She was in bed now, and lay looking around the room with speculative gaze. Beside her stood her wheeled chair, with its cushion of dark Spanish leather. The girl smiled and, reaching for her work-basket, which was on a stand at the head of the bed, she drew out a pair of scissors and cut some of the stitches of the leathern cushion. Then she tucked the letter carefully inside and with a needle and some black linen thread sewed up the place she had ripped open.
She had just completed this task when she glanced up and saw a face at her window — indistinctly, for even as she raised her head it drew back and faded into the outer gloom.
For a moment Irene sat motionless, looking at the window. Then she turned to the stand, where the lamp was, and extinguished the light.
An hour, perhaps, she sat upright in bed, considering what she should do. Then again she reached out in the darkness and felt for her scissors. Securing them, she drew the chair cushion upon the bed and felt along its edge for the place she had sewn. She could not determine for some time which was the right edge but at last she found where the stitches seemed a little tighter drawn than elsewhere and this place she managed to rip open. To her joy she found the letter and drew it out with a sigh of relief.
But now what to do with it was a question of vital importance. She dared not relight her lamp and she was helpless when out of her chair. So she put back the cushion, slid from the bed into the chair and wheeled herself in the dark to her dresser, which had a chenille cover. Underneath this cover she spread the letter, deeming that so simple a hiding-place was likely to be overlooked in a hasty search and feeling that the letter would be safe there for the night, at least.
She now returned to her bed. There was no use trying to resew the cushion in the dark. She lay awake for a long time, feeling a certain thrill of delight in the belief that she was a conspirator despite her crippled condition and that she was conspiring for the benefit of her dear friend Mary Louise. Finally she sank into a deep slumber and did not waken till the sun was streaming in at the window and Mary Louise knocked upon her door to call her.
“You’re lazy this morning,” laughed Mary Louise, entering. “Let me help you dress for breakfast.”
Irene thanked her. No one but this girl friend was ever permitted to assist her in dressing, as she felt proud of her ability to serve herself. Her toilet was almost complete when Mary Louise suddenly exclaimed:
“Why, what has become of your chair cushion?”
Irene looked toward the chair. The cushion was gone.
“Never mind,” she said, although her face wore a troubled expression. “I must have left it somewhere. Here; I’ll put a pillow in its place until I find it.”
CHAPTER XIX
AN ARTFUL CONFESSION
This Monday morning Bub appeared at the Lodge and had the car ready before Mr. Conant had finished his breakfast. Mary Louise decided to drive to Millbank with them, just for the pleasure of the trip, and although the boy evidently regarded her presence with distinct disapproval he made no verbal objection.
As Irene wheeled herself out upon the porch to see them start, Mary
Louise called to her:
“Here’s your chair cushion, Irene, lying on the steps and quite wet with dew. I never supposed you could be so careless. And you’d better sew up that rip before it gets bigger,” she added, handing the cushion to her friend.
“I will,” Irene quietly returned.
Bub proved himself a good driver before they had gone a mile and it pleased Mr. Conant to observe that the boy made the trip down the treacherous mountain road with admirable caution. Once on the level, however, he “stepped on it,” as he expressed it, and dashed past the Huddle and over the plain as if training for the Grand Prix.
It amused Mary Louise to watch their quaint little driver, barefooted and in blue-jeans and hickory shirt, with the heavy Scotch golf cap pulled over his eyes, taking his task of handling the car as seriously as might any city chauffeur and executing it fully as well.
During the trip the girl conversed with Mr. Conant.
“Do you remember our referring to an old letter, the other day?” she asked.
“Yes,” said he.
“Irene found it in one of those secondhand books you bought in New
York, and she said it spoke of both my mother and my grandfather.”
“The deuce it did!” he exclaimed, evidently startled by the information.
“It must have been quite an old letter,” continued Mary Louise, musingly.
“What did it say?” he demanded, rather eagerly for the unemotional lawyer.
“I don’t know. Irene wouldn’t let me read it.”
“Wouldn’t, eh? That’s odd. Why didn’t you tell me of this before I left the Lodge?”
“I didn’t think to tell you, until now. And, Uncle Peter, what, do you think of Miss Lord?”
“A very charming lady. What did Irene do with the letter?”
“I think she left it in the book; and — the book was stolen the very next day.”
“Great Caesar! Who knew about that letter?”
“Miss Lord was present when Irene found the letter, and she heard Irene exclaim that it was all about my mother, as well as about my grandfather.”
“Miss Lord?”
“Yes.”
“And the book was taken by someone?”
“The next day. We missed it after — after Miss Lord had visited the den alone.”
“Huh!”
He rode for awhile in silence.
“Really,” he muttered, as if to himself, “I ought to go back. I ought not to take for granted the fact that this old letter is unimportant. However, Irene has read it, and if it happened to be of value I’m sure the girl would have told me about it.”
“Yes, she certainly would have told you,” agreed Mary Louise. “But she declared that even I would not be interested in reading it.”
“That’s the only point that perplexes me,” said the lawyer.
