it quite skillfully. Her appearance was now more tidy and she displayed greater energy than on the previous evening, when doubtless she was weary from her long walk. Mrs. Conant was well pleased with the girl and found the relief from clearing the table and "doing" the dishes very grateful. Their Sunday dinner, which Sarah prepared unaided and served promptly at one o'clock, their usual hour, was a pleasant surprise to them all.
The girl is a treasure, commented Mrs. Conant, contentedly.
Sarah Judd was not talkative. When told she might stay she merely nodded her red head, displaying neither surprise nor satisfaction. Her eyes had a habit of roving continually from face to face and from object to object, yet they seemed to observe nothing clearly, so stolid was, their expression. Mary Louise tried to remember where she had noted a similar expression before, but could not locate it.
Miss Lord came over that afternoon and when told about the new maid and the manner of her appearance seemed a little startled and uneasy.
I must see what she looks like, said she, "for she may prove a congenial companion for my own maid, who is already sulking because the place is so lonely."
And presently Sarah Judd came out upon the lawn to ask Mrs. Conant's further instructions and this gave Agatha the desired opportunity to examine her closely. The inspection must have been satisfactory, for an expression of distinct relief crossed the lovely face.
That Sunday evening they all went down to the Bigbee place in Miss Lord's motor car, where the lady entertained her guests at a charming luncheon. The Bigbee place was more extensive than Hillcrest Lodge, as it consisted of a big, rambling residence and numerous outbuildings; but it was not nearly so cosy or homelike, nor so pleasantly situated.
Miss Lord's maid, Susan, was somewhat a mystery to the Hillcrest people. She dressed almost as elaborately as her mistress and performed her duties grudgingly and with a scowl that seemed to resent Miss Lord's entertaining company. Stranger still, when they went home that night it was the maid who brought out the big touring car and drove them all back to Hillcrest Lodge in it, handling the machine as expertly as Agatha could do. Miss Lord pleaded a headache as an excuse for not driving them herself.
Sarah Judd opened the door for them. As she stood under the full light of the hall lamp Mary Louise noticed that the maid Susan leaned from her seat in the car and fixed a shrewd glance on Sarah's unconscious face. Then she gave a little shake of her head and drove away.
There's something queer about the folks at Bigbee's, Mary Louise confided to Irene, as she went to her friend's room to assist her in preparing for bed. "Agatha Lord kept looking at that velvet ribbon around your neck, to-night, as if she couldn't keep her eyes off it, and this afternoon she seemed scared by the news of Sarah Judd's arrival and wasn't happy until she had seen her. Then, again, that queer maid of Agatha's, Susan, drove us home so she could see Sarah Judd for herself. How do you account for all that, Irene?"
I don't account for it, my dear. You've been mixed up with so many mysteries that you attach suspicion to the most commonplace events. What should there be about Sarah Judd to frighten anyone?
She's a stranger here, that's all, and our neighbors seem suspicious of strangers. I'm not questioning poor, innocent Sarah, understand; but if Agatha and her maid are uneasy about strangers coming here it seems likely there's a reason for it.
You're getting morbid, Mary Louise. I think I must forbid you to read any more of my romances, said Irene lightly, but at heart she questioned the folks at Bigbee's as seriously as her friend did.
Don't you think Agatha Lord stole that missing book? asked Mary
Louise, after a little reflection.
Why should she? Irene was disturbed by the question but was resolved not to show it.
To get the letter that was in it—the letter you would not let me read.
What are your affairs to Agatha Lord?
I wish I knew, said Mary Louise, musingly. "Irene, I've an idea she came to Bigbee's just to be near us. There's something stealthy and underhanded about our neighbors, I'm positive. Miss Lord is a very delightful woman, on the surface, but—"
Irene laughed softly, as if amused.
There can be no reason in the world, Mary Louise, she averred, "why your private affairs are of any interest to outsiders, except—"
Well, Irene?
Except that you are connected, in a way, with your grandfather.
"
Exactly! That is my idea, Irene. Ever since that affair with O'Gorman, I've had a feeling that I was being spied upon.
"
But that would be useless. You never hear from Colonel Weatherby, except in the most roundabout ways.
They don't know that; they think I MIGHT hear, and there's no other way to find where he is. Do you think, she added, "that the Secret Service employs female detectives?"
Perhaps so. There must be occasions when a woman can discover more than a man.
Then I believe Miss Lord is working for the Secret Service—the enemies of Gran'pa Jim.
I can't believe it.
What is on that black ribbon around your neck?
A miniature of my mother.
Oh. To-night it got above your dress—the ribbon, I mean—and Agatha kept looking at it.
A good detective wouldn't be caught doing such a clumsy thing, Mary Louise. And, even if detectives were placed here to watch your actions, they wouldn't be interested in spying upon ME, would they?
I suppose not.
I've never even seen your grandfather and so I must be exempt from suspicion. I advise you, my dear, to forget these apprehensions, which must be purely imaginary. If a thousand spies surrounded you, they could do you no harm, nor even trap you into betraying your grandfather, whose present location is a complete mystery to you.
Mary Louise could not help admitting this was true, so she kissed her friend good night and went to her own room.
Left alone, Irene put her hand to the ribbon around her neck and drew from her bosom an old-fashioned oval gold locket, as big as any ordinary watch but thinner. She opened the front of the ease and kissed her mother's picture, as was her nightly custom. Then she opened the back and drew out a tightly folded wad of paper. This she carefully spread out before her, when it proved to be the old letter she had found in the book.
Once again she read the letter carefully, poring over the words in deep thought.
This letter, she murmured, "might indeed be of use to the Government, but it is of far more value to Mary Louise and—to her grandfather. I ought not to lose it; nor ought I to allow anyone to read it, at present. Perhaps, if Agatha Lord has noticed the ribbon I wear, it will be best to find a new hiding place for the letter."
She was in bed now, and lay looking around the room with speculative gaze. Beside her stood her wheeled chair, with its cushion of dark Spanish leather. The girl smiled and, reaching for her work-basket, which was on a stand at the head of the bed, she drew out a pair of scissors and cut some of the stitches of the leathern cushion. Then she tucked the letter carefully inside and with a needle and some black linen thread sewed up the place she had ripped open.
She had just completed this task when she glanced up and saw a face at her window—indistinctly, for even as she raised her head it drew back and faded into the outer gloom.
For a moment Irene sat motionless, looking at the window. Then she turned to the stand, where the lamp was, and extinguished the light.
An hour, perhaps, she sat upright in bed, considering what she should do. Then again she reached out in the darkness and felt for her scissors. Securing them, she drew the chair cushion upon the bed and felt along its edge for the place she had sewn. She could not determine for some time which was the right edge but at last she found where the stitches seemed a little tighter drawn than elsewhere and this place she managed to rip open. To her joy she found the letter and drew it out with a sigh of relief.
But now what to do with it was a question of vital importance. She dared not relight her lamp and she was helpless when out of her chair. So she put back the cushion, slid from the bed into the chair and wheeled herself in the dark to her dresser, which had a chenille cover. Underneath this cover she spread the letter, deeming that so simple a hiding-place was likely to be overlooked in a hasty search and feeling that the letter would be safe there for the night, at least.
