Mary Louise by L. Frank Baum (classic fiction txt) 📕

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 with her to Millbank. Irene was tucked into the back seat in a comfortable position and beside her sat Mrs. Conant, who was going to make a few purchases at the village store. Mary Louise rode on the front seat with Agatha, who loved to drive her car and understood it perfectly.

When they drove away there was no one left in the house but Sarah Judd, the servant girl, who was washing the lunch dishes. Bub was in the shed-like garage, however, washing and polishing Will Morrison's old car, on which the paint was so cracked and faded that the boy's attempt to improve its appearance was a desperate one.

Sarah, through the kitchen window, watched Bub for a time rather sharply. Then she went out on the bluff and looked down in the valley. Miss Lord's big car was just passing the Huddle on its way up the valley.

Sarah turned and reentered the house. Her meek and diffident expression of countenance had quite disappeared. Her face now wore a look of stern determination and the blue eyes deepened and grew shrewd.

She walked straight to the den and without hesitation approached the farther wall and took from its pegs Will Morrison's fine hunting rifle. In the stock was a hollow chamber for cartridges, for the rifle was of the type known as a "repeater." Sliding back the steel plate that hid this cavity, Sarah drew from it a folded paper of a yellow tint and calmly spread it on the table before her. Then she laid down the rifle, placed a chair at the table and with absorbed attention read the letter from beginning to end—the letter that Irene had found in the book.

It was closely written on both sides the thin sheet—evidently of foreign make—and although the writing was faded it was still clearly legible.

After the first perusal Sarah Judd leaned her elbows on the table and her head on her hands and proceeded to study the epistle still more closely. Then she drew from her pocket a notebook and pencil and with infinite care made a copy of the entire letter, writing it in her book in shorthand. This accomplished, she replaced the letter in the rifle stock and hung the weapon on its pegs again.

Both the window and the glass door of the den faced the back yard. Sarah opened the door and stood there in deep thought, watching Bub at his work. Then she returned to the table and opening a drawer drew out a sheet of blank paper. On this she wrote the following words:

"John Folger, 1601 F. Street, Washington, D. C.

Nothing under sterling over letter bobbing every kernel sad mother making frolic better quick. If England rumples paper Russia admires money.

Sarah Judd."

Each word of this preposterous phrasing she wrote after consulting another book hidden cleverly among the coils of her red hair—a tiny book it—was, filled with curious characters. When the writing was finished the girl seemed well satisfied with her work. After tucking away the book in its former place she went to her room, got her purse and then proceeded to the shed and confronted Bub.

"I want you to drive this car to Millbank, to the telegraph office at the railway station," said Sarah.

Bub gave her a scornful look.

"Ye're crazy," he said and went on with his polishing.

"That needn't worry you," retorted the girl.

"It don't," declared Bub.

"You can drive and you're going to," she continued. "I've got to send this telegram quick, and you've got to take it." She opened her purse and placed two coins on the fender of the car. "There's a dollar to pay for the message, and there's a five-dollar gold-piece to pay you for your trouble."

Bub gave a gasp. He came up beside her and stared at the money. Then he turned to look at Sarah Judd.

"What's up?" he demanded.

"Private business. Don't ask questions; you'd only get lies for answers. Go and earn your money."

"Miss' Conant, she's gone to Millbank herself. Ef she sees me there, I'll git fired. The boss'll fire me himself, anyhow, fer usin' the car when he tol' me not to."

"How much do you get a week!" asked Sarah.

"Four bits."

"That's about two dollars a month. In two months the Conants will move back to the city, and by then you'll have earned four dollars. Why, Bub, it's cheaper for you to take this five-dollar gold-piece and get fired, than to work for two months for four dollars."

Bub scratched his head in perplexity.

"Ye ain't count'n' on the fun o' workin'," he suggested.

"I'm counting on that five dollars—eight bits to a dollar, forty bits altogether. Why, it's a fortune, Bub."

He took out his knife, looked around for a stick to whittle and, finding none, put the knife in his pocket with a sigh.

"I guess Will Morrison wouldn't like it," he decided. "Put up yer money, Sairy."

Sarah withdrew the gold-piece and put a larger one in its place.

"There," she said; "let's make it ten dollars, and save time."

Bub's hesitation vanished, but he asked anxiously:

"Tain't go'n' to do no harm to them gals thet's stoppin' here, is it?"

"It is to do them a good turn that I'm sending this telegram."

"Honor bright?"

"Hope to die, Bub."

"All right; I'm off."

He folded the letter, placed it inside his Scotch cap and stowed the money carefully in his pocket.

"Don't let any of the folks see you if yon can help it," warned Sarah; "and, whatever happens, don't say anything about that telegram to a living soul. Only—see that it's sent."

"I'm wise," answered Bub and a moment later he started the car and rolled away down the road.

Sarah Judd looked after him with a queer smile on her face. Then she went back to her kitchen and resumed her dish-washing. Presently a scarcely audible sound arrested her attention. It seemed to come from the interior of the Lodge.

Sarah avoided making a particle of noise herself as she stole softly through the dining room and entered the main hallway. One glance showed her that the front door was ajar and the door of the den closed—exactly the reverse of what they should be. She crept forward and with a sudden movement threw open the door of the den.

A woman stood in the center of the room. As the door opened she swung around and pointed a revolver at Sarah. Then for a moment they silently faced one another.

"Ah," said the woman, with an accent of relief, "you're the servant. Go back to your work. Mrs. Conant told me to make myself at home here."

"Yes, I know," replied Sarah sarcastically. "She said she was expecting you and told me it wouldn't do any harm to keep an eye on you while you're here. She said Miss Lord was going to get all the family away, so you could