"I sometimes do believe and sometimes do not."
"Belle!" called Mrs. Parton from the porch, addressing her daughter, who
swung lazily to and fro in the hammock, her eyes on a book, "I can't find
Jack, and I want you to take this money to Morgan. Your father reminded me
of the bill just before he left, and I haven't thought of it from that day
to this."
"Oh, mother, can't--?"
"Can't who? You know there isn't a soul to send but you, and I must have
this off my mind. Manda is helping me with the sweet pickles, and Tilly
has gone to camp-meeting."
Belle rose reluctantly, tossed back her hair, and went in search of her
hat.
"Be sure now to get a receipt," Mrs. Parton said, as she gave the money
into Belle's hands. "I am not afraid of Morgan, but the colonel is
certain to accuse me of not paying it if I haven't a receipt to show
him."
Belle tucked her book under her arm and walked off.
"Now, Belle," protested her mother, "why can't you leave that book at
home? Don't let me hear of your reading as you go along the street."
"I won't, but I like to carry it," answered Belle, patting it lovingly.
She was deeply interested in the story, and begrudged the time it took to
walk to the magician's. Once there, she decided she would stay awhile to
rest and finish the chapter.
The day was warm, and she strolled along in lazy fashion. The Whittredge
house as she passed looked deserted. The front shutters were closed, and
no one was to be seen. Rosalind had gone away with her uncle for a few
days. Belle amused herself by imagining that Rosalind's having been there
at all was a dream, and she succeeded in producing a bewildering sense of
unreality in her own mind.
Morgan was not in his shop, but that he had been there recently was
evident, for his tools lay scattered about.
After the heat of the street the shop was cool and inviting, and a corner
of an old sofa offered itself as a desirable spot in which to continue the
story. It stood against the wall, and with several other pieces of
furniture before it, was a secluded as well as a comfortable
resting-place. Belle settled herself to her liking and was at once lost in
her book. She finished the chapter and read another, and was beginning a
third when something aroused her. For a moment she couldn't remember where
she was, then with a finger in her book she peeped around the clock case,
which with a high-backed chair screened her corner.
The magician stood in the middle of the room, with his back toward her,
gazing intently at something in his hand. Belle was about to come out of
her hiding-place when he stepped to the window, and holding the object up
between his thumb and finger, let the sunlight fall upon it, laughing
gleefully like a child over a toy.
Belle drew back quickly. Was she dreaming still? She pinched herself. No,
she was awake, and in the magician's shop, and the thing she had seen in
his hand was nothing less than Patricia's ring! She had heard it
described too often not to recognize it. But how came it in Morgan's
possession? She sat still and thought.
Meanwhile, after turning it over and over, and nodding and laughing to
himself in a way that would have seemed rather crazy to one who did not
know him, the magician disappeared into the back room, closing the door
behind him. Belle seized the opportunity to steal from the shop. It would
be easier to think out of doors.
The little brown and white house across the lane was keeping itself
to-day. Miss Betty had gone to the city, and Sophy was at camp-meeting, as
Belle happened to know, so she went over and sat on the porch step beside
a large hydrangea. She must decide what to do. She remembered very
distinctly the circumstances connected with the disappearance of the ring.
Morgan had been one of the last persons to speak to old Mr. Gilpin before
the attack of heart failure that ended his life, but no one had dreamed of
suspecting him. Could he have had it all this time?
Belle felt ashamed of herself for the thought. If there was an honest
person in the world, it was Morgan. She had heard her father talk of
circumstantial evidence, and how easy it was to draw wrong conclusions.
She was puzzled. One thing was certain, she had seen the ring in his hand.
"Now, if he were really a magician, I might think he had broken the spell
on the ring we found in the Gilpin house," she said to herself.
She must go back and pay the bill; for if she did not, her mother would
have to know the reason, and Belle was not sure it would be wise to tell
her about the discovery. Mrs. Parton acknowledged frankly she couldn't
keep a secret, and Belle was wise enough to see it wouldn't do to spread
the news abroad.
"I wish Rosalind was here," she thought.
When at length she made up her mind to go back, the magician was at work
and greeted her just as usual. Belle wondered if she had not dreamed it
after all. While he went into the next room to make change and receipt the
bill, she looked for the ring she and Rosalind had hung on a nail beside
the door. It was gone. Had any one ever known such a perplexing state of
affairs?
The magician must have wondered what made the usually merry Belle so
grave, for he asked if she was well as he gave her the bill.
As she walked slowly homeward, she noticed a large, dignified gentleman
coming toward her. He did not belong to Friendship, she knew, and she
wondered a little who he might be. He looked down on her benevolently
through his spectacles as he passed, and for a moment seemed about to
speak. Belle quickly forgot him, however, for the ring occupied her
thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. Even the story so
fascinating an hour ago, had lost its charm.
"Does your head ache?" her mother asked, seeing her sitting on the
doorstep, her chin in her hand, her book unopened beside her.
"No, mother; I am just thinking," was Belle's reply.
She was trying to decide whom to tell. "I wish father was at home," she
said to herself.
She went to bed with the matter still undecided, and the first thing she
thought of when she opened her eyes the next day was the ring. A
conversation overheard between her mother and Manda, the cook, added to
her uneasiness.