She now returned to her bed. There was no use trying to resew the cushion in the dark. She lay awake for a long time, feeling a certain thrill of delight in the belief that she was a conspirator despite her crippled condition and that she was conspiring for the benefit of her dear friend Mary Louise. Finally she sank into a deep slumber and did not waken till the sun was streaming in at the window and Mary Louise knocked upon her door to call her.
You're lazy this morning, laughed Mary Louise, entering. "Let me help you dress for breakfast."
Irene thanked her. No one but this girl friend was ever permitted to assist her in dressing, as she felt proud of her ability to serve herself. Her toilet was almost complete when Mary Louise suddenly exclaimed:
Why, what has become of your chair cushion?
Irene looked toward the chair. The cushion was gone.
Never mind, she said, although her face wore a troubled expression. "I must have left it somewhere. Here; I'll put a pillow in its place until I find it."
AN ARTFUL CONFESSION
This Monday morning Bub appeared at the Lodge and had the car ready before Mr. Conant had finished his breakfast. Mary Louise decided to drive to Millbank with them, just for the pleasure of the trip, and although the boy evidently regarded her presence with distinct disapproval he made no verbal objection.
As Irene wheeled herself out upon the porch to see them start, Mary
Louise called to her:
Here's your chair cushion, Irene, lying on the steps and quite wet with dew. I never supposed you could be so careless. And you'd better sew up that rip before it gets bigger, she added, handing the cushion to her friend.
I will, Irene quietly returned.
Bub proved himself a good driver before they had gone a mile and it pleased Mr. Conant to observe that the boy made the trip down the treacherous mountain road with admirable caution. Once on the level, however, he "stepped on it," as he expressed it, and dashed past the Huddle and over the plain as if training for the Grand Prix.
It amused Mary Louise to watch their quaint little driver, barefooted and in blue-jeans and hickory shirt, with the heavy Scotch golf cap pulled over his eyes, taking his task of handling the car as seriously as might any city chauffeur and executing it fully as well.
During the trip the girl conversed with Mr. Conant.
Do you remember our referring to an old letter, the other day? she asked.
Yes, said he.
"
Irene found it in one of those secondhand books you bought in New York, and she said it spoke of both my mother and my grandfather.
"
The deuce it did! he exclaimed, evidently startled by the information.
It must have been quite an old letter, continued Mary Louise, musingly.
What did it say? he demanded, rather eagerly for the unemotional lawyer.
I don't know. Irene wouldn't let me read it.
Wouldn't, eh? That's odd. Why didn't you tell me of this before I left the Lodge?
I didn't think to tell you, until now. And, Uncle Peter, what, do you think of Miss Lord?
A very charming lady. What did Irene do with the letter?
I think she left it in the book; and—the book was stolen the very next day.
Great Caesar! Who knew about that letter?
Miss Lord was present when Irene found the letter, and she heard Irene exclaim that it was all about my mother, as well as about my grandfather.
Miss Lord?
Yes.
And the book was taken by someone?
The next day. We missed it after—after Miss Lord had visited the den alone.
Huh!
He rode for awhile in silence.
Really, he muttered, as if to himself, "I ought to go back. I ought not to take for granted the fact that this old letter is unimportant. However, Irene has read it, and if it happened to be of value I'm sure the girl would have told me about it."
Yes, she certainly would have told you, agreed Mary Louise. "But she declared that even I would not be interested in reading it."
That's the only point that perplexes me, said the lawyer.
Just—that—one—point.
Why? asked the girl.
But Mr. Conant did not explain. He sat bolt upright on his seat, staring at the back of Bub's head, for the rest of the journey. Mary Louise noticed that his fingers constantly fumbled with the locket on his watch chain.
As the lawyer left the car at the station he whispered to Mary Louise:
Tell Irene that I now know about the letter; and just say to her that I consider her a very cautious girl. Don't say anything more. And don't, for heaven's sake, suspect poor Miss Lord. I'll talk with Irene when I return on Friday.
On their way back Bub maintained an absolute silence until after they had passed the Huddle. Before they started to climb the hill road, however, the boy suddenly slowed up, halted the car and turned deliberately in his seat to face Mary Louise.
Bein' as how you're a gal, said he, "I ain't got much use fer ye, an' that's a fact. I don't say it's your fault, nor that ye wouldn't 'a' made a pass'ble boy ef ye'd be'n borned thet way. But you're right on one thing, an' don't fergit I told ye so: thet woman at Bigbee's ain't on the square."
How do you know? asked Mary Louise, delighted to be taken into Bub's confidence—being a girl.
The critter's too slick, he explained, raising one bare foot to the cushion beside him and picking a sliver out of his toe. "Her eyes ain't got their shutters raised. Eyes're like winders, but hers ye kain't see through. I don't know nuth'n' 'bout that slick gal at Bigbee's an' I don't want to know nuth'n'. But I heer'd what ye said to the boss, an' what he said to you, an' I guess you're right in sizin' the critter up, an' the boss is wrong."
With this he swung round again and started the car, nor did he utter another word until he ran the machine into the garage.
During Mary Louise's absence Irene had had a strange and startling experience with their beautiful neighbor. The girl had wheeled her chair out upon the bluff to sun herself and read, Mrs. Conant being busy in the house, when Agatha Lord strolled up to her with a smile and a pleasant "good morning."
I'm glad to find you alone, said she, seating herself beside the wheeled chair. "I saw Mr. Conant and Mary Louise pass the Bigbee place and decided this would be a good opportunity for you and me to have a nice, quiet talk together. So I came over."
Irene's face was a bit disdainful as she remarked:
I found the cushion this morning.
What cushion do you refer to? asked Agatha with a puzzled expression.
Irene frowned.
We cannot talk frankly together when we are at cross purposes, she complained.
Very true, my dear; but you seem inclined to speak in riddles.
Do you deny any knowledge of my chair cushion!
I do.
I must accept your statement, of course. What do you wish to say to me, Miss Lord?
I would like to establish a more friendly understanding between us. You are an intelligent girl and cannot fail to realize that I have taken a warm interest in your friend Mary Louise Burrows. I want to know more about her, and about her people, who seem to have cast her off. You are able to give me this information, I am sure, and by doing so you may be instrumental in assisting your friend materially.
It was an odd speech; odd and insincere. Irene studied the woman's face curiously.
Who are you, Miss Lord? she inquired.
Your neighbor.
Why are you our neighbor?
I am glad to be able to explain that—to you, in confidence. I am trying to clear the name of Colonel Weatherby from a grave charge—the charge of high treason.
In other words, you are trying to discover where he is, retorted
Irene impatiently.
No, my dear; you mistake me. It is not important to my mission, at present, to know where Colonel Weatherby is staying. I am merely seeking relevant information, such information as you are in a position to give me.
I, Miss Lord?
Yes. To be perfectly frank, I want to see the letter which you found in that book.
Why should you attach any importance to that?
I was present, you will remember, when you discovered it. I marked your surprise and perplexity—your fear and uncertainty—as you glanced first at the writing and then at Mary Louise. You determined not to show your friend that letter because it would disturb her, yet you inadvertently admitted, in my hearing, that it referred to the girl's mother and—which is vastly more important—to her grandfather.
Well; what then, Miss Lord?
Colonel Weatherby is a man of mystery. He has been hunted by Government agents for nearly ten years, during which time he has successfully eluded them. If you know anything of the Government service you know it has a thousand eyes, ten thousand ears and a myriad of long arms to seize its malefactors. It has not yet captured Colonel Weatherby.
