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.