“Just — that — one — point.”
“Why?” asked the girl.
But Mr. Conant did not explain. He sat bolt upright on his seat, staring at the back of Bub’s head, for the rest of the journey. Mary Louise noticed that his fingers constantly fumbled with the locket on his watch chain.
As the lawyer left the car at the station he whispered to Mary Louise:
“Tell Irene that I now know about the letter; and just say to her that I consider her a very cautious girl. Don’t say anything more. And don’t, for heaven’s sake, suspect poor Miss Lord. I’ll talk with Irene when I return on Friday.”
On their way back Bub maintained an absolute silence until after they had passed the Huddle. Before they started to climb the hill road, however, the boy suddenly slowed up, halted the car and turned deliberately in his seat to face Mary Louise.
“Bein’ as how you’re a gal,” said he, “I ain’t got much use fer ye, an’ that’s a fact. I don’t say it’s your fault, nor that ye wouldn’t ‘a’ made a pass’ble boy ef ye’d be’n borned thet way. But you’re right on one thing, an’ don’t fergit I told ye so: thet woman at Bigbee’s ain’t on the square.”
“How do you know?” asked Mary Louise, delighted to be taken into Bub’s confidence — being a girl.
“The critter’s too slick,” he explained, raising one bare foot to the cushion beside him and picking a sliver out of his toe. “Her eyes ain’t got their shutters raised. Eyes’re like winders, but hers ye kain’t see through. I don’t know nuth’n’ ‘bout that slick gal at Bigbee’s an’ I don’t want to know nuth’n’. But I heer’d what ye said to the boss, an’ what he said to you, an’ I guess you’re right in sizin’ the critter up, an’ the boss is wrong.”
With this he swung round again and started the car, nor did he utter another word until he ran the machine into the garage.
During Mary Louise’s absence Irene had had a strange and startling experience with their beautiful neighbor. The girl had wheeled her
chair out upon the bluff to sun herself and read, Mrs. Conant being busy in the house, when Agatha Lord strolled up to her with a smile and a pleasant “good morning.”
“I’m glad to find you alone,” said she, seating herself beside the wheeled chair. “I saw Mr. Conant and Mary Louise pass the Bigbee place and decided this would be a good opportunity for you and me to have a nice, quiet talk together. So I came over.”
Irene’s face was a bit disdainful as she remarked:
“I found the cushion this morning.”
“What cushion do you refer to?” asked Agatha with a puzzled expression.
Irene frowned.
“We cannot talk frankly together when we are at cross purposes,” she complained.
“Very true, my dear; but you seem inclined to speak in riddles.”
“Do you deny any knowledge of my chair cushion!”
“I do.”
“I must accept your statement, of course. What do you wish to say to me, Miss Lord?”
“I would like to establish a more friendly understanding between us. You are an intelligent girl and cannot fail to realize that I have taken a warm interest in your friend Mary Louise Burrows. I want to know more about her, and about her people, who seem to have cast her off. You are able to give me this information, I am sure, and by doing so you may be instrumental in assisting your friend materially.”
It was an odd speech; odd and insincere. Irene studied the woman’s face curiously.
“Who are you, Miss Lord?” she inquired.
“Your neighbor.”
“Why are you our neighbor?”
“I am glad to be able to explain that — to you, in confidence. I am trying to clear the name of Colonel Weatherby from a grave charge — the charge of high treason.”
“In other words, you are trying to discover where he is,” retorted
Irene impatiently.
“No, my dear; you mistake me. It is not important to my mission, at present, to know where Colonel Weatherby is staying. I am merely seeking relevant information, such information as you are in a position to give me.”
“I, Miss Lord?”
“Yes. To be perfectly frank, I want to see the letter which you found in that book.”
“Why should you attach any importance to that?”
“I was present, you will remember, when you discovered it. I marked your surprise and perplexity — your fear and uncertainty — as you glanced first at the writing and then at Mary Louise. You determined not to show your friend that letter because it would disturb her, yet you inadvertently admitted, in my hearing, that it referred to the girl’s mother and — which is vastly more important — to her grandfather.”
“Well; what then, Miss Lord?”
“Colonel Weatherby is a man of mystery. He has been hunted by Government agents for nearly ten years, during which time he has successfully eluded them. If you know anything of the Government service you know it has a thousand eyes, ten thousand ears and a myriad of long arms to seize its malefactors. It has not yet captured Colonel Weatherby.”
“Why has he been hunted all these years?”
“He is charged, as I said, with high treason. By persistently evading capture he has tacitly admitted his guilt.”
“But he is innocent!” cried Irene indignantly.
Miss Lord seemed surprised, yet not altogether ill-pleased, at the involuntary exclamation.
“Indeed!” she said softly. “Could you prove that statement?”
“I — I think so,” stammered the girl, regretting her hasty avowal.
“Then why not do so and by restoring Mary Louise to her grandfather make them both happy?”
Irene sat silent, trapped.