Why has he been hunted all these years?
He is charged, as I said, with high treason. By persistently evading capture he has tacitly admitted his guilt.
But he is innocent! cried Irene indignantly.
Miss Lord seemed surprised, yet not altogether ill-pleased, at the involuntary exclamation.
Indeed! she said softly. "Could you prove that statement?"
I—I think so, stammered the girl, regretting her hasty avowal.
Then why not do so and by restoring Mary Louise to her grandfather make them both happy?
Irene sat silent, trapped.
This is why I have come to you, continued Agatha, very seriously. "I am employed by those whose identity I must not disclose to sift this mystery of Colonel Weatherby to the bottom, if possible, and then to fix the guilt where it belongs. By accident you have come into possession of certain facts that would be important in unravelling the tangle, but through your unfortunate affliction you are helpless to act in your own capacity. You need an ally with more strength and experience than yourself, and I propose you accept me as that ally. Together we may be able to clear the name of James J. Hathaway—who now calls himself Colonel James Weatherby—from all reproach and so restore him to the esteem of his fellow men."
But we must not do that, even if we could! cried Irene, quite distressed by the suggestion.
Why not, my dear?
The tone was so soft and cat-like that it alarmed Irene instantly. Before answering she took time to reflect. To her dismay she found this woman was gradually drawing from her the very information she had declared she would preserve secret. She knew well that she was no match for Agatha Lord in a trial of wits. Her only recourse must be a stubborn refusal to explain anything more.
Colonel Weatherby, she said slowly, "has better information than I of the charge against him and his reasons for keeping hidden, yet he steadfastly refuses to proclaim his innocence or to prove he is unjustly accused, which he might very well do if he chose. You say you are working in his interests, and, allowing that, I am satisfied he would bitterly reproach anyone who succeeded in clearing his name by disclosing the truth."
This argument positively amazed Agatha Lord, as it might well amaze anyone who had not read the letter. In spite of her supreme confidence of the moment before, the woman now suddenly realized that this promising interview was destined to end disastrously to her plans.
I am so obtuse that you will have to explain that statement, she said with assumed carelessness; but Irene was now on guard and replied:
Then our alliance is dissolved. I do not intend, Miss Lord, to betray such information as I may have stumbled upon unwittingly. You express interest in Mary Louise and her grandfather and say you are anxious to serve them. So am I. Therefore I beg you, in their interests, to abandon any further attempt to penetrate the secret.
Agatha was disconcerted.
Show me the letter, she urged, as a last resort. "If, on reading it, I find your position is justifiable—you must admit it is now bewildering—I will agree to abandon the investigation altogether."
I will not show you the letter, declared the girl positively.
The woman studied her face.
But you will consider this conversation confidential, will you not?
Since you request it, yes.
I do not wish our very pleasant relations, as neighbors, disturbed. I would rather the Conants and Mary Louise did not suspect I am here on any especial mission.
Very well.
In truth, continued Agatha, "I am growing fond of yon all and this is a real vacation to me, after a period of hard work in the city which racked my nerves. Before long I must return to the old strenuous life, so I wish to make the most of my present opportunities."
I understand.
No further reference was made to the letter or to Colonel Weatherby. They talked of other things for a while and when Miss Lord went away there seemed to exist—at least upon the surface—the same friendly relations that had formerly prevailed between them.
Irene, reflecting upon the interview, decided that while she had admitted more than was wise she had stopped short of exposing the truth about Colonel Weatherby. The letter was safely hidden, now. She defied even Miss Lord to find it. If she could manage to control her tongue, hereafter, the secret was safe in her possession.
Thoughtfully she wheeled herself back to the den and finding the room deserted she ventured to peep into her novel hiding-place. Yes; the precious letter was still safe. But this time, in her abstraction, she failed to see the face at the window.
Tuesday afternoon Miss Lord's big touring car stood at the door of Hillcrest Lodge, for Agatha had invited the Conant party to ride with her to Millbank. Irene was tucked into the back seat in a comfortable position and beside her sat Mrs. Conant, who was going to make a few purchases at the village store. Mary Louise rode on the front seat with Agatha, who loved to drive her car and understood it perfectly.
When they drove away there was no one left in the house but Sarah Judd, the servant girl, who was washing the lunch dishes. Bub was in the shed-like garage, however, washing and polishing Will Morrison's old car, on which the paint was so cracked and faded that the boy's attempt to improve its appearance was a desperate one.
Sarah, through the kitchen window, watched Bub for a time rather sharply. Then she went out on the bluff and looked down in the valley. Miss Lord's big car was just passing the Huddle on its way up the valley.
Sarah turned and reentered the house. Her meek and diffident expression of countenance had quite disappeared. Her face now wore a look of stern determination and the blue eyes deepened and grew shrewd.
She walked straight to the den and without hesitation approached the farther wall and took from its pegs Will Morrison's fine hunting rifle. In the stock was a hollow chamber for cartridges, for the rifle was of the type known as a "repeater." Sliding back the steel plate that hid this cavity, Sarah drew from it a folded paper of a yellow tint and calmly spread it on the table before her. Then she laid down the rifle, placed a chair at the table and with absorbed attention read the letter from beginning to end—the letter that Irene had found in the book.
It was closely written on both sides the thin sheet—evidently of foreign make—and although the writing was faded it was still clearly legible.
After the first perusal Sarah Judd leaned her elbows on the table and her head on her hands and proceeded to study the epistle still more closely. Then she drew from her pocket a notebook and pencil and with infinite care made a copy of the entire letter, writing it in her book in shorthand. This accomplished, she replaced the letter in the rifle stock and hung the weapon on its pegs again.
Both the window and the glass door of the den faced the back yard. Sarah opened the door and stood there in deep thought, watching Bub at his work. Then she returned to the table and opening a drawer drew out a sheet of blank paper. On this she wrote the following words:
"
John Folger, 1601 F. Street, Washington, D. C. Nothing under sterling over letter bobbing every kernel sad mother making frolic better quick. If England rumples paper Russia admires money. Sarah Judd.
"
Each word of this preposterous phrasing she wrote after consulting another book hidden cleverly among the coils of her red hair—a tiny book it—was, filled with curious characters. When the writing was finished the girl seemed well satisfied with her work. After tucking away the book in its former place she went to her room, got her purse and then proceeded to the shed and confronted Bub.
I want you to drive this car to Millbank, to the telegraph office at the railway station, said Sarah.
Bub gave her a scornful look.
Ye're crazy, he said and went on with his polishing.
That needn't worry you, retorted the girl.
It don't, declared Bub.
You can drive and you're going to, she continued. "I've got to send this telegram quick, and you've got to take it." She opened her purse and placed two coins on the fender of the car. "There's a dollar to pay for the message, and there's a five-dollar gold-piece to pay you for your trouble."
Bub gave a gasp. He came up beside her and stared at the money. Then he turned to look at Sarah Judd.
What's up? he demanded.
Private business. Don't ask questions; you'd only get lies for answers. Go and earn your money.
Miss' Conant, she's gone to Millbank herself. Ef she sees me there, I'll git fired. The boss'll fire me himself, anyhow, fer usin' the car when he tol' me not to.
How much do you get a week! asked Sarah.
