"I will not show you the letter," declared the girl positively.
The woman studied her face.
"But you will consider this conversation confidential, will you not?"
"Since you request it, yes."
"I do not wish our very pleasant relations, as neighbors, disturbed. I would rather the Conants and Mary Louise did not suspect I am here on any especial mission."
"Very well."
"In truth," continued Agatha, "I am growing fond of yon all and this is a real vacation to me, after a period of hard work in the city which racked my nerves. Before long I must return to the old strenuous life, so I wish to make the most of my present opportunities."
"I understand."
No further reference was made to the letter or to Colonel Weatherby.
They talked of other things for a while and when Miss Lord went away there seemed to exist--at least upon the surface--the same friendly relations that had formerly prevailed between them.
Irene, reflecting upon the interview, decided that while she had admitted more than was wise she had stopped short of exposing the truth about Colonel Weatherby. The letter was safely hidden, now. She defied even Miss Lord to find it. If she could manage to control her tongue, hereafter, the secret was safe in her possession.
Thoughtfully she wheeled herself back to the den and finding the room deserted she ventured to peep into her novel hiding-place. Yes; the precious letter was still safe. But this time, in her abstraction, she failed to see the face at the window.
CHAPTER XX
DIAMOND CUT DIAMOND
Tuesday afternoon Miss Lord"s big touring car stood at the door of Hillcrest Lodge, for Agatha had invited the Conant party to ride with her to Millbank. Irene was tucked into the back seat in a comfortable position and beside her sat Mrs. Conant, who was going to make a few purchases at the village store. Mary Louise rode on the front seat with Agatha, who loved to drive her car and understood it perfectly.
When they drove away there was no one left in the house but Sarah Judd, the servant girl, who was washing the lunch dishes. Bub was in the shed-like garage, however, washing and polishing Will Morrison"s old car, on which the paint was so cracked and faded that the boy"s attempt to improve its appearance was a desperate one.
Sarah, through the kitchen window, watched Bub for a time rather sharply. Then she went out on the bluff and looked down in the valley.
Miss Lord"s big car was just pa.s.sing the Huddle on its way up the valley.
Sarah turned and reentered the house. Her meek and diffident expression of countenance had quite disappeared. Her face now wore a look of stern determination and the blue eyes deepened and grew shrewd.
She walked straight to the den and without hesitation approached the farther wall and took from its pegs Will Morrison"s fine hunting rifle.
In the stock was a hollow chamber for cartridges, for the rifle was of the type known as a "repeater." Sliding back the steel plate that hid this cavity, Sarah drew from it a folded paper of a yellow tint and calmly spread it on the table before her. Then she laid down the rifle, placed a chair at the table and with absorbed attention read the letter from beginning to end--the letter that Irene had found in the book.
It was closely written on both sides the thin sheet--evidently of foreign make--and although the writing was faded it was still clearly legible.
After the first perusal Sarah Judd leaned her elbows on the table and her head on her hands and proceeded to study the epistle still more closely. Then she drew from her pocket a notebook and pencil and with infinite care made a copy of the entire letter, writing it in her book in shorthand. This accomplished, she replaced the letter in the rifle stock and hung the weapon on its pegs again.
Both the window and the gla.s.s door of the den faced the back yard.
Sarah opened the door and stood there in deep thought, watching Bub at his work. Then she returned to the table and opening a drawer drew out a sheet of blank paper. On this she wrote the following words:
"John Folger, 1601 F. Street, Washington, D. C.
Nothing under sterling over letter bobbing every kernel sad mother making frolic better quick. If England rumples paper Russia admires money.
Sarah Judd."
Each word of this preposterous phrasing she wrote after consulting another book hidden cleverly among the coils of her red hair--a tiny book it--was, filled with curious characters. When the writing was finished the girl seemed well satisfied with her work. After tucking away the book in its former place she went to her room, got her purse and then proceeded to the shed and confronted Bub.
"I want you to drive this car to Millbank, to the telegraph office at the railway station," said Sarah.
Bub gave her a scornful look.
"Ye"re crazy," he said and went on with his polishing.
"That needn"t worry you," retorted the girl.
"It don"t," declared Bub.
"You can drive and you"re going to," she continued. "I"ve got to send this telegram quick, and you"ve got to take it." She opened her purse and placed two coins on the fender of the car. "There"s a dollar to pay for the message, and there"s a five-dollar gold-piece to pay you for your trouble."
Bub gave a gasp. He came up beside her and stared at the money. Then he turned to look at Sarah Judd.
"What"s up?" he demanded.
"Private business. Don"t ask questions; you"d only get lies for answers. Go and earn your money."
"Miss" Conant, she"s gone to Millbank herself. Ef she sees me there, I"ll git fired. The boss"ll fire me himself, anyhow, fer usin" the car when he tol" me not to."
"How much do you get a week!" asked Sarah.
"Four bits."
"That"s about two dollars a month. In two months the Conants will move back to the city, and by then you"ll have earned four dollars. Why, Bub, it"s cheaper for you to take this five-dollar gold-piece and get fired, than to work for two months for four dollars."
Bub scratched his head in perplexity.
"Ye ain"t count"n" on the fun o" workin"," he suggested.
"I"m counting on that five dollars--eight bits to a dollar, forty bits altogether. Why, it"s a fortune, Bub."
He took out his knife, looked around for a stick to whittle and, finding none, put the knife in his pocket with a sigh.
"I guess Will Morrison wouldn"t like it," he decided. "Put up yer money, Sairy."
Sarah withdrew the gold-piece and put a larger one in its place.
"There," she said; "let"s make it ten dollars, and save time."
Bub"s hesitation vanished, but he asked anxiously: