Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE STOLEN BOOK

  Miss Lord came up to the Lodge that Saturday forenoon and proved so agreeable to Aunt Hannah and the girls that she was invited to stay to lunch. Mr. Conant was not present, for he had put a couple of sandwiches in his pocket and would not return home until dinner-time.

  After luncheon they were all seated together on the benches at the edge of the bluff, which had become their favorite resort because the view was so wonderful. Mary Louise was doing a bit of fancy work, Irene was reading and Aunt Hannah, as she mended stockings, conversed in a desultory way with her guest.

  “If you don’t mind,” said Agatha, after a time, “I’ll run in and get me a book. This seems the place and the hour for dreaming, rather than gossip, and as we are all in a dreamy mood a good old-fashioned romance seems to me quite fitting for the occasion.”

  Taking permission for granted, she rose and sauntered toward the house. There was a serious and questioning look in Irene’s eyes as they followed the graceful form of Miss Lord, but Mary Louise and Aunt Hannah paid no heed to their visitor’s going in to select a book, it seemed so natural a thing for her to do.

  It was fully fifteen minutes before Agatha returned, book in hand. Irene glanced at the title and gave a sigh of relief. Without comment their guest resumed her seat and soon appeared to be immersed in her volume. Gradually the sun crossed the mountain and cast a black shadow over the plain below, a shadow which lengthened and advanced inch by inch until it shrouded the landscape spread beneath them.

  “That is my sun-dial,” remarked Mary Louise, dropping her needlework to watch the shifting scene. “When the shadow passes the Huddle, it’s four o’clock; by the time it reaches that group of oaks, it is four-thirty; at five o’clock it touches the creek, and then I know it’s time to help Aunt Hannah with the dinner.”

  Agatha laughed.

  “Is it really so late?” she asked. “I see the shadow has nearly reached the brook.”

  “Oh! I didn’t mean — ”

  “Of course not; but it’s time I ran home, just the same. My maid Susan is a perfect tyrant and scolds me dreadfully if I’m late. May I take this book home, Irene? I’ll return the others I have borrowed to-morrow.”

  “To be sure,” answered Irene. “I’m rich in books, you know.”

  When Miss Lord went away the party broke up, for Aunt Hannah was already thinking of dinner and Mary Louise wanted to make one of Uncle Peter’s favorite desserts. So Irene wheeled her chair into the house and entering the den began a sharp inspection of the place, having in mind exactly the way it had looked when last she left it. But presently she breathed a sigh of relief and went into her own room, for the den had not been disturbed. She wheeled herself to a small table in a corner of her chamber and one glance confirmed her suspicions.

  For half an hour she sat quietly thinking, considering many things that might prove very important in the near future. The chair-girl knew little of life save what she had gleaned from books, but in some ways that was quite equal to personal experiences. At dinner she asked:

  “Did you take a book from my room to-day, Mary Louise?”

  “No,” was the reply; “I have not been in your room since yesterday.”

  “Nor you, Aunt Hannah?”

  “No, my dear. What book is missing?”

  “It was entitled ‘The Siberian Exile.’“

  “Good gracious!” exclaimed Mary Louise. “Wasn’t that the book you found the letter in?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you say it is missing?”

  “It has mysteriously disappeared.”

  “Nonsense,” said Uncle Peter, who had returned with a fine string of trout. “No one would care to steal an old book, and the thing hasn’t legs, you know.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Irene gravely, “it is gone.”

  “And the letter with it!” added Mary Louise regretfully. “You ought to have let me read it while I could, Irene.”

  “What letter are you talking about?” asked the lawyer.

  “It is nothing important, Uncle Peter,” Irene assured him. “The loss of the book does not worry me at all.”

  Nor did it, for she knew the letter was not in it. And, to avoid further questioning on the part of Mr. Conant, she managed to turn the conversation to less dangerous subjects.

  CHAPTER XVII

  THE HIRED GIRL

  Mr. Conant had just put on a comfortable smoking-jacket and slippers and seated himself in the den, pipe in mouth, when the old-fashioned knocker on the front door of the Lodge began to bang. It banged three times, so Mr. Conant rose and made for the door.