Four bits.
That's about two dollars a month. In two months the Conants will move back to the city, and by then you'll have earned four dollars. Why, Bub, it's cheaper for you to take this five-dollar gold-piece and get fired, than to work for two months for four dollars.
Bub scratched his head in perplexity.
Ye ain't count'n' on the fun o' workin', he suggested.
I'm counting on that five dollars—eight bits to a dollar, forty bits altogether. Why, it's a fortune, Bub.
He took out his knife, looked around for a stick to whittle and, finding none, put the knife in his pocket with a sigh.
I guess Will Morrison wouldn't like it, he decided. "Put up yer money, Sairy."
Sarah withdrew the gold-piece and put a larger one in its place.
There, she said; "let's make it ten dollars, and save time."
Bub's hesitation vanished, but he asked anxiously:
Tain't go'n' to do no harm to them gals thet's stoppin' here, is it?
It is to do them a good turn that I'm sending this telegram.
Honor bright?
Hope to die, Bub.
All right; I'm off.
He folded the letter, placed it inside his Scotch cap and stowed the money carefully in his pocket.
Don't let any of the folks see you if yon can help it, warned Sarah; "and, whatever happens, don't say anything about that telegram to a living soul. Only—see that it's sent."
I'm wise, answered Bub and a moment later he started the car and rolled away down the road.
Sarah Judd looked after him with a queer smile on her face. Then she went back to her kitchen and resumed her dish-washing. Presently a scarcely audible sound arrested her attention. It seemed to come from the interior of the Lodge.
Sarah avoided making a particle of noise herself as she stole softly through the dining room and entered the main hallway. One glance showed her that the front door was ajar and the door of the den closed—exactly the reverse of what they should be. She crept forward and with a sudden movement threw open the door of the den.
A woman stood in the center of the room. As the door opened she swung around and pointed a revolver at Sarah. Then for a moment they silently faced one another.
Ah, said the woman, with an accent of relief, "you're the servant. Go back to your work. Mrs. Conant told me to make myself at home here."
Yes, I know, replied Sarah sarcastically. "She said she was expecting you and told me it wouldn't do any harm to keep an eye on you while you're here. She said Miss Lord was going to get all the family away, so you could make a careful search of the house, you being Miss Lord's maid, Susan—otherwise known as Nan Shelley, from the Washington Bureau."
Susan's hand shook so ridiculously that she lowered the revolver to prevent its dropping from her grasp. Her countenance expressed chagrin, surprise, anger.
I don't know you, she said harshly. "Who are you?"
New at the game, replied Sarah Judd, with a shrug. "You don't know me, Nan, but I know you; and I know your record, too. You're as slick as they make 'em, and the one who calls herself Agatha Lord is just an infantile amateur beside you. But go ahead, Nan; don't let me interrupt your work."
The woman sank into a chair.
You can't be from the home office, she muttered, staring hard at the girl. "They wouldn't dare interfere with my work here."
No; I'm not from the home office.
I knew, said Susan, "as soon as I heard the story of your coming, that it was faked. I'd gamble that you never saw Mrs. Morrison in your life."
You'd win, said Sarah, also taking a chair.
Then who could have sent you here?
Figure it out yourself, suggested Sarah.
I'm trying to. Do you know what we're after?
A clew to Hathaway. Incidentally, any other information concerning him that comes your way. That includes the letter.
Oh. So you know about the letter, do you? asked Susan.
To be sure. And I know that's what you're here for now. Don't let me interrupt you. It's a mighty hard job, finding that letter, and the folks'll be back by and by.
You're right, exclaimed the woman, rising abruptly. "Go back to your work in the kitchen."
This is my occupation, just now, retorted Sarah, lolling in her chair. "Go ahead with your search, Nan, and I'll tell you when you are 'hot' or 'cold.'"
You're an impudent little chit, said Nan tartly. "See here," with a sudden change of voice, "let's pool issues. If we can discover anything important in this place, there's reward enough for us all."
I am not opposing you, protested Sarah Judd, "I'm not a particle interested in whether you trace Hathaway or not. I don't believe you can do it, though, and that letter you're so eager for won't help you a bit. It was written ten years ago."
That makes it more important, declared the other, "We've two things to accomplish; one is to locate Hathaway, and the other to secure absolute proof of his guilt."
I thought he was caught doing the job.
So he was, in a way. But the Department needs more proof.
Sarah Judd smiled unbelievingly. Then she chuckled. Presently she laughed outright, in genuine merriment, as the thought that amused her grew and expanded.
What fools— she said, "what perfect fools—we mortals be!"
All this annoyed Nan Shelley exceedingly. The successful woman detective did not relish being jeered at by a mere girl.
You've read the letter, I suppose, and are now making fun of me for trying to get it? Perhaps you've hidden it yourself—although that isn't likely. Why can't you give me an honest tip? We're both in the same line, it seems, and both trying to earn an honest living. How about that letter? Is it necessary for me to find it?
I've read it, admitted Sarah, "and I know where it is. You might perhaps find it, if you hunted long enough, but it isn't worth your while. It wouldn't help in the least to convict Hathaway and of course it couldn't tell you where he is now hiding."
Is this straight?
True as gospel.
Then why don't you prove it by showing me the letter?
Because I don't belong on your side of the fence. You're working for one organization and I for another. Any little tip I let slip is just for your personal use. Don't bother about that letter.
Susan—or Nan Shelley—sat for a time in thought. Once in a while she would cast a furtive glance around the room and its wall covered with trophies, and then she would turn to Sarah Judd's placid face.
Where did the boy go? she asked abruptly.
What boy?
Bub; in the automobile.
To Millbank.
What for?
To send a telegram.
Your report?
Yes.
Important?
I think it'll bring things to a climax.
The Hathaway case?
You can guess anything, Nan, if you guess long enough.
Nan rose and put the revolver in her pocket. Then she held out her hand frankly to Sarah Judd.
If you've beaten me in this affair, she said, with no apparent resentment, "you're clever enough to become famous some day. I'm going to take your advice about the letter and if that climax you're predicting arrives on schedule time I'll not be sorry to quit this dreary, dragging case and pick up a more interesting one."
The tone was friendly and frank. Sarah stretched out her hand to meet that of Nan and in a flash a handcuff snapped over her wrist. With a cry she drew back, but a dextrous twist of her opponent's free hand prisoned her other wrist and she at once realized that she was fairly caught.
Fine! she cried admiringly, as she looked at her bonds, "What next,
Nan?"
But Nan was too busy to talk. She deftly searched the girl's pocket and found the notebook. The shorthand writing caught her eye at once but the characters were unknown to her.
Cipher, eh? she muttered.
A little code of my own invention, said Sarah. "Sometimes I can't make it out myself."
Nan restored the book and examined Sarah Judd's purse.
They keep you well supplied with funds, it seems.
Comes handy in emergencies, was the reply.
Now let's go to your room.
Sarah, handcuffed, led the way. Nan Shelley made a wonderfully rapid search through every article in the maid's room. The lining of her clothes was inspected, her hair-brush tested for a sliding back, the pictures on the wall, the rug and the bed-clothing examined minutely. Yet all this consumed but a brief period of time and resulted in no important discovery.
Feel better? asked Sarah cheerfully.
