 CHAPTER XII. A Cheerful Comrade. The more Mary Louise saw of Irene McFarlane the more she learned to love her. No one could be miserable or despondent for long in the chair-girl's society, because she was always so bright and cheery herself. One forgot to pity or even to deplore her misfortunes while listening to her merry chatter and frank laughter, for she seemed to find genuine joy in merriment in the simplest incidents of the life about her. God has been so good to me, Mary Louise, she once exclaimed as they were sitting together in the garden. He has given me sight that I may revel in book-land and in the beauties of flowers and trees, and shifting skies and the faces of my friends. He has given me the blessing of hearing that I may enjoy the strains of sweet music and the songs of the birds and the voices of those I love. And I can scent the fragrance of the morning air, the perfume of the roses, and, yes, even the beefsteak Aunt Hannah is frying for supper. The beefsteak tastes as good to me as it does to you. I can feel the softness of your cheek. I can sing melodies in my own way whenever my heart swells with joy. I can move about by means of this wonderful chair without the bother of walking. You don't envy me, Mary Louise, because you enjoy almost equal blessings, but you must admit I have reason for being happy. Irene read a good many books and magazines, and through the daily papers kept well posted on the world's affairs. Indeed she was much better posted than Mary Louise, who, being more active, had less leisure to think and thus absorb the full meaning of all that came to her notice. Irene would play the piano for hours at a time, though obliged to lean forward in her chair to reach the keys, and her moods ran the gamut from severely classical themes to ragtime, seeming to enjoy all equally. She also sowed and mended with such consummate skill that Mary Louise, who was rather awkward with her needle, marvelled at her talent. Nor was this the end of the chair-girl's accomplishments, for Irene had a fancy for sketching and made numerous caricatures of those persons with whom she came in contact. These contained so much humor that Mary Louise was delighted with them, especially one of Uncle Peter toying with his watch-fab and staring straight ahead of him with round, expressionless eyes. Really, Irene, I believe you could paint, she once said. No, answered her friend, I would not be so wicked as to do that. All limitations of nature seem to me a mock of God's handiwork, which no mortal brush can hope to equal. I shall never be so audacious, I hope. But a photograph is a pure reflex of nature, and my caricatures, which are merely bits of harmless fun, furnish us now and then a spark of humor to make us laugh, and laughter is good for the soul. I often laugh at my own sketches, as you know. Sometimes I laugh at their whimsical conception before I ever put pencil to paper. Lots of caricatures I make secretly, laughing over and then destroying them for fear they might be seen and hurt the feelings of their innocent subjects. Why, Mary Louise, I drew your doful face only yesterday, and it was so funny I shrieked with glee. You heard me and looked over at me with a smile that made the caricature lie, so I promptly tore it up. It had served its purpose, you see. So many of these quaint notions filled the head of the crippled girl that Mary Louise's wondering interest in her never flagged. It was easy to understand why Mrs. Canaud had declared that Irene was the joy in life of the household, for it was impossible to remain morbid or blue in her presence. For this reason, as well as through the warm and sincere affection inspired by Irene, Mary Louise came by degrees to confide to her the entire story of the mystery that surrounded her grandfather, and influenced the lives of her mother and herself. Of her personal anxieties and fears she told her new friend far more than she had ever confessed to anyone else, and her disclosures were met by ready sympathy. Poo! cried Irene, this isn't a real trouble, it will pass away. Everything passes away in time, Mary Louise, for life is a succession of changes, one thing after another. Remember the quotation, Whatever may be thy fate today, remember, this will pass away. I love that little saying, and it has comforted me and given me courage many a time. Life will also pass away, observed Mary Louise, pessimistically. To be sure, isn't that a glad prospect? To pass to a new life, to new adventures, planned for us by the wisdom of God, is the most glorious promise we mortals possess. In good time that joy will be ours, but now we must make the most of our present blessings. I take it, Mary Louise, that there is a purpose in everything—a divine purpose, you know—and that those who most patiently accept their trials will have the better future recompense. What's a twisted ankle or a shriveled leg to do with happiness, or even a persecuted grandfather? We're made of better stuff, you and I, than to cry at such babyish bumps. My! what a lot of things we both have to be thankful for! Somehow these conversations cheered Mary Louise considerably, and her face soon lost its drawn, worried look, and became almost as placid as in the days when she had Grandpa Jim beside her and suspected no approaching calamity. Grandpa Jim would surely have loved Irene, had he known her, because their ideas of life and duty were so similar. As it was now less than a month to the long summer vacation, Mary Louise did not enter the Dorfield High School, but studied a little at home, so as not to get rusty, and passed most of her days in the Society of Irene MacFarlane. It was a week or so after her arrival that Peter cannot said to her one evening, I have now received ample funds for all your needs, Mary Louise, so I have sent to Miss Stern to have your trunk and boots forwarded. Oh! then you have heard from Grandpa Jim? she asked eagerly. Yes. Where is he? I do not know, chopping the words apart with emphasis. The Colonel has been very liberal. I am to put twenty dollars in cash in your pocketbook, and you are to come to me for any further sums you may require, which I am ordered to supply without question. I would have favoured making you an allowance, had I been consulted, but the Colonel is a—a—the Colonel is the Colonel. Didn't Grandpa Jim send me any letter or any information at all? she asked wistfully. Not a word. In my last letter, which you promised me to forward, I begged him to write me, she said with disappointment. Your cannot made no reply. He merely stared at her. But afterward, when the two girls were alone, Irene said to her, I do not think you should beg your grandfather to write for you. A letter might be traced by his enemies, you know, and that would mean his undoing. He surely loves you and bears you in mind, for he is provided for your comfort in every possible way. Even your letters to him may be dangerous, although they reach him in such round about ways. If I were you, Mary Louise, I'd accept the situation as I found it, and not demand more than your grandfather and your mother are able to give you. This frank advice Mary Louise accepted in good part, and through the influence of the chair girl, she gradually developed a more contented frame of mind. Irene was a persistent reader of books, and one of Mary Louise's self-imposed duties was to go to the public library and select such volumes as her friend was likely to be interested in. These covered a wide range of subjects, although historical works and tales of the Age of Chivalry seemed to appeal to Irene more than any others. Sometimes she would read aloud, in her sweet, sympathetic voice, to Mary Louise and Mrs. Canot, and under these conditions they frequently found themselves interested in books which, if read by themselves, they would be sure to find intolerably dry and uninteresting. The crippled girl had a way of giving more than she received, and instead of demanding attention, would often entertain the sound-limbed ones of her immediate circle. CHAPTER XIII. BUB SECUMES TO FORCE. One day Peter Canot abruptly left his office, came home and packed his grip, and then hurried downtown and caught the five o'clock train for New York. He was glum and uncommunicative, as usual, early telling Aunt Hannah that business called him away, and he did not know when he would be back. A week later Peter appeared at