Rebecca Mary's nose was out of joint. The great experiment proved so
absorbing that at noon Ben carried sandwiches and milk to the shop, and
Frederick Befort was the only man who joined Rebecca Mary and Joan at
the big table in the dining room. Frederick Befort seemed in a strange
mood. At one moment he would be wildly excited and tell some extravagant
story which made the two girls laugh heartily, and the next minute he
would frown at his plate or jump up and go to the window which
overlooked the path which led to the shop.
"Those may be Luxembourg