You know I do. I'm going to remove these handcuffs, now, and then I'm going home. Come and see me, some time when you feel lonesome. I've only that fool Agatha to talk to and I've an idea you and I might interest each other.
As she spoke she unlocked the manacles and dropped them with a slight click into a concealed pocket of her dark skirt.
I imagine Agatha isn't REAL brilliant, returned Sarah; "but neither am I. When I'm your age, Nan, I hope to be half as clever. Just now you can twist me around your finger."
Nan regarded her seriously.
I wish I knew what you are up to, she remarked suspiciously. "You can scarcely conceal your joy, my girl, and that proves I've overlooked something. You've puzzled me, youngster as you are, but you must remember that I'm working in the dark while some mysterious gleam of knowledge lights your way. Put us side by side, on the same track, and I wouldn't be afraid of you, Sarah Judd."
Don't apologize, Nan; it makes me feel ashamed.
Nan's frown, as she looked into the blue eyes, turned to a smile of appreciation. Sarah also smiled, and then she said:
Let me make you a cup of tea before you go.
A good idea. We're friends, then?
Why not? One friend is worth a thousand enemies and it's absurd to quarrel with one for doing her duty.
That's what O'Gorman is always saying. Ever hear of O'Gorman?
Yes; he's one of the old stand-bys in the secret service department; but they say he's getting old. Slipped a good many cogs lately, I hear.
He's the Chief's right hand man. O'Gorman used to have this case—the branch of it I'm now working—but he gave it up and recommended the Chief to put me on the job. Said a woman could trail Mary Louise better than any man and with less chance of discovery; and he was right, for I've lived half a block from her in Dorfield and she never saw my face once. But O'Gorman didn't suspect you were coming into the case and the thing's getting altogether too complicated to suit me.
Sarah was brewing the tea and considered an answer unnecessary. The conversation drifted away from the Hathaway case and into less personal channels. When Nan Shelley finally rose to go there was sincere friendliness in Sarah's "good-bye" and the elder woman said in parting:
You're the right sort, Sarah. If ever you drift into Washington and need work, come to me and I'll get the Chief to take you on. I know he'd be glad to get you.
Thank you, Nan, said Sarah meekly.
But there was a smile on her freckled face as she watched her recent acquaintance walk down the road, and it lingered there while she returned to her kitchen and finally washed and put away the long neglected lunch dishes.
Bub dashed into the yard and tooted his horn. Sarah went out to him.
Ye kin call me lucky, ef ye don't mind, he said with a grin. "Sent yer tel'gram, found out the tenner ye guv me were good, an' got back without the folks gett'n' a single blink at me."
You're some driver, Bub, and you've got a wise head on your shoulders. If you don't talk about this trip, and I don't, no one will ever know, except we two, that the car has been out of the garage.
Peter Conant had told his wife that he wouldn't be at the Lodge this week until Saturday, as business would prevent his coming earlier, yet the Thursday afternoon train brought him to Millbank and Bill Coombs' stage took him to Hillcrest.
Why, Peter! exclaimed Aunt Hannah, when she saw him, "what on earth brought you—"
Then she stopped short, for Peter's eyes were staring more roundly than usual and the hand that fumbled at his locket trembled visibly. He stared at Aunt Hannah, he stared at Irene; but most of all he stared at Mary Louise, who seemed to sense from his manner some impending misfortune.
H-m, said the lawyer, growing red and then paling; "I've bad news."
He chopped the words off abruptly, as if he resented the necessity of uttering them. His eyes, which had been fixed upon the face of Mary Louise, suddenly wavered and sought the floor.
His manner said more than his words. Mary Louise grew white and pressed her hands to her heart, regarding the lawyer with eyes questioning and full of fear. Irene turned a sympathetic gaze upon her friend and Aunt Hannah came closer to the girl and slipped an arm around her waist, as if to help her to endure this unknown trial. And Mary Louise, feeling she could not bear the suspense, asked falteringly:
Has—Gran'pa Jim—been—
No, said Mr. Conant. "No, my dear, no."
Then—has anything happened to—to—mother?
Well, well, muttered the lawyer, with a sort or growl, "Mrs. Burrows has not been in good health for some months, it seems. She—eh—was under a—eh—under a nervous strain; a severe nervous strain, you know, and—"
Is she dead? asked the girl in a low, hard voice.
The end, it seems, came unexpectedly, several days ago. She did not suffer, your grandfather writes, but—
Again he left his sentence unfinished, for Mary Louise had buried her face in Aunt Hannah's bosom and was sobbing in a miserable, heart-breaking way that made Peter jerk a handkerchief from, his pocket and blow his nose lustily. Then he turned and marched from the room, while his wife led the hapless girl to a sofa and cuddled her in her lap as if she had been a little child.
She's best with the women, muttered Peter to himself. "It's a sorrowful thing—a dreadful thing, in a way—but it can't be helped and—she's best with the women."
He had wandered into the dining room, where Sarah Judd was laying the table for dinner. She must have overheard the conversation in the living room, for she came beside the lawyer and asked:
When did Mrs. Burrows die?
On Monday.
Where?
That's none of your business, my girl.
Has the funeral been held?
He regarded her curiously. The idea of a servant asking such questions! But there was a look in Sarah's blue eyes that meant more than curiosity; somehow, it drew from him an answer.
Mrs. Burrows was cremated on Wednesday. It seems she preferred it to burial. Having said this, he turned to stare from the window again.
Sarah Judd stood silent a moment. Then she said with a sigh of relief:
It's a queer world, isn't it, Mr. Conant? And this death isn't altogether a calamity.
Eh? Why not? whirling round to face her.
Because, said Sarah, "it will enable Mr. Hathaway to face the world again—a free man."
Peter Conant was so startled that he stood motionless, forgetting his locket but not forgetting to stare. Sarah, with her hands full of forks and spoons, began placing the silver in orderly array upon the table. She paid no heed to the lawyer, who gradually recovered his poise and watched her with newly awakened interest. Once or twice he opened his mouth to speak, and then decided not to. He was bewildered, perplexed, suspicious. In thought he began to review the manner of Sarah's coming to them, and her subsequent actions. She seemed a capable servant. Mrs. Conant had never complained of her. Yet—what did she know of Hathaway?
Mary Louise did not appear at dinner. She begged to be left alone in her room. Sarah took her some toast and tea, with honest sympathy in her eyes, but the sorrowing girl shook her head and would not taste the food. Later, however, in the evening, she entered the living room where the others sat in depressed silence and said:
Please, Mr. Conant, tell me all you know about—mother.
It is very little, my dear replied the lawyer in a kindly tone. "This morning I received a message from your grandfather which said: 'Poor Beatrice passed away on Monday and at her request her body was cremated to-day. Be very gentle in breaking the sad news to Mary Louise.' That was all, my child, and I came here as quickly as I could. In a day or so we shall have further details, I feel sure. I am going back to town in the morning and will send you any information I receive."
Thank you, said the girl, and was quietly leaving the room when Irene called to her.
Mary Louise!
Yes? half turning.
Will you come with me to my room?
Now?
Yes. You know I cannot go up the stairs. And—I lost my own dear mother not long ago, you will remember.
Tears started to the girl's eyes, but she waited until Irene wheeled her chair beside her and then the two went through the den to Irene's room.
Mrs. Conant nodded to Peter approvingly.