the family breakfast table, having arrived on the early morning express, and he seemed in a more gracious mood than usual. Indeed, he was really talkative. I met Will Morrison in New York, Hannah, he said to his wife. He was just sailing for London with his family, and Will remained abroad all summer. He wanted us to occupy his mountain-place, Hillcrest Lodge, during July and August, and although I told him we couldn't use the place, he insisted on my taking an order on his man to turn the shack over to us. The shack, cried Aunt Hannah, indignantly, why Peter, Hillcrest Lodge, is a little palace. It is the coziest, most delightful place I have ever visited. Why shouldn't we accept Will Morrison's proposition to occupy it? I can't leave my business. You could run up every Friday afternoon, taking the train to Millbank and the stage to Hillcrest, and stay with us till Monday morning. He stared at her reflectively. Would you be safe in that out-of-the-way place? he asked. Of course. Didn't you say Will had a man for caretaker, and only a few scattered cottages are located nearby, so we shall be quite by ourselves and wholly unmolested. I mean to go and take the girls. The change will do us all good, so you may as well begin to make arrangements for the trip. Peter cannot stared a while, and then resumed his breakfast without comment. Mary Louise thought she saw a smile flicker over his stolid features for a moment, but could not be positive. Aunt Hannah had spoken in a practical, matter-of-fact way that did not admit of argument. Let me see, she resumed. We will plan to leave on Thursday morning, over the Branch Road, which will get us to Millbank by noon. If you telegraph the stage-driver to meet us we can reach Hillcrest Lodge by three o'clock, perhaps earlier, and that will enable us to get settled before dark. That is far better than taking the afternoon train. Will you make the proper arrangements, Peter?" Yes, he briefly replied. As he was leaving the house after breakfast he fixed his stare on Irene and said to her, In New York I ran across a lot of second-hand books at an auction sale, old novels and romances which you will probably like. I bought the lot and shipped them home. If they arrive in time you can take them to Hillcrest, and they will keep you reading all summer. Oh, thank you, Uncle Peter, exclaimed the chair-girl, gratefully. Have you any—any news of Grandpa Jim? asked Mary Louise diffidently. No, he said, and walked away. During the few days that remained before their exodus they were busy preparing for the anticipated vacation. Summer gowns had to be looked over and such things gathered together as might be useful during their two months' stay at Hillcrest. Of course no one will see us, remarked Aunt Hannah. It's really the jumping-off place of the world, but Will Morrison has made it as cozy as possible and we three, with just Peter at the weekends, can amuse one another without getting lonely. Peter will fish in the mountain streams, of course, and that's the reason he is allowing us to go. We visited the Morrison's two or three times at the lodge and Peter has fished for trout every minute he was there. Who are the Morrison's? asked Mary Louise. Will Morrison is a rich banker and his wife Sally was an old schoolmate of mine. The lodge is only a little resort of theirs, you know, for in the city they live in grand style. I know you girls will enjoy the place, but the scenery is delightful in the clear mountain air mighty invigorating. All girls delight in change of location, and although Irene was a little worried over the difficulties of getting to Hillcrest Lodge in her crippled condition, she was as eager to go as was Mary Louise, and she made the trip more comfortably than she had feared. At Millbank the stage-driver fixed a comfortable seat for her and his carry-all, and loaded the boxes and baggage in the wheeled chair and the box of books, which had arrived from New York, on the railed top of his bus, and then they drove away through a rough but picturesque country that drew from the girls many exclamations of delight. Presently they came to a small group of dwellings called the Huddle, which lay at the foot of the mountain. Then up a winding path the four horses labored patiently, halting often to rest and get their breaths. At such times the passengers gloried in the superb views of the valley and its farms, and were never impatient to proceed. They passed one or two modest villas, for this splendid location had long ago been discovered by a few others besides Will Morrison, who loved to come here for their vacations, and so to escape the maddening crowds of the cities. Aunt Hannah had planned the trip with remarkable accuracy, for at about three o'clock the lumbering stage stopped at a pretty chalet, half hidden among the tall pines and overlooking a steep bluff. Here the baggage and boxes were spigly unloaded. I got to get back to meet the afternoon train, said Bill Coombs, their driver. They won't be any more passengers in this direction, taint likely, because the houses round here is mighty scattered and no one's expecting nobody, as I know of. But in the other direction from Millbank, sod corners way I may catch a load if I'm lucky. So back he drove, leaving the canons traps by the roadside, and Peter began looking around for Morrison's man. The doors of the house were fast locked, front and rear. There was no one in the barn or the shed-like garage where a rusty-looking automobile stood. Peter looked round the grounds in vain, then he whistled. Afterward he began bawling out, high there, in a voice that echoed lonesomely throughout the mountainside. And at last, when they were all beginning to despair, a boy came slouching around the corner of the house, for once no one could guess. He was whittling a stick and he continued to whittle while he stared at the unexpected arrivals and slowly advanced. When about fifteen paces away he halted, with feet planted well apart, and bent his gaze sturdily on his stick and knife. He was barefooted, dressed in faded blue jean overalls and a rusty gingham shirt. The two united by a strap over one shoulder, and his head was covered by a broad-scotch golf-cap much too big for him and considerably too warm for the season. "'Come here,' commanded Mr. Connaught. The boy did not move, therefore the lawyer advanced angrily toward him. "'Why don't you obey me?' he asked. "'These gals there. I hate gals,' said the boy in a confidential tone. Any sort of men critters I can stand, but gals gets my goat. "'Who are you?' inquired Mr. Conna. "'Me? I'm just Bub. Where is Mr. Morrison's man?' "'Mean and Talbot? Gone up to Mark's Peak to guide a gang of hunters from the city.' "'When did he go?' asked the lawyer. "'I guess a Tuesday. No, a Wednesday.' "'And when will he be back?' the boy whittled abstractedly. "'Answer me.' "'How can I? Do you know where Mark's Peak is?' "'No. It takes a week to get there. They'll likely hunt two or three weeks, maybe more. You can tell that as well as I can. Mr. Will's gone to Europe with Ms. Morrison, so Talbot he won't be in no hurry to come back. "'Great Caesar! Here's a pretty mess. Are you Talbot's boy?' "'Nope. I'm a grigger, and I live over in the holler yonder.' "'What are you doing here?' "'Earning two bits a week.' "'How?' "'Looking after the place.' "'Very well. Mr. Morrison has given us permission to use the lodge while he is away, so unlock the doors and help get the baggage in.' The boy notched the stick with his knife using great care. "'Talbot didn't say nothing about that,' he remarked composedly. Mr. Canot uttered an impatient ejaculation. It was one of his peculiarities to give a bark similar to that of a dog when greatly annoyed. After staring at the boy a while he took out Will Morrison's letter to Talbot, opened it, and held it before Bub's face. "'Read that,' he cried. Bub grinned and shook his head. "'I can't read,' he said. Mr. Canot, in a loud and severe voice, read Mr. Morrison's instruction to his man Talbot to do everything in his power to make the Canots comfortable, and to serve them as faithfully as he did his own master. The boy listened, whittling slowly. Then he said, "'Maybe that's all right, and again maybe taint. Seeing as I can't read, I ain't going to take no one's word for it.'" "'You insolent brat,' exclaimed Peter Canot, highly incensed. Then he turned and called, "'Come