"Miss Mary, did you know there was a 'tective loafin' round town?"
"A detective? No, I did not. If there is, it won't make any difference to
you and me," answered Mrs. Parton.
"Maybe it don't make no difference to white folks, but looks like they's
always 'spicioning niggers," continued Manda, with a shake of her head.
"Tilly 'lows it's that thar ring of old Marse Gilpin's."
"Hardly," said Mrs. Parton, with a laugh. Belle, remembering the stranger,
wondered if it might not be true.
Such talk among the servants of Friendship was nothing new. Since the
first excitement over the disappearance of the ring, it had broken out
periodically; but to Belle this morning it seemed a strange coincidence.
Suppose some one else had seen the ring in Morgan's possession? And now it
occurred to her to tell Miss Celia.
On her way to the Fairs' she met the stranger again, this time in front of
Mrs. Graham's school. He was looking about him with an air of interest,
and as Belle approached he asked if this was not the Bishop residence.
"It was," she answered, "but it is a school now."
The gentleman thanked her and walked on.
"I believe he is a detective," she said to herself.
Celia was in her usual place in the arbor bending over a piece of
embroidery, when Belle found her.
"Miss Celia, I have the strangest thing to tell you," she began, and then
unfolded her story.
Celia listened in astonishment. "Why, Belle, it isn't possible--you don't
think--"
"Miss Celia, I don't know. I saw the ring, and I know Morgan isn't a
thief, but I don't understand it."
"No, indeed. Morgan, whom we have always known--who is honest as the day!"
Celia was silent for a moment, then she said, "Belle, it seems to me the
only thing for you to do is to tell Mr. Whittredge. The ring belongs to
him; he will know what to do far better than we, and he will think of
Morgan, too."
"I would have told him, but he has gone away."
"Gone?"
Belle wondered a little at Miss Celia's tone; it was as if she cared a
great deal.
"I don't think he will be gone long. He took Rosalind with him," she
added.
"Then I should wait till his return. A few days more can't make much
difference. You have been very wise not to mention it to any one."
But when Belle told about the supposed detective, Celia laughed and said
she had a vivid imagination, and that it was only a coincidence that the
old rumors should be revived just now.
As Belle went down the hill, feeling somewhat crestfallen and rather tired
of the whole matter of the ring, she met Maurice and Jack. Jack had spent
the night with Maurice, and now they were on their way to the landing to
take some pictures with Maurice's new camera. They made no objection to
her proposal to join them, so she turned back, feeling strongly tempted to
tell her story to them; but she had agreed with Miss Celia that it was
best not to talk about it until Mr. Whittredge's return, and Belle prided
herself on her ability to keep a secret.
The interest of deciding what view would make the best picture made her
forget the ring for a while; but as they sat on the edge of the dock
waiting to catch a sailboat about to start out, she suddenly said, "Boys,
I believe I saw a detective this morning," and she described the stranger.
"Why do you think he is a detective?" asked Maurice.
"Well, you know they always wear spectacles and try to look like
ministers," she answered confidently.
"Pshaw! they have all sorts of disguises," said Jack.
"I don't care, I'm sure he is one, and I think he is looking for the
ring." Belle pursed up her lips as much as to say she might tell more.
"You are trying to make us believe you know something," remarked Jack,
with brotherly scorn.
"I do. Something I can't tell for--well, for several days."
"Who knows it beside you?" asked Maurice.
"Just Miss Celia."
If Miss Celia knew, it seemed worthy of more respect. "How did you find it
out?" asked Jack.
"I can't tell you. It is a mystery; but, boys, I want to keep an eye on
that man and see what he does," Belle said impressively.
"How about taking his picture?" suggested Maurice.
"Just the thing!" Belle clapped her hands. "Let's go look for him now."
Anything that promised some fun was hailed with delight. It had been a
little dull in Rosalind's absence. When she was with them nobody was
conscious of her leadership, but now she was away they were at a loss.
They waylaid old Mr. Biddle, driving in from the country with a load of
apples, and demanded a ride which he good-naturedly allowed them, and they
drove down the hill in state. When they came within sight of the
post-office, Belle clutched Maurice's arm. "There he is," she whispered.
"Let's get out and wait for him. You have your camera ready."
The obliging Mr. Biddle stopped his horse and let his passenger out. As
for the stranger, if he had known what was wanted of him, he couldn't have
been more accommodating. He came slowly down the steps of the post-office,
and stood within a few yards of the doorway, where three giggling young
persons had taken shelter. Maurice had time for half a dozen pictures if
he wanted them.
"He isn't a detective," whispered Jack, "I'll bet a dime he is a
minister."
"I said he looked like a minister," Belle retorted.
"I am going to Burke's to get him to show me about developing," said
Maurice, as the stranger moved away, "Wouldn't it be fun if we could have
his picture to show Rosalind when she comes to-morrow?"
"Is she coming to-morrow? Oh, I am glad!" said Belle.
"Let's follow and see where he goes," Jack proposed, as Maurice left them;
and Belle nothing loath, they dogged the steps of the supposed detective.
She was both alarmed and triumphant when he was seen to turn into Church
Lane, but all other emotions were swallowed up in surprise when, instead
of crossing to the magician's shop, he entered Miss Betty Bishop's front
gate.