  Mrs. Conant and Mary Louise were in the kitchen and Irene was in her own room. The lawyer reflected, with a deprecating glance at his unconventional costume, that their evening caller could be none other than their neighbor, the beautiful Miss Lord, so as he opened the door he regretted that his appearance was not more presentable.

  But it was not Miss Lord who stood upon the porch awaiting admittance.

  It was a strange girl, who asked in a meek voice:

  “Is this Hillcrest Lodge?”

  “It is,” replied the lawyer.

  The girl came in without an invitation, bringing a carpet-bag in one hand and a bundle tied in a newspaper tucked under the other arm. As she stood in the lighted room she looked around inquiringly and said:

  “I am Sarah Judd. Where is Mrs. Morrison, please?”

  Mr. Conant stood and stared at her, his hands clasped behind his back in characteristic attitude. He could not remember ever having heard of Sarah Judd.

  “Mrs. Morrison,” he said in his choppy voice, “is in Europe.”

  The girl stared at him in return, as if stupified. Then she sat down in the nearest chair and continued to stare. Finding her determined on silence, Mr. Conant spoke again.

  “The Morrisons are spending the summer abroad. I and my family are occupying the Lodge in their absence. I — eh — eh — I am Mr. Conant, of Dorfield.”

  The girl sighed drearily. She was quite small, about seventeen years of age and dressed in a faded gingham over which she wore a black cloth coat that was rusty and frayed. A black straw hat, fearfully decorated with red velvet and mussed artificial flowers, was tipped over her forehead. Her features were not bad, but her nose was blotched, her face strongly freckled and her red hair very untidy. Only the mild blue eyes redeemed the unattractive face — eyes very like those of Mary Louise in expression, mused Mr. Conant, as he critically eyed the girl.

  “I have come here to work,” she said after a long pause, during which she seemed trying to collect her thoughts. “I am Sarah Judd. Mrs. Morrison said I must come here on Saturday, the tenth day of July, to go to work. This is the tenth day of July.”

  “H-m — h-m; I see. When did Mrs. Morrison tell you that?”

  “It was last September.”

  “Oh; so she hired you a year in advance and didn’t tell you, afterward, that she was going abroad?”

  “I didn’t see her since, sir.”

  Mr. Conant was perplexed. He went into the kitchen and told Aunt Hannah about it and the good woman came at once to interview Sarah Judd, followed by Mary Louise, who had just finished wiping the dishes.

  “This seems very unfortunate for you,” began Mrs. Conant, regarding the strange girl with mild interest. “I suppose, when Mrs. Morrison engaged you, she expected to pass the summer at the Lodge, and afterward she forgot to notify you.”

  Sarah Judd considered this soberly; then nodded her head.

  “I’ve walked all the way from Millbank,” she said with another sigh.

  “Then you’ve had nothing to eat!” exclaimed Mary Louise, with ready sympathy. “May I get her something, Aunt Hannah?”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  Both Mr. and Mrs. Conant felt rather embarrassed.

  “I regret,” said the latter, “that we do not need a maid at present. We do our own housework, you see.”
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  “I have left a good place in Albany to come here,” said Sarah, plaintively.

  “You should have written to Mrs. Morrison,” declared the lawyer, “asking if she still required your services. Many unforeseen things may happen during a period of ten months.”

  “Mrs. Morrison, she have paid me a month in advance,” asserted the girl, in justification. “And she paid me my expenses to come here, too. She said I must not fail her; I should come to the Lodge on the tenth of July and do the work at the Lodge. She did not say she would be here. She did not say you would be here. She told me to come and work, and she paid me a month in advance, so I could give the money to my sister, who needed it then. And I must do as Mrs. Morrison says. I am paid to work at the Lodge and so I must work at the Lodge. I cannot help that, can I?”

  The lawyer was a man of experience, but this queer complication astonished him. He exchanged a questioning glance with his wife.

  “In any event,” said Mrs. Conant, “the girl must stay here to-night, for it would be cruel to ask her to find her way down the mountain in the dark. We will put her in the maid’s room, Peter, and to-morrow we can decide what to do with her.”