here, Mary Louise.'" Mary Louise promptly advanced, and with every step she made the boy retreated a like distance, until the lawyer seized his arm and held it in a firm grip. "'What do you mean by running away?' he demanded. "'I hate gals,' retorted Bub sullenly. "'Don't be a fool. Come here, Mary Louise, and read this letter to the boy word for word.'" Mary Louise, marking the boy's bashfulness and trying to restrain a smile, read Mr. Morrison's letter. "'You see,' said the lawyer sharply, giving Bub a little shake, "'those are the exact words of the letter. We're going to enter the lodge and take possession of it, as Mr. Morrison has told us to do. And if you don't obey my orders, I shall give you a good flogging. Do you understand that?' Bob nodded more cheerfully. "'If you do it by force,' said he, that lets me out. Nobody can blame me if I'm forced.'" Mary Louise lapped so heartily that the boy cast an upward half approving glance at her face. Even Mr. Canot's stern visage relaxed. "'See here, Bub,' he said. "'Obey my orders, and no harm can come to you. This letter is genuine, and if you serve us faithfully while we are here, I'll—I'll give you four bits a week. Heh! Four bits! Exactly! Four bits every week!' "'Gee! That'll make six bits a week, with the two Talbot scorned to give me. I'm hanged if I don't buy a sweater for next winter before the cold weather comes.' "'Very good,' said Mr. Canot. Now get busy and let us in.'" Bub deliberately closed the knife and put it in his pocket, tossing away the stick. "'Gals,' he remarked, with another half glance at Mary Louise, ain't to my liking. But four bits!' He turned and walked away to where a wild rose-bush clambered over one corner of the lodge. Pushing away the thick, thorny branches with care, he thrust in his hand and drew out a bunch of keys. "'If it's just the same to you, sir, I'd rather you snatch them from my hand,' he suggested. "'Then if I'm blamed, I can prove a alibi.'" Mr. Canot was so irritated that he literally obeyed the boy's request and snatched the keys. Then he led the way to the front door. "'It's that thin brass one,' Bub hinted. Mr. Canot opened the front door. The place was apparently in perfect order. "'Go and get Hannah and Irene, please,' said Peter, to Mary Louise, and soon they had all taken possession of the cozy lodge, had opened the windows and aired it, and selected their various bedrooms. "'It is simply delightful,' exclaimed Irene, who was again seated in her wheel-chair. "'And if Uncle Peter will build a little runway from the porch to the ground, as he did at home, I shall be able to come and go as I please.'" Meantime, Aunt Hannah, as even Mary Louise now called Mrs. Canot, ransacked the kitchen and cupboards to discover what supplies were in the house. There was a huge stock of canned goods which Will Morrison had begged them to use freely, and the Canots had brought a big box of other groceries with them, which was speedily unpacked. While the others were thus engaged in settling and arranging the house, Irene wheeled her chair to the porch, on the steps of which sat Bub, again whittling. He had shown much interest in the crippled girl, whose misfortune seemed instantly to dispel his aversion for her sex, at least so far as she was concerned. He was not reluctant even to look at her face, and he watched with astonishment the ease with which she managed her chair. Having overheard, although at a distance, most of the boy's former conversation with Uncle Peter, Irene now began questioning him. "'Have you been eating and sleeping here?' "'Of course,' answered Bub. "'In the lodge?' "'No, over in Talbot's house. That's over the ridge yonder. It's only a step, but you can't see it from here. My home's in the South Hauler, four mile away. Do you cook your own meals? Nobody else to do it. And don't you get dreadfully lonesome at night?' "'Who, me? Guess not. What the Sam Hill is they to be lonesome over?' "'There are no neighbors near, are there?' "'Plenty. The Barker house is two mile one way, and the Bigby house is just half a mile down the slope. Guess she passed it coming up. But they ain't no one in the Bigby house just now, because Bigby got shot in the mountain last year, a deer hunting, and Bigby's wife married another man, what says he's delicate, and can't leave the city. But neighbors is plenty. CHAPTER XIV of Mary Louise by L. FRANK BAUM Red for LibriVox.org into the public domain. CHAPTER XIV. A Call from Agatha Lord Hillcrest Lodge was perched upon a broad shelf of the wooded mountain, considerably nearer to the bottom than to the top, yet a stiff climb from the plain below. Behind it was a steep cliff. In front there was a gradual descent covered with scrub, but affording a splendid view of the lowlands. At one side was the rocky canyon with its brook, struggling among the boulders, and on the other side the roadway that wound up the mountain in zigzag fashion, selecting the course of least resistance. Will Morrison was doubtless a mighty hunter and an expert fisherman, for the den at the rear of the lodge was a regular museum of trophies of the chase. Stag and doeheads, enormous trout mounted on boards, antlers of wild mountain sheep, rods, guns, revolvers and hunting knives fairly lined the walls, while a cabinet contained reels, books of flies, cartridge belts, creals and many similar articles. On the floor were rugs of bear, deer and beaver. A shelf was filled with books on sporting subjects. There was a glass door that led into a little porch at the rear of the lodge and a big window that faced the cliff. This sanctum of the owner rather awed the girls at first when they examined it, but they found it the most fascinating place in all the house, and Irene was delighted to be awarded the bedroom that adjoined it. The other bedrooms were on the upper floor. However, said Mr. Canot to Irene, I shall reserve the privilege of smoking my evening pipe in this den, for here is a student lamp, a low table, and the easiest chairs in all the place. If you keep your bedroom door shut, you won't mind the fumes of tobacco. I don't mind them anyhow, Uncle Peter, she replied. Bub Grigger helped get in the trunks and boxes. He also filled the woodbox in the big living room and carried water from the brook for Aunt Hannah, but otherwise he was of little use to them. His favorite occupation was whittling, and he would sit for hours on one of the broad benches overlooking the valley, aimlessly cutting chips from a stick without forming it into any object whatsoever. I suppose all this time he is deeply thinking, said Mary Louise as the girl sat on the porch watching him, the day after their arrival, but it would be interesting to know what direction Bub's thoughts take. He must be figuring up his earnings and deciding how long it will take to buy that winter sweater, left Irene. I've had a bit of conversation with the boy already, and his ideas struck me as rather crude and undeveloped. One idea, however, is firmly fixed in his mind, declared Mary Louise. He hates gals! We must try to dispel that notion. Perhaps he has a big sister at home who pounds him, and therefore he believes all girls are alike. Then let us go to him and make friends, suggested Mary Louise. If we are gentle with the boy, we may win him over. Mr. Connaught had already made a runway for the chair, so they left the porch and approached Bub, who saw them coming and slipped into the scrub, where he speedily disappeared from view. At other times also he shyly avoided the girls, until they began to fear it would be more difficult to make friends than they had supposed. Monday morning Mr. Connaught went down the mountain road, valise in hand, and met Bill Coombs, the stage driver at the foot of the descent, having made this arrangement to save time and expense. Peter had passed most of his two days' vacation in fishing, and had been so successful that he had promised Aunt Hannah he would surely return the following Friday. He had instructed Bub to take good care of the women folks during his absence, but no thought of danger occurred to any of them. The Morrison's had occupied the lodge for years, and had never been molested in any way. But the country people in the neighbourhood were thoroughly honest and trustworthy. There isn't much for us to do here, said Mary Louise, when the three were left alone, except to read, to eat, and to sleep. Lazy