Irene will comfort her, she said, "and in a way far better than I might do. It is all very dreadful and very sad, Peter, but the poor child has never enjoyed much of her mother's society and when the first bitter grief is passed I think she will recover something of her usual cheerfulness."
H-m, returned the lawyer; "it seems a hard thing to say, Hannah, but this demise may prove a blessing in disguise and be best for the child's future happiness. In any event, I'm sure it will relieve the strain many of us have been under for the past ten years."
You talk in riddles, Peter.
The whole thing is a riddle, Hannah. And, by the way, have you noticed anything suspicious about our hired girl?
About Sarah? No, regarding him with surprise.
Does she—eh—snoop around much?
No; she's a very good girl.
Too good to be true, perhaps, observed Peter, and lapsed into thought. Really, it wouldn't matter now how much Sarah Judd—or anyone else—knew of the Hathaway case. The mystery would solve itself, presently.
Mr. Conant decided to take the Friday morning train back to Dorfield, saying it would not be possible for him to remain at the Lodge over Sunday, because important business might require his presence in town.
This demise of Mrs. Burrows, he said confidentially to his wife in the privacy of their room, "may have far-reaching results and turn the whole current of Colonel Weatherby's life."
I don't see why, said Aunt Hannah.
You're not expected to see why, he replied. "As the Colonel is my most important client, I must be at the office in case of developments or a sudden demand for my services. I will tell you one thing, however, and that is that this vacation at Hillcrest Lodge was planned by the Colonel while I was in New York, with the idea that he and Mrs. Burrows would come here secretly and enjoy a nice visit with Mary Louise."
You planned all that, Peter!
"
Yes. That is, Weatherby planned it. He knows Will Morrison well, and Will was only too glad to assist him; so they wired me to come to New York, where all was quickly arranged. This place is so retired that we considered it quite safe for the fugitives to come here.
"
Why didn't they come, then?
Two reasons prevented them. One was the sudden breaking of Mrs. Burrows' health; the other reason was the Colonel's discovery that in some way our carefully laid plans had become known to the detectives who are seeking him.
Good gracious! Are you sure of that, Peter!
The Colonel seemed sure. He maintains a detective force on his own account and his spies discovered that Hillcrest is being watched by agents of the Secret Service.
Dear me; what a maze of deceit! wailed the good woman. "I wish you were well out of the whole affair, Peter; and I wish Mary Louise was out of it, too."
"
So do I, with all my heart. But it's coming to a focus soon, Hannah. Be patient and it may end better than we now fear.
"
So Bub drove Mr. Conant to Millbank and then the boy took the car to the blacksmith shop to have a small part repaired. The blacksmith made a bungle of it and wasted all the forenoon before he finally took Bub's advice about shaping it and the new rod was attached and found to work successfully.
It was after one o'clock when the boy at last started for home and on the way was hailed by a stranger—a little man who was trudging along the road with both hands thrust in his pockets.
Going far? he asked.
Up th' mount'n to Hillcrest, said Bub.
Oh. May I have a lift?
How fer?
Well, I can't say how far I'll go. I'm undecided. Just came out here for a little fresh air, you know, with no definite plans, explained the stranger.
Hop in, said Bub and for a time they rode together in silence.
This 'ere's the Huddle, as we're comin' to, announced the boy. "Ol'
Miss' Parsons she sometimes takes boarders."
That's kind of her, remarked the stranger. "But the air isn't so good as further up the hill."
Ef ye go up, said Bub with a grin, "guess ye'll hev to camp out an' eat scrub. Nobody don't take boarders, up th' mount'n."
I suppose not.
He made no demand to be let out at the Huddle, so Bub drove on.
By the way, said the little man, "isn't there a place called
Bigbee's, near here?"
Comin' to it pretty soon. They's some gals livin' there now, so ye won't care to stop.
What sort of girls are they?
Sort o' queer.
Yes?
"
Ye bet ye. Come from the city a while ago an' livin' by theyselves. Someth'n' wrong 'bout them gals, added Bub reflectively.
"
In what way? asked the little man in a tone of interest.
They ain't here fer nuth'n' special 'cept watchin' the folks at Hillcrest. Them's the folks I belongs to. For four bits a week. They's someth'n' queer 'bout them, too; but I guess all the folks is queer thet comes here from the city.
Quite likely, agreed the little man, nodding. "Let me out at Bigbee's, please, and I'll look over those women and form my own opinion of them. They may perhaps be friends of mine."
In thet case, asserted Bub, "I pity ye, stranger. F'r my part, I ain't got no use fer anything thet wears skirts—'cept one er two, mebbe," he added reflectively. "Most men I kin git 'long with fust-rate; but ef a man ever gits in trouble, er begins cussin' an' acts ugly, it's 'cause some gal's rubbed him crossways the grain er stuck a knife in him an' twisted the blade—so's ter speak."
You're an observant lad, I see.
When I'm awake I kain't help seein' things.
And you're a pastoral philosopher.
Bub scowled and gave him a surly glance.
What's the use firin' thet high-brow stuff at me? he asked indignantly. "I s'pose ye think I'm a kid, jes' 'cause I don't do no fancy talkin'."
I suspect you of nothing but generosity in giving me this ride, said the stranger pleasantly. "Is that Bigbee's, over yonder?"
Yes.
The little man got out at the point where the Bigbee drive met the road, and walked up the drive toward the house. Agatha Lord was standing at the gateway, as he approached it, and seemed rather startled at his appearance. But she quickly controlled her surprise and asked in a calm voice, as she faced him:
What's up, O'Gorman?
Hathaway's coming here, he said.
Are you sure?
He's in Dorfield to-day, waiting to see Lawyer Conant, who went in on the morning train. Where's Nan?
Here, my lord! said Nan Shelley, stepping from behind a tall shrub. "How are you, partner? I recognized you as you passed the Huddle with the boy."
Field glasses, eh? There isn't much escapes you, Nan.
Why didn't you tell me? asked Agatha reproachfully.
Why don't you make your own discoveries? retorted her confederate.
Then, turning to O'Gorman, she continued: "So Hathaway's coming, is he?
At last."
A little late, but according to program. How have you been getting along?
Bored to death, asserted Nan. "Agatha has played the lady and I've done the dirty work. But tell me, why didn't you nab Hathaway at Dorfield?"
O'Gorman smiled a little grimly as he answered:
I'm not sure, Nan, that we shall nab Hathaway at all.
Isn't he being shadowed? with some surprise.
No. But he'll come here, right enough; and then—
And then, she added, as he paused, "the chase of years will come to an end."
Exactly. We may decide to take him to Washington, and we may not.
She gazed at him inquiringly.
There are some new developments, then, O'Gorman?
I'm inclined to suspect there are.
Known to the department?
Yes. I'm to investigate and use my judgment.
I see. Then Agatha and I are out of it?
Not yet; I'm still depending on your shrewdness to assist me. The office has only had a hint, so far, of the prospective break in the case, but—
Oh, yes; I remember now, exclaimed Nan.
That girl up at Conant's sent a telegram, in a desperate hurry. I suspected it meant something important. Who is she, O'Gorman, and why did the Chief cut under us by planting Sarah Judd in the Conants' household?
He didn't. The girl has nothing to do with the Department.
Then some of you intercepted the telegram?
We know what it said, he admitted.
Come, let's go to the house. I've had no lunch. Can you feed me?