  “Very well,” agreed Mr. Conant and retreated to the den to have his smoke.

  Mary Louise arranged some food on the kitchen table for Sarah Judd and after the girl had eaten, Mrs. Conant took her to the maid’s room, which was a very pleasant and well furnished apartment quite in keeping with all the comfortable appointments at Hillcrest Lodge, although it was built behind the kitchen and formed a little wing of its own.

  Sarah Judd accepted these favors with meek resignation. Since her one long speech of explanation she had maintained silence. Leaving her in her room, the family congregated in the den, where Mr. Conant was telling Irene about the queer arrival and the unfortunate misunderstanding that had occasioned it.

  “The girl is not to blame,” said Mary Louise. “She seems an honest little thing, resolved to do her duty. It is all Mrs. Morrison’s fault.”

  “Doesn’t look like a very competent servant, either,” observed Mr.

  Conant, comfortably puffing his pipe.

  “You can’t tell that from appearances, Peter,” replied Mrs. Conant. “She can at least wash dishes and sweep and do the drudgery. Why not keep her?”

  “Oh, my dear!”

  “Mrs. Morrison has paid her a month’s wages, and Molly Morrison wouldn’t have done that had not the girl been competent. It won’t cost us anything to keep her — except her food — and it seems a shame to cast her adrift just because the Morrisons forgot to notify her they had changed their plans.”

  “Also,” added Mary Louise, “Sarah Judd will be useful to us. This is Aunt Hannah’s vacation, as well as a vacation for the rest of us, and a rest from cooking and housework would do her a heap of good.”

  “Looking at it from that viewpoint,” said Peter, after puffing his pipe reflectively, “I approve of our keeping Sarah Judd. I believe it will please the Morrisons better than for us to send her away, and — it surely won’t hurt Hannah to be a lady of leisure for a month or so.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  MARY LOUISE GROWS SUSPICIOUS

  And so Sarah Judd’s fate was decided. She prepared their Sunday morning breakfast and cooked it quite skillfully. Her appearance was now more tidy and she displayed greater energy than on the previous evening, when doubtless she was weary from her long walk. Mrs. Conant was well pleased with the girl and found the relief from clearing the table and “doing” the dishes very grateful. Their Sunday dinner, which Sarah prepared unaided and served promptly at one o’clock, their usual hour, was a pleasant surprise to them all.

  “The girl is a treasure,” commented Mrs. Conant, contentedly.

  Sarah Judd was not talkative. When told she might stay she merely nodded her red head, displaying neither surprise nor satisfaction. Her eyes had a habit of roving continually from face to face and from object to object, yet they seemed to observe nothing clearly, so stolid was, their expression. Mary Louise tried to remember where she had noted a similar expression before, but could not locate it.

  Miss Lord came over that afternoon and when told about the new maid and the manner of her appearance seemed a little startled and uneasy.

  “I must see what she looks like,” said she, “for she may prove a congenial companion for my own maid, who is already sulking because the place is so lonely.”

  And presently Sarah Judd came out upon the lawn to ask Mrs. Conant’s further instructions and this gave Agatha the desired opportunity to examine her closely. The inspection must have been satisfactory, for an expression of distinct relief crossed the lovely face.

  That Sunday evening they all went down to the Bigbee place in Miss Lord’s motor car, where the lady entertained her guests at a charming luncheon. The Bigbee place was more extensive than Hillcrest Lodge, as it consisted of a big, rambling residence and numerous outbuildings; but it was not nearly so cosy or homelike, nor so pleasantly situated.

  Miss Lord’s maid, Susan, was somewhat a mystery to the Hillcrest people. She dressed almost as elaborately as her mistress and performed her duties grudgingly and with a scowl that seemed to resent Miss Lord’s entertaining company. Stranger still, when they went home that night it was the maid who brought out the big touring car and drove them all back to Hillcrest Lodge in it, handling the machine as expertly as Agatha could do. Miss Lord pleaded a headache as an excuse for not driving them herself.