occupations all. I climbed the mountain a little way yesterday, but the view from the lodge is the best of all, and if you leave the road you tear your dress to shreds in the scrub. Well, to read, to eat, and to sleep is the very best way to enjoy a vacation, asserted Aunt Hannah. Let us all take it easy and have a good time. Irene's box of books which Mr. Connaught had purchased for her in New York had been placed in the den, where she could select the volumes as she chose, and the chair girl found the titles so alluring that she promised herself many hours of enjoyment while delving among them. They were all old and second-hand, perhaps fourth-hand or fifth-hand, as the lawyer had stated, and the covers were many of them torn to shatters. But Books's Books, said Irene cheerily, and she believed they would not prove the less interesting in contents because of their condition. Mostly they were old romances, historical essays and novels, with the sprinkling of fairy tales and books of verse, just the subjects Irene loved most. Being exiles, if not regular hermits, observed the crippled girl, sunning herself on the small porch outside the den, book in hand, we may loathe and dream to our heart's content and without danger of reproach. But not for long were they to remain wholly secluded. On Thursday afternoon they were surprised by a visitor who suddenly appeared from among the trees that lined the roadway and approached the two girls who were occupying a bench at the edge of the bluff. The new arrival was a lady of singularly striking appearance, beautiful and in the full flesh of womanhood, being perhaps thirty years of age. She wore a smart walking suit that fitted her rounded form perfectly, and a small hat, with a single feather, was jauntily perched upon her well-set head. Hair and eyes, almost black, contrasted finally with a bloom on her cheeks. In her ungloved hand she held a small walking stick. Advancing with grace and perfect self-possession, she smiled and nodded to the two young girls, and then, as Mary Louise rose to greet her, she said, I am your nearest neighbor, and so I have climbed up here to get acquainted. I am Agatha Lord, but of course you do not know me, because I came from Boston, whereas you came from—from— Doorfield, said Mary Louise, pray be seated. Let me present Irene McFarlane, and I am Mary Louise Burroughs. You are welcome, Miss Lord, or shall I say Mrs. Lord? Mrs. correct, replied their visitor with a pleasant laugh, which brought an answering smile to the other faces. But you must not address me, except as Agatha, for here in the wilderness formalities seem ridiculous. Now let us have a cozy chat together. Won't you come into the lodge and meet Mrs. Canot? Not just yet. You may imagine how that climb winded me, although they say it is only half a mile. I have taken the Bigby house just below you, you know, and I arrived there last night to get a good rest after a rather strenuous social career at home. Ever since Easter I have been on the go every minute, and I am really worn to a frazzle. She did not look at, thought Mary Louise. Indeed, she seemed the very picture of health. Ah! said she, fixing her eyes on Irene's book. You are very fortunate. The one thing I forgot to bring with me was a supply of books, and there is not a volume—not even a prayer book—in the Bigby house. I shall go mad in these solitudes if I cannot read. You may use my library, promised Irene, sympathizing with Miss Lord's desire. Uncle Peter brought a great box of books for me to read, and you are welcome to share their delights with me. I believe there are fifty of them at the least, but many were published ages ago, and perhaps, with a glance at the dainty hands, you won't care to handle second-hand books. This isonic air will fumigate them, said Agatha Lord carelessly. We don't absorb bindings, Irene, but merely the thoughts of the authors. Books are the one banquet table whereout we may feast without destroying the delicacy or flavor of the dishes presented. As long as the pages hold together, and the type is legible, a book is as good as when new. I like pretty bindings, though, declared Irene, for they dress pretty thoughts in fitting attire. An ill-looking book, whatever its contents, resembles the ugly girl whose only redeeming feature is her good heart. To be beautiful without and within must have been the desire of God in all things. Agatha gave her a quick look of comprehension. There was an unconsciously wistful tone in the girl's voice. Her face, though pallid, was lovely to view. Her dress was dainty and arranged with care. She earnestly sought to be as beautiful without and within as was possible, yet the twisted limbs forbade her attaining the perfection she craved. They sat together for an hour in dulcetory conversation, and Agatha Lord certainly interested the two younger girls very much. She was decidedly worldly in much of her gossip, but quick to perceive when she infringed the susceptibilities of her less sophisticated companions, and was able to turn the subject cleverly to more agreeable channels. I've brought my automobile with me, said she, and unless you have a car of your own, we will take some rides through the valley together. I mean to drive to Millbank every day for mail. There's a car here which belongs to Mr. Morrison, replied Mary Louise, but as none of us understands driving it we will gladly accept your invitations to ride. Do you drive your own car? Yes, indeed. That is the joy of motoring, and I care for my car, too, because the hired chauffeurs are so stupid. I didn't wish the bother of servants while taking my rest cure, and so my maid and I are all alone at the Bigby Place. After a time they went into the house, where Miss Lord was presented to Aunt Hannah, who welcomed their neighbor with her accustomed cordiality. In the den Agatha pounced upon the books, and quickly selected two which she begged permission to take home with her. This is really a well-selected collection, she remarked, eyeing the titles critically. Where did Mr. Connaught find it? At an auction of secondhand junk in New York, explained Irene, Uncle Peter knows that I love old-fashioned books best, but I'm sure he didn't realize what a good collection this is. As she spoke, Irene was listlessly running through the leaves of two or three volumes she had not before examined, when in one of them her eye was caught by a yellowed sheet of correspondence paper, tucked among the pages at about midway between the covers. Without removing the sheet she leaned over to examine the fine characters written upon it, and presently exclaimed, in wondering tones, Why, Mary Louise, here is an old letter about your mother. Yes, and here's something about your grandfather, too. How strange that it should be—let me see it! cried Mary Louise, eagerly stretching out her hands. But over her friend's shoulder Irene caught the expression of Agatha Lord, tense, startled, with a gleam of triumph in the dark eyes. It frightened her, that look on the face of one she had deemed a stranger, and it warned her. She closed the book with a little slam of decision and tucked it beside her in her chair. No, she said positively, no one shall see the letter until I've had time to read it myself. But what was it about? asked Mary Louise. I don't know yet, and you're not asked questions until I do know, retorted Irene, calmly returning Miss Lord's curious gaze while addressing Mary Louise. These are my books, you must admit, and so whatever I find in them belongs to me. Quite right, my dear, approved Agatha Lord, with her light, easy laugh. She knew that Irene had surprised her unguarded expression and wished to counteract the impression it had caused. Irene returned the laugh with one equally insincere, saying to her guest, Help yourself to whatever books you like, neighbor, carry them home, read them, and return them at your convenience. You are exceedingly kind, answered Agatha and resumed her examination of the titles. Mary Louise had not observed the tell-tale expression on Miss Lord's face, but she was shrewd enough to detect an undercurrent of ice in the polite phrases passing between her companions. She was consumed with curiosity to know more of the letter which Irene had found in the book, but did not again refer to it in the presence of their visitor. It was not long before Agatha rose to go a couple of books tucked beneath