Certainly. They turned and walked slowly up the path. Said Nan, musingly: "That Sarah Judd is rather clever, O'Gorman. Is she in Hathaway's pay?"
I think not, he replied, with an amused chuckle.
Nan tossed her head indignantly.
Very well; play me for a ninny, if you like, she said resentfully.
You'll get a heap more out of me, in that way!
Now, now, said Agatha warningly, "keep your tempers and don't quarrel. You two are like cats and dogs when you get together; yet you're the two cleverest people in the service. According to your story, Mr. O'Gorman, there's an important crisis approaching, and we'd all like to be able to render a good account of ourselves."
Agatha Lord may have lacked something of Nan's experience, but this speech proved her a fair diplomat. It dispersed the gathering storm and during the rest of that afternoon the three counseled together in perfect harmony, O'Gorman confiding to his associates such information as would enable them to act with him intelligently. Hathaway and Peter Conant could not arrive till the next day at noon; they might even come by the afternoon train. Nan's field glasses would warn them of the arrival and meanwhile there was ample time to consider how they should act.
That evening, as Sarah Judd was sitting in her room reading a book, her work for the day being over, she heard a succession of little taps against her window-pane. She sat still, listening, until the taps were repeated, when she walked straight to the window, drew the shade and threw tip the sash. O'Gorman's face appeared in the opening and the girl put a hand on each of his cheeks and leaning over kissed him full upon his lips.
The man's face, lighted by the lamp from within the room, was radiant. Even the fat nose was beatified by the love that shone in his small gray eyes. He took one of her hands in both of his own and held it close a moment, while they regarded one another silently.
Then he gave a little beckoning signal and the girl turned to slip on a light coat, for the nights were chill on the mountain. Afterward she unfastened her outside door and joined the detective, who passed an arm around her and led her to one of the benches on the bluff.
The new moon was dim, but a sprinkling of stars lit the sky. The man and girl were far enough from the Lodge not to be overheard.
It's good to see you again, Josie, said O'Gorman, as they seated themselves on the bench. "How do you like being a sleuth?"
Really, Daddy, she replied, "it has been no end of a lark. I'm dead sick of washing other folks' dishes, I confess, but the fun I've had has more than made up for the hard work. Do you know, Dad, I had a session with Nan Shelley one day, and she didn't have much the best of it, either, although she's quick as a cat and had me backed off the map in every way except for the matter of wits. My thoughts didn't crumble much and Nan was good enough to congratulate me. She knew, as soon as I did, about the letter the crippled girl found in a book, but I managed to make a copy of it, while Nan is still wondering where it is hid. I'm patting myself on the back, Dad, because you trained me and I want to prove myself a credit to your training. It's no wonder, with such a master, that I could hold my own with Nan Shelley!"
He gave a little amused laugh.
You're all right, Josie dear, he replied. "My training wouldn't have amounted to shucks if you hadn't possessed the proper gray matter to work with. But about that letter," more seriously; "your telegram told me a lot, because our code is so concise, but it also left a good deal to be guessed at. Who wrote the letter? I must know all the details in order to understand it properly."
It's all down in my private shorthand book, said Josie O'Gorman, "but I've never dared make a clear copy while Nan was so near me. You can't read it, Dad, and I can't read it to you in the dark; so you'll have to wait."
Have you your notebook here?
Always carry it.
He drew an electric storage-lamp from his pocket and shielded the tiny circle of light with his coat.
Now, then, said he, "read the letter to me, Josie. It's impossible for anyone to see the light from the house."
The girl held her notebook behind the flap of his coat, where the lamp shed its white rays upon it, and slowly read the text of the letter. O'Gorman sat silent for some time after she had finished reading.
In all my speculations concerning the Hathaway case, he said to his daughter, "I never guessed this as the true solution of the man's extraordinary actions. But now, realizing that Hathaway is a gentleman to the core, I understand he could not have acted in any other way."
Mrs. Burrows is dead, remarked Josie.
I know. It's a pity she didn't die long ago.
This thing killed her, Dad.
I'm sure of it. She was a weak, though kind-hearted, woman and this trouble wore her out with fear and anxiety. How did the girl—Mary Louise—take her mother's death?
Rather hard, at first. She's quieter now. But—see here, Dad—are you still working for the Department?
Of course.
Then I'm sorry I've told you so much. I'm on the other side. I'm here to protect Mary Louise Burrows and her interests.
To be sure. I sent you here myself, at my own expense, both to test your training before I let you into the regular game and for the sake of the little Burrows girl, whom I fell in love with when she was so friendless. I believed things would reach a climax in the Hathaway case, in this very spot, but I couldn't foresee that your cleverness would ferret out that letter, which the girl Irene intended to keep silent about, nor did I know that the Chief would send me here in person to supervise Hathaway's capture. Mighty queer things happen in this profession of ours, and circumstances lead the best of us by the nose.
Do you intend to arrest Mr. Hathaway?
After hearing that letter read and in view of the fact that Mrs. Burrows is dead, I think not. The letter, if authentic, clears up the mystery to our complete satisfaction. But I must get the story from Hathaway's own lips, and then compare his statement with that in the letter. If they agree, we won't prosecute the man at all, and the famous case that has caused us so much trouble for years will be filed in the office pigeonholes and pass into ancient history.
Josie O'Gorman sat silent for a long time. Then she asked:
Do you think Mr. Hathaway will come here, now that—now that—
I'm quite sure he will come.
When?
To-morrow.
Then I must warn them and try to head him off. I'm on his side, Dad; don't forget that.
I won't; and because you're on his side, Josie, you must let him come and be vindicated, and so clear up this matter for good and all.
Poor Mary Louise! I was thinking of her, not of her grandfather. Have you considered how a knowledge of the truth will affect her?
Yes. She will be the chief sufferer when her grandfather's innocence is finally proved.
It will break her heart, said Josie, with a sigh.
Perhaps not. She's mighty fond of her grandfather. She'll be glad to have him freed from suspicion and she'll be sorry—about the other thing.
Sarah Judd—otherwise Josie O'Gorman—sighed again; but presently she gave a little chuckle of glee.
Won't Nan be wild, though, when she finds I've beaten her and won the case for Hathaway?
Nan won't mind. She's an old hand at the game and has learned to take things as they come. She'll be at work upon some other case within a week and will have forgotten that this one ever bothered her.
"
Who is Agatha Lord, and why did they send her here as principal, with Nan as her maid?
"
Agatha is an educated woman who has moved in good society. The Chief thought she would be more likely to gain the friendship of the Conants than Nan, for poor Nan hasn't much breeding to boast of. But she was really the principal, for all that, and Agatha was instructed to report to her and to take her orders.
They were both suspicious of me, said the girl, "but as neither of them had ever set eyes on me before I was able to puzzle them. On the other hand, I knew who Nan was because I'd seen her with you, which gave me an advantage. Now, tell me, how's mother?"
Pretty chirky, but anxious about you because this is your first case and she feared your judgment wasn't sufficiently matured. I told her you'd pull through all right.
For an hour they sat talking together. Then Officer O'Gorman kissed his daughter good night and walked back to the Bigbee house.