  Sarah Judd opened the door for them. As she stood under the full light of the hall lamp Mary Louise noticed that the maid Susan leaned from her seat in the car and fixed a shrewd glance on Sarah’s unconscious face. Then she gave a little shake of her head and drove away.

  “There’s something queer about the folks at Bigbee’s,” Mary Louise confided to Irene, as she went to her friend’s room to assist her in preparing for bed. “Agatha Lord kept looking at that velvet ribbon around your neck, to-night, as if she couldn’t keep her eyes off it, and this afternoon she seemed scared by the news of Sarah Judd’s arrival and wasn’t happy until she had seen her. Then, again, that queer maid of Agatha’s, Susan, drove us home so she could see Sarah Judd for herself. How do you account for all that, Irene?”

  “I don’t account for it, my dear. You’ve been mixed up with so many mysteries that you attach suspicion to the most commonplace events. What should there be about Sarah Judd to frighten anyone?”

  “She’s a stranger here, that’s all, and our neighbors seem suspicious of strangers. I’m not questioning poor, innocent Sarah, understand; but if Agatha and her maid are uneasy about strangers coming here it seems likely there’s a reason for it.”

  “You’re getting morbid, Mary Louise. I think I must forbid you to read any more of my romances,” said Irene lightly, but at heart she questioned the folks at Bigbee’s as seriously as her friend did.

  “Don’t you think Agatha Lord stole that missing book?” asked Mary

  Louise, after a little reflection.

  “Why should she?” Irene was disturbed by the question but was resolved not to show it.

  “To get the letter that was in it — the letter you would not let me read.”

  “What are your affairs to Agatha Lord?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Mary Louise, musingly. “Irene, I’ve an idea she came to Bigbee’s just to be near us. There’s something stealthy and underhanded about our neighbors, I’m positive. Miss Lord is a very delightful woman, on the surface, but — ”

  Irene laughed softly, as if amused.

  “There can be no reason in the world, Mary Louise,” she averred, “why your private affairs are of any interest to outsiders, except — ”

  “Well, Irene?”

  “Except that you are connected, in a way, with your grandfather.”

  “Exactly! That is my idea, Irene. Ever since that affair with O’Gorman,

  I’ve had a feeling that I was being spied upon.”

 
; “But that would be useless. You never hear from Colonel Weatherby, except in the most roundabout ways.”

  “They don’t know that; they think I MIGHT hear, and there’s no other way to find where he is. Do you think,” she added, “that the Secret Service employs female detectives?”

  “Perhaps so. There must be occasions when a woman can discover more than a man.”

  “Then I believe Miss Lord is working for the Secret Service — the enemies of Gran’pa Jim.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “What is on that black ribbon around your neck?”

  “A miniature of my mother.”

  “Oh. To-night it got above your dress — the ribbon, I mean — and Agatha kept looking at it.”

  “A good detective wouldn’t be caught doing such a clumsy thing, Mary Louise. And, even if detectives were placed here to watch your actions, they wouldn’t be interested in spying upon ME, would they?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I’ve never even seen your grandfather and so I must be exempt from suspicion. I advise you, my dear, to forget these apprehensions, which must be purely imaginary. If a thousand spies surrounded you, they could do you no harm, nor even trap you into betraying your grandfather, whose present location is a complete mystery to you.”

  Mary Louise could not help admitting this was true, so she kissed her friend good night and went to her own room.

  Left alone, Irene put her hand to the ribbon around her neck and drew from her bosom an old-fashioned oval gold locket, as big as any ordinary watch but thinner. She opened the front of the ease and kissed her mother’s picture, as was her nightly custom. Then she opened the back and drew out a tightly folded wad of paper. This she carefully spread out before her, when it proved to be the old letter she had found in the book.

  Once again she read the letter carefully, poring over the words in deep thought.

  “This letter,” she murmured, “might indeed be of use to the Government, but it is of far more value to Mary Louise and — to her grandfather. I ought not to lose it; nor ought I to allow anyone to read it, at present. Perhaps, if Agatha Lord has noticed the ribbon I wear, it will be best to find a new hiding place for the letter.”