her arm. Will you ride with me to Milbank to-morrow? she asked, glancing from one face to another. Mary Louise looked at Irene, and Irene hesitated. I am not very comfortable without my chair, she said. You shall have the rear seat all to yourself, and it is big and broad and comfortable. Mary Louise will ride with me in front. I can easily drive the car up here, and load you in it this very porch. Please come. Very well, since you are so kind. Irene decided, and after a few more kindly remarks the beautiful Miss Lord left them, and walked with graceful, swinging stride down the path to the road, and down the road toward the Bigby House. When their visitor had departed, Mary Louise turned to her friend. Now, Irene, tell me about that queer letter, she begged. Not yet, dear. I'm sure it isn't important, though it's curious to find such an old letter tucked away in a book, Uncle Peter bought at an auction in New York, a letter that refers to your own people in days long gone by. In fact, Mary Louise, it was written so long ago that it cannot possibly interest us, except as proof of the saying that the world's a mighty small place. When I have nothing else to do I mean to read that old epistle from start to finish. Then if it contains anything you'd care to see, I'll let you have a look at it. With this promise Mary Louise was forced to be content, for she did not wish to annoy Irene by further pleadings. It really seemed, on reflection, that the letter could be of little consequence to any one. So she put it out of mind, especially as just now they spied bub sitting on the bench, and whittling as industriously as ever. Let me go to him first, suggested Irene with a mischievous smile. He doesn't seem at all afraid of me for some reason, and after I've led him into conversation you can join us. So she wheeled her chair over to where the boy sat. He glanced toward her as she approached the bench, but made no movement to flee. We've had a visitor, said the girl, confidentially, a lady who has taken the bigby house for the summer. Bub nodded, still whittling. I know. I seen her driver car up the grade on high, he remarked, feeling the edge of his knife blade reflectively. She's a real sport for a gal, don't she? She isn't a girl. She's a grown woman. To me, said bub, everything in skirts is gal's. The older they get, the more honorary to my mind. Never seen a gal yet, what's worth having round? Some day, said Irene with a smile, you may change your mind about girls. And again, said bub, I may it. Dad says he were soft in the head when he took up with mom, and Talbot owned a wife once what tried to pisen him. So he'd give her the shake, and come here to live in peace. But dad's so used to scoldings that he can't sleep in the sound open any more, unless he lays down beside the brook where it's noisiest. Then it reminds him of mom, and he feels like he's to home. Gal's think they got the men scared, and sometimes they guess right. Even Miss Morrison makes Will toe the mark, and Miss Morrison ain't no slouch for a gal. This somewhat voluble screed was delivered slowly, spaced with periods of aimless whittling, and when Irene had patiently heard it through she decided it wise to change the subject. "'Tomorrow we are going to ride in Miss Lord's automobile,' she remarked. Bub grunted. "'She says she can easily run it up to our door. Do you believe that?' "'Why not?' he inquired. "'Don't Will Morrison have a car? It's over there in the shed now.' "'Could it be used?' quietly asked Mary Louise, who had now strolled up behind the bench, unperceived. Bub turned a scowling face to her, but she was looking out across the bluff, and she had broached a subject in which the boy was intensely interested. "'That their car in there is a regular hummer,' he asserted, waving the knife in one hand and the stick in the other by way of emphasis. "'Tain't much for looks, you know, but looks cuts no figure with machinery, so long as it's well greased. On a hill, that their car's a cat. On a level stretch she's a jackrabbit. I've seen Will Morrison take her to Millbank and back in just an hour. Just one lonesome hour.' "'That must have been in its good days,' observed Mary Louise. "'The thing hasn't any tires on it now.' "'Will takes the tires off every year when he goes away and puts them in the cellar,' explained Bob. "'They seven good tires down cellar now. I counted them the day before you come here.' "'In that case,' said Mary Louise, if any of us knew how to drive we could use the car. "'Drive,' said Bub, squirmfully, "'that's nothing.' "'Oh, do you know how? Me? I can drive any car that's on wheels. Two years ago, a four-towbot came, I used to drive Will Morrison over to Millbank every week to catch the train and bring the car home again, and went for Will when he come back. "'You must have been very young, two years ago,' said Irene. "'Shucks. I'm going on fifteen this very minute. When I were eleven I drove the Higgins car for him and never hit the ditch once. "'Young? What do you think I am, a kid?' So indignant had he become that he suddenly rose and slouched away, nor could they persuade him to return. "'We're going to have a lot of fun with that boy once we learn how to handle him,' predicted Irene, when the two girls had enjoyed a good laugh at Bub's expense. He seems a queer mixture of simplicity and shrewdness. The next day Agatha Lorde appeared in her big touring car, and after lifting Irene in and making her quite comfortable in the back seat, they rolled gaily away to Millbank, where they had lunch at the primitive restaurant, visited the post office in the grocery store, and amused themselves until the train came in and brought Peter Cannot, who was loaded down with various parcels of merchandise Aunt Hannah had ordered. The lawyer was greatly pleased to find a car waiting to carry him to the lodge, and after being introduced to Miss Lorde, whose loveliness he could not fail to admire, he rode back with her in the front seat, and left Mary Louise to sit inside with Irene in the packages. Bill Coombs didn't approve of this method of running his stage business, and scowled at the glittering auto as it sped away across the plain to the mountain. On this day Miss Lorde proved an exceedingly agreeable companion to them all, even Irene forgetting for the time the strange expression she had surprised on Agatha's face at the time she found the letter. Mary Louise seemed to have quite forgotten that letter, for she did not again refer to it, but Irene, who had studied it closely in the seclusion of her own room that very night, had it rather persistently in mind, and her eyes took on an added expression of grave and gentle commiseration whenever she looked at Mary Louise's unconscious face. It is much more fun, observed Peter Canaan at breakfast the next morning, to ride to and from the station in a motor-car than to patronize Bill Coombs's rickety, slow-going omnibus, but I can't expect our fair neighbor to run a stage-line for my express accommodation. Will Morrison's car is here in the shed, said Mary Louise, and then she told of their conversation with Bub concerning it. He says he has driven a car ever since he was eleven years old, she added. I was wondering what that boy was good for, asserted the lawyer, yet the very last thing I would have accused him of is being a chauffeur. Why don't you put on the tires and use the car? asked Aunt Hannah. Hmm! Morrison didn't mention the car to me. I suppose he forgot it, but I'm sure he'd be glad to have us use it. I'll talk with the boy. Bub was found near the Talbot cottage in the gully. When Mr. Canot and Mary Louise approached him, soon after finishing their breakfast, he was, as usual, diligently whittling. They tell me you understand running Mr. Morrison's car, began the lawyer. Bub raised his eyes a moment to the speaker's face, but deemed an answer unnecessary. Is that true? With an impatient inflection. Can run any car, said Bub. Very well. Show me where the tires are and we will put them on. I want you to drive me to and from Millbank hereafter. Bub retained his seat and whistled. Have you got an order from Will Morrison in Wrighton? he demanded. No, but he will be glad to have me use the machine. He said everything at the lodge was at my disposal. Cars, said Bub, ain't like other things. A failure will lend his hunting-dog, or his knife, or his overcoat. But he's all