Irene was a great comfort to Mary Louise in this hour of trial. The chair-girl, beneath her gayety of demeanor and lightness of speech, was deeply religious. Her absolute faith sounded so cheering that death was robbed of much of its horror and her bereaved friend found solace. Mary Louise was able to talk freely of "Mamma Bee" to Irene, while with Aunt Hannah she rather avoided reference to her mother.
I've always longed to be more with Mamma Bee and to learn to know her better, she said to her friend; "for, though she was very loving and gentle to me while I was with her, she spent most of her life caring for Gran'pa Jim, and they were away from me so much that I really didn't get to know Mamma very well. I think she worried a good deal over Gran'pa's troubles. She couldn't help that, of course, but I always hoped that some day the troubles would be over and we could all live happily together. And now—that can never be!"
Irene, knowing more of the Hathaway family history than Mary Louise did, through the letter she had found and read, was often perplexed how to console her friend and still regard honesty and truth. Any deception, even when practiced through the best of motives, was abhorrent to her nature, so she avoided speaking of the present affliction and led Mary Louise to look to a future life for the motherly companionship she had missed on earth.
That, said she, "is the thought that has always given me the most comfort. We are both orphans, dear, and I'm sure your nature is as brave as my own and that you can bear equally well the loss of your parents."
And Mary Louise was really brave and tried hard to bear her grief with patient resignation. One thing she presently decided in her mind, although she did not mention it to Irene. She must find Gran'pa Jim and go to him, wherever he might be. Gran'pa Jim and her mother had been inseparable companions; Mary Louise knew that her own present sorrow could be nothing when compared with that of her grandfather. And so it was her duty to find him and comfort him, to devote her whole life, as her mother had done, to caring for his wants and cheering his loneliness—so far, indeed, as she was able to do. Of course, no one could quite take the place of Mamma Bee.
She was thinking in this vein as she sat in the den with Irene that Saturday afternoon. The chair-girl, who sewed beautifully, was fixing over one of Mary Louise's black dresses while Mary Louise sat opposite, listlessly watching her. The door into the hall was closed, but the glass door to the rear porch was wide open to let in the sun and air. And this simple scene was the setting for the drama about to be enacted.
Mary Louise had her back half turned to the hall door, which Irene partially faced, and so it was that when the door opened softly and the chair-girl raised her head to gaze with startled surprise at someone who stood in the doorway, Mary Louise first curiously eyed her friend's expressive face and then, rather languidly, turned her head to glance over her shoulder.
The next moment she sprang to her feet and rushed forward.
Gran'pa Jim—Oh, Gran'pa Jim! she cried, and threw herself into the arms of a tall man who folded her to his breast in a close embrace.
For a while they stood there silent, while Irene dropped her eyes to her lap, deeming the reunion too sacred to be observed by another. And then a little stir at the open porch door attracted her attention and with a shock of repulsion she saw Agatha Lord standing there with a cynical smile on her lovely face. Softly the sash of the window was raised, and the maid Susan stood on the ground outside, leaned her elbows on the sill and quietly regarded the scene within the den.
The opening of the window arrested Colonel Weatherby's attention. He lifted his head and with a quick glance took in the situation. Then, still holding his granddaughter in his arms, he advanced to the center of the room and said sternly, addressing Agatha:
Is this a deliberate intrusion, because I am here, or is it pure insolence?
Forgive us if we intrude, Mr. Hathaway, replied Agatha. "It was not our desire to interrupt your meeting with your granddaughter, but—it has been so difficult, in the past, to secure an interview with you, sir, that we dared not risk missing you at this time."
He regarded her with an expression of astonishment.
That's it, exactly, Mr. Weatherby-Hathaway, remarked Susan mockingly, from her window.
Don't pay any attention to them, Gran'pa Jim, begged Mary Louise, clinging to him. "They're just two dreadful women who live down below here, and—and—"
I realize who they are, said the old gentleman in a calm voice, and addressing Agatha again he continued: "Since you are determined to interview me, pray step inside and be seated."
Agatha shook her head with a smile; Nan Shelley laughed outright and retorted:
Not yet, Hathaway. We can't afford to take chances with one who has dodged the whole Department for ten years.
Then you are Government agents? he asked.
That's it, sir.
He turned his head toward the door by which he had entered, for there was an altercation going on in the hallway and Mr. Conant's voice could be heard angrily protesting.
A moment later the lawyer came in, followed by the little man with the fat nose, who bowed to Colonel Weatherby very respectfully yet remained planted in the doorway.
This is—er—er—very unfortunate, sir; ve-ry un-for-tu-nate! exclaimed Peter Conant, chopping off each word with a sort of snarl. "These con-found-ed secret service people have trailed us here."
It doesn't matter, Mr. Conant, replied the Colonel, in a voice composed but very weary. He seated himself in a chair, as he spoke, and Mary Louise sat on the arm of it, still embracing him.
No, said O'Gorman, "it really doesn't matter, sir. In fact, I'm sure you will feel relieved to have this affair off your mind and be spared all further annoyance concerning it."
The old gentleman looked at him steadily but made no answer. It was
Peter Conant who faced the speaker and demanded:
What do you mean by that statement?
Mr. Hathaway knows what I mean. He can, in a few words, explain why he has for years borne the accusation of a crime of which he is innocent.
Peter Conant was so astounded he could do nothing but stare at the detective. Staring was the very best thing that Peter did and he never stared harder in his life. The tears had been coursing down Mary Louise's cheeks, but now a glad look crossed her face.
Do you hear that, Gran'pa Jim? she cried. "Of course you are innocent! I've always known that; but now even your enemies do."
Mr. Hathaway looked long into the girl's eyes, which met his own hopefully, almost joyfully. Then he turned to O'Gorman.
I cannot prove my innocence, he said.
Do you mean that you WILL not?
I will go with you and stand my trial. I will accept whatever punishment the law decrees.
O'Gorman nodded his head.
I know exactly how you feel about it, Mr. Hathaway, he said, "and I sympathize with you most earnestly. Will you allow me to sit down awhile? Thank you."
He took a chair facing that of the hunted man. Agatha, seeing this, seated herself on the door-step. Nan maintained her position, leaning through the open window.
This, said O'Gorman, "is a strange ease. It has always been a strange case, sir, from the very beginning. Important government secrets of the United States were stolen and turned over to the agent of a foreign government which is none too friendly to our own. It was considered, in its day, one of the most traitorous crimes in our history. And you, sir, a citizen of high standing and repute, were detected in the act of transferring many of these important papers to a spy, thus periling the safety of the nation. You were caught red-handed, so to speak, but made your escape and in a manner remarkable and even wonderful for its adroitness have for years evaded every effort on the part of our Secret Service Department to effect your capture. And yet, despite the absolute truth of this statement, you are innocent."
None cared to reply for a time. Some who had listened to O'Gorman were too startled to speak; others refrained. Mary Louise stared at the detective with almost Peter Conant's expression—her eyes big and round. Irene thrilled with joyous anticipation, for in the presence of this sorrowing, hunted, white-haired old man, whose years had been devoted to patient self-sacrifice, the humiliation the coming disclosure would, thrust upon Mary Louise seemed now insignificant. Until this moment Irene had been determined to suppress the knowledge gained through the old letter in order to protect the feelings of her friend, but now a crying need for the truth to prevail was borne in upon her. She had thought that she alone knew this truth. To her astonishment, as well as satisfaction, the chair-girl now discovered that O'Gorman was equally well informed.