“This is why I have come to you,” continued Agatha, very seriously. “I am employed by those whose identity I must not disclose to sift this mystery of Colonel Weatherby to the bottom, if possible, and then to fix the guilt where it belongs. By accident you have come into possession of certain facts that would be important in unravelling the tangle, but through your unfortunate affliction you are helpless to act in your own capacity. You need an ally with more strength and experience than yourself, and I propose you accept me as that ally. Together we may be able to clear the name of James J. Hathaway — who now calls himself Colonel James Weatherby — from all reproach and so restore him to the esteem of his fellow men.”
“But we must not do that, even if we could!” cried Irene, quite distressed by the suggestion.
“Why not, my dear?”
The tone was so soft and cat-like that it alarmed Irene instantly. Before answering she took time to reflect. To her dismay she found this woman was gradually drawing from her the very information she had declared she would preserve secret. She knew well that she was no match for Agatha Lord in a trial of wits. Her only recourse must be a stubborn refusal to explain anything more.
“Colonel Weatherby,” she said slowly, “has better information than I of the charge against him and his reasons for keeping hidden, yet he steadfastly refuses to proclaim his innocence or to prove he is unjustly accused, which he might very well do if he chose. You say you are working in his interests, and, allowing that, I am satisfied he would bitterly reproach anyone who succeeded in clearing his name by disclosing the truth.”
This argument positively amazed Agatha Lord, as it might well amaze anyone who had not read the letter. In spite of her supreme confidence of the moment before, the woman now suddenly realized that this promising interview was destined to end disastrously to her plans.
“I am so obtuse that you will have to explain that statement,” she said with assumed carelessness; but Irene was now on guard and replied:
“Then our alliance is dissolved. I do not intend, Miss Lord, to betray such information as I may have stumbled upon unwittingly. You express interest in Mary Louise and her grandfather and say you are anxious to serve them. So am I. Therefore I beg you, in their interests, to abandon any further attempt to penetrate the secret.”
Agatha was disconcerted.
“Show me the letter,” she urged, as a last resort. “If, on reading it, I find your position is justifiable — you must admit it is now bewildering — I will agree to abandon the investigation altogether.”
“I will not show you the letter,” declared the girl positively.
The woman studied her face.
“But you will consider this conversation confidential, will you not?”
“Since you request it, yes.”
“I do not wish our very pleasant relations, as neighbors, disturbed. I would rather the Conants and Mary Louise did not suspect I am here on any especial mission.”
“Very well.”
“In truth,” continued Agatha, “I am growing fond of yon all and this is a real vacation to me, after a period of hard work in the city which racked my nerves. Before long I must return to the old strenuous life, so I wish to make the most of my present opportunities.”
“I understand.”
No further reference was made to the letter or to Colonel Weatherby. They talked of other things for a while and when Miss Lord went away there seemed to exist — at least upon the surface — the same friendly relations that had formerly prevailed between them.
Irene, reflecting upon the interview, decided that while she had admitted more than was wise she had stopped short of exposing the truth about Colonel Weatherby. The letter was safely hidden, now. She defied even Miss Lord to find it. If she could manage to control her tongue, hereafter, the secret was safe in her possession.
Thoughtfully she wheeled herself back to the den and finding the room deserted she ventured to peep into her novel hiding-place. Yes; the precious letter was still safe. But this time, in her abstraction, she failed to see the face at the window.
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 w
ith her to Millbank. Irene was tucked into the back seat in a comfortable position and beside her sat Mrs. Conant, who was going to make a few purchases at the village store. Mary Louise rode on the front seat with Agatha, who loved to drive her car and understood it perfectly.
When they drove away there was no one left in the house but Sarah Judd, the servant girl, who was washing the lunch dishes. Bub was in the shed-like garage, however, washing and polishing Will Morrison’s old car, on which the paint was so cracked and faded that the boy’s attempt to improve its appearance was a desperate one.
Sarah, through the kitchen window, watched Bub for a time rather sharply. Then she went out on the bluff and looked down in the valley. Miss Lord’s big car was just passing the Huddle on its way up the valley.
Sarah turned and reentered the house. Her meek and diffident expression of countenance had quite disappeared. Her face now wore a look of stern determination and the blue eyes deepened and grew shrewd.
She walked straight to the den and without hesitation approached the farther wall and took from its pegs Will Morrison’s fine hunting rifle. In the stock was a hollow chamber for cartridges, for the rifle was of the type known as a “repeater.” Sliding back the steel plate that hid this cavity, Sarah drew from it a folded paper of a yellow tint and calmly spread it on the table before her. Then she laid down the rifle, placed a chair at the table and with absorbed attention read the letter from beginning to end — the letter that Irene had found in the book.
It was closely written on both sides the thin sheet — evidently of foreign make — and although the writing was faded it was still clearly legible.
After the first perusal Sarah Judd leaned her elbows on the table and her head on her hands and proceeded to study the epistle still more closely. Then she drew from her pocket a notebook and pencil and with infinite care made a copy of the entire letter, writing it in her book in shorthand. This accomplished, she replaced the letter in the rifle stock and hung the weapon on its pegs again.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 577