fired shyly lending his car. If I run it for you, Will might blame me. Mr. Cannot fixed his dull stare on the boy's face, but Bub went on whittling. However, in the boy's inmost heart was a keen desire to run that motor-car, as had been proposed. So he casually remarked, If you forced me, you know, I'd just have to do it. Even Will couldn't blame me if I was forced. Mr. Cannot was so exasperated that the hint was enough. He seized the boy's collar, lifted him off the stump, and kicked him repeatedly, as he propelled his victim toward the house. Oh, Uncle Peter!" cried Mayor Louise, distressed. But Peter was obdurate, and Bub never whimpered. He even managed to close his knife between kicks and slip it into his trouser pocket. When they came to the garage the lawyer halted, more winded than Bub, and demanded sharply, What is needed to put the car in shape to run? Tires, gasoline, oil, and water. The tires are in the cellar, you say. Get them out, or I'll skin you alive. Bub nodded, grinning. Forcing of me, a forewitness lets me out, he remarked cheerfully, and straightway went for the tires. Irene wheeled herself out, and joined Uncle Peter and Mayor Louise in watching the boy attach the tires, which were on demountable rims and soon put in place. All were surprised at Bub's sudden exhibition of energy and his deft movements, for he worked with the assurance of a skilled mechanic. Now we need gasoline, said Mr. Cannot. I must order that from Millbank, I suppose. Unless you want to rob Will Morrison's tank, agreed Bub. Oh, he has a tank of gasoline here? Bub nodded. An underground steel tank. I don't know how much gas is in it, but if you forced me I'd have to measure it. Peter picked up a stick and shook it threateningly, whereat Bub smiled and walked to the rear of the garage, where an iron plug appeared just above the surface of the ground. This he unscrewed with a wrench, thrust in a rod, and drew it out again. About forty gallon, he announced. That's enough for a starter, I guess. Then put some of it into the machine. Is there any oil? Plenty oil. Half an hour later Bub started the engine and rolled the car slowly out of its shed to the graveled drive in the backyard. All right, Mr., he announced with satisfaction. I don't know what Will will say to this, but I can prove I were forced. Want to take a ride now? No, replied Mr. Cannot. I merely wanted to get the car in shape. You are to take me to the station on Monday morning. Under the circumstances we will not use Morrison's car for pleasure rides, but only for convenience and getting from here to the trains and back. He surely cannot object to that. Bub seemed disappointed by this decision. He ran the car around the yard two or three times, testing its condition, and then returned it to its shed. Mr. Cannot got his rod in reel and departed on a fishing excursion. CHAPTER XVI. Miss Lorde 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. Cannot 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 favourite 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 dulsatory 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 in questioning look in Irene's eyes as they followed the graceful form of Miss Lorde, but Mary Louise and Aunt Hannah paid no heed to their visitors 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. Then 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 sundial,' remarked Mary Louise, dropping her needlework to watch the shifting scene. When the shadow passes the huddle at 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's suiton is a perfect tyrant and scold 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 Lorde 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 favourite 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 today, Mary Louise? No, was the reply. I've not been in your room since yesterday. Nor you, Aunt Hannah? No, my dear, what book is missing? It was entitled The Suburian 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. Connaught, she managed to turn the conversation to less dangerous subjects. End of Chapter 16, read by Cibella Denton. For more free audiobooks or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 17 of Mary Louise by L. Frank Baum. Read for LibriVox.org into the public domain. Chapter 17 The Hired Girl. Mr. Connaught had just put on a comfortable smoking jacket and slippers, and seated himself in the den, pipe in hand, when the old-fashioned knocker on the front door of the lodge began to bang. It banged three times, so Mr. Connaught rose and made for the door. Mrs. Connaught 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 collar could be none other than their neighbor, the beautiful Miss Lorde, so as he opened the door he regretted that his appearance was not more presentable. But it was not Miss Lorde 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 imitation, 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. Connaught stood and stared at her, his hand 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 stupefied. Then she sat down in the nearest chair and continued to stare. Finding her determined on silence, Mr. Connaught spoke again. The Morrison's are spending the summer abroad. I and my family are occupying the lodge in their absence. I, uh, I am Mr. Connaught of Dorfield. The girl sighed rirly. 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 must-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. Connaught, as he critically eyed the girl. I have come here to work, she said after a long pause, during which she seemed to try 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. Hmm, hmm, 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. Connaught 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. Connaught, 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. Connaught felt rather embarrassed. I regret, said the latter, that we do not need a maid here 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 happened during a period of ten months. Mrs. Morrison, she had 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, and 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. Connaught, 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. Connaught, and retreated to the den to have a smoke. Mary Louisa arranged some food on the table for Sarah Judd, and after the girl had eaten, Mrs. Connaught 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 informed 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. Connaught was telling Irene about the queer arrival and the unfortunate misunderstanding that had occasioned it. The girl is not to blame, said Mary Louisa. She seems an honest little thing, resolved to do her duty. It is all Mrs. Morrison's fault. Doesn't look a very competent servant, either, observed Mr. Connaught, comfortably puffing his pipe. You can't tell that from appearances, Peter, replied Mrs. Connaught. She can at least wash dishes and sweep and do the drenchery. 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 the girl not 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 Morrison's forgot to notify her they had changed their plans. Also, added Mary Louisa, 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 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 Morrison's 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. Connott 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. Connott contentedly. Sarah Judd was not talkative. When told she might stay she merely nodded her red head, playing 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 Lorde 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. Connott'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 across the lovely face. That Saturday evening they all went down to the Bigby Place in Miss Lorde's motor-car, where the lady entertained her guests at a charming luncheon. The Bigby 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 home-like, nor so pleasantly situated. Miss Lorde'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 Lorde's entertaining company. Strangers 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 Lorde 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 haul-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 Big B's, Mary Louise confided to Irene as she went to her friend's room to assist her in preparing for bed. Agatha Lorde 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 Bigby's as seriously as her friend did. Don't you think Agatha Lorde stole that missing book? Ask 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 Lorde? I wish I knew, said Mary Louise musingly. Irene, I have an idea. She came to Bigby's just to be near us. There's something stealthy and underhanded about our neighbors. I'm positive. This Lorde 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 avaired, why your private affairs are of 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 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 out where he is. Do you think, she added, 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 Lorde is working for the Secret Service, the enemies of Grandpa Jim. I can't believe it. What is on that black ribbon around your neck? A miniature of my mother. Oh! Tonight 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 have 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-fastened 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, pouring 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 let anyone 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 a 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 leather and 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 later 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 those 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 re-sew the cushion in the dark. She lay awake for some 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 wake until 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 was ever permitted to assist her in dressing, as she felt proud of her ability to serve herself. Her toilette 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 were a troubled expression. "'One must have left it somewhere. Here, I'll put a pillow in its place until I find it.' CHAPTER 19 An Artful Confession This Monday morning Bub appeared at the lodge and had the car ready before Mr. Connaught had finished his breakfast. Mary Louise decided to drive to Milbank with them, just for the pleasure of the trip, and although the boy evidently regarded her presence with a 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. Connaught 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. Connaught. "'Do you remember our referring to an old letter the other day?' she asked. "'Yes,' said he. Irene founded in one of those second-hand 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 some one. The next day. We missed it after—after Miss Lord had visited the den alone.' "'Hah!' He wrote for a while 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. Canot 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 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. "'Being as how you're a gal,' said he, I ain't got much use for you, and that's a fact. I don't say it's your fault, nor that she wouldn't have made a passable boy if you'd been born that way. But you're right on one thing, and don't forget I told you so. That woman at Bigby's ain't on the square.' "'How do you know?' asked Mary Louise, delighted to be taken into Bub's confidence. "'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 are like windows, but hers you can't see through. I don't know nothing about that slit gal at Bigby's, and I don't want to know nothing. But I heard what you said to the boss, and what he said to you, and I guess you're right in sizing the critter up, and 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. Connaught, 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. Connaught and Mary Louise past the Bigby 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 talk 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 Burroughs. 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'm glad to be able to explain that, to you in confidence. I'm 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 supplies in 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 the 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 malifactors. 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 Lorde 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 Lorde, 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 Lorde, 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 the last resort. If on reading it I find your position is justifiable, you must admit that 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 canons at Mary Louise did not suspect I am here on any a special mission. Very well.' "'In truth,' continued Agatha, I am growing fond of you 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 have formally 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. CHAPTER XXI. DIMOND CUT DIMOND. Tuesday afternoon Miss Lord's big touring car stood at the door of Hillcrest Lodge, for Agatha had invited the Knaught Party to ride with her to Milbank. Irene was tucked into the back seat in a comfortable position and beside her sat Mrs. Knaught, 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 old 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 re-entered the house. Hermique and Diffen and 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 peg 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 an 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 of the thin sheet, evidently of fore and make, and although the writing was faded it was 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 Bubba 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 colonel, sad mother, making frolic better quick. If England rumpels 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. You'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 Canot, she's gone to Millbank herself. If she sees me there I'll get fired. The boss'll fire me himself anyhow for using the car when he told me not to. How much do you get a week? Asked Sarah. Four bits. That's about two dollars a month. Within two months the Canots will move back to the city and 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. You ain't countin' on the fun of workin', he suggested. I'm countin' 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 your money, Sarah. 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, take going to do no harm to them gals that stop in here, is it? It's to do them a good term 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 you 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 dishwashing. Only 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 a jar, 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 room. 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. Connaught 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 hands 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? Knew 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 them, 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 gambled that you never saw Miss Morrison in your life. You'd win, said Sarah, also shaking 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 clue 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 will 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, lulling in her chair. Go ahead with your certs, Nan. I'll tell you when you are hot or cold. You're an impudent little chit, said Nan tartly. Be here, with a sudden change of voice. Let's pool issues. If we can discover anything important in this place, there is 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 is 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 and 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 Thad of Nan, and in a flash a handcuff snapped over her wrist. With a cry she drew back, but a dexterous twist of her opponent's freehand 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 note-book. The shorthand writing caught her eye at once, but the characters were unknown to her. Cypher, eh? she muttered. A little coat of my own invention, said Sarah. Sometimes I can't make it out myself. Nan restored the book and examined to Sarah Judd's purse. They keep you well supplied with funds, it seems. Comes in 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 hairbrush 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 have 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 round your finger.' Nan regarded her seriously. "'I wish I knew what you were up to,' she remarked suspiciously. "'You can scarcely conceal your joy, my girl, and that proves I've overlooked something. You 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 aside 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 into 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 Ogorman is always saying. Ever hear of Ogorman?' "'Yes. He's one of the old standbys 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.' "'Ogorman 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. Not 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 indoor field and she never saw my face once. But Ogorman didn't suspect you were coming into the case, and the things 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 you ever 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-ditches. Bub dashed into the yard and tuted his horn. Sarah went out to him. "'You can call me lucky if you don't mind,' he said with a grin. Since your telegram, found out the tenor you give me were good, and got back without the folks getting 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.' CHAPTER XXI Peter Canot 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 Milbank, 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. "'Hm!' 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 Grandpa Jim been?' "'No,' said Mr. Canot. "'No, my dear, no. "'Then has anything happened to—to mother?' "'Well, well,' muttered the lawyer with a sort of growl. Mrs. Brose has not been in good health for some months, it seems. She, uh, was under a nervous strain—a severe nervous strain, you know. "'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's rites, 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. Brose die?' "'On Monday.' "'Where?' "'That's none of your business, my girl. Has the funeral been held?' She 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. Brose 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. Connaught? And this death isn't altogether a calamity.' "'A? Why not?' whirling around to face her. "'Because,' said Sarah, it will enable Mr. Hathaway to face the world again, a free man.' Peter Connaught 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. Connaught 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. Connaught, 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. Peter 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. Canot nodded to Peter approvingly. Irene will comfort her, she said, and in a far better way 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. Hmm, 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 am 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—uh—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 how much Sarah Judd or anyone else knew of the Hathaway case. The mystery would solve itself presently. CHAPTER XXII of Mary Louise by L. Frank Baum CHAPTER XXII THE FOLKS AT BIG BEES Mr. Connaught 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. Burroughs, 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. Burroughs 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. Burroughs' 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. Canot to Millbank, and then the boy took the car to the blacksmith's shop to have a small part repaired. The blacksmith made such a bungalow 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 the mountain to Hillcrest, said Bub, Oh, may have a lift. How fur? 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 year's the huddle, as we's coming to, announced the boy. All Miss Parsons she sometimes takes borders. That's kind of her, remarked the stranger, but the air isn't so good as further up the hill. If you go up, said Bub, with a grin, I guess you'll have to camp out and eat scrub. Nobody don't take borders up the mountain. 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 Big Bees near here? Coming to it pretty soon. They some gals live in there now, so you won't care to stop. What sort of girls are they? Sort of queer. Yes. You betcha. Come from the city a while ago and live them by themselves. Something wrong about them girls, added Bub reflectively. In what way? Asked the little man in a tone of interest. They ain't here for nothing special, except watching the folks at Hillcrest. Them's the folks I belongs to, four bits a week. They's something queer about them, too, but I guess all the folks is queer that comes out here from the city. Quite likely, agreed the little man, nodding. Let me out at Big Bees, please, and I'll look over those women and form my own opinion of them. They may perhaps be friends of mine. In that case, asserted Bub, I pity you, stranger. For my part, I ain't got no use for anything that wears a skirt, except one or two maybe, he added reflectively. Most men I can get along with, frustrate, but if a man ever gets in trouble, or begins cussing and acts ugly, it's cause some gals rubbed him crosswise the grain, or stuck a knife in him, and twisted the blade, so to speak. You're an observant lad, I see. When I'm awake I can't help seeing things. You're a pastoral philosopher. Bub scowled and gave him a surly glance. What's the use of firing that high-brow stuff at me? He asked, indignantly. I suppose you think I'm a kid, just cause I don't do no fancy talking. I suspect you have nothing but generosity in giving me this ride, said the stranger pleasantly. Is that Big Bees over yonder? Yes. The little man got out at the point where the Big Beed 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, old woman? Hathaway's coming here, he said. Are you sure? He's in Dorfield today, waiting to see lawyer Canot, who went in on the morning train. Where's Nan? Here, my lord, said Nan Shelly, stepping from behind a tall shrub. How are you, partner? I recognized you as you passed the huddle with the boy. Field glass is a—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 Ogorman, she continued, So Hathaway's coming here, 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? Ogorman smiled a little grimly as he answered, I'm not sure, Nan, that we shall nab Hathaway at all. He being shadowed, was some surprise. No, but he'll come up 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, Ogorman? 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. 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 Cannot sent a telegram in a desperate hurry. I suspected it meant something important. Who is she, Ogorman, and why did the chief cut under us by planting Sarah Judd in the Cannot's 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, Ogorman. 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 an innie, if you like, she said resentfully. You'll get a heat 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. Ogorman, there is 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. Ogorman, confiding to his associates such information as would enable them to act with him intelligently. Hathaway and Peter cannot 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. CHAPTER XXXIII. 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 and thru-tipped the sash, Ogorman'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 and held it close a moment, while they regarded each other 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. Afterwards 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 Ogorman, 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's dishes, I confess, but the fun I've had is more than made up for the hard work. Do you know, Dad, I had a session with Nan Shelly 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 Shelly. He gave a little amused laugh. You're all right, Josie, dear, he replied. My training wouldn't have amounted to shuts 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 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 to 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, he said, 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. Burroughs 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 told you so much. I'm on the other side. I'm here to protect Mary Louise Burroughs 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 Burroughs 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. Burroughs 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? Tomorrow. Then I must warn them and try to head him off. I'm on his side, Dad. Don't forget that. I won't. 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 and 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 Canats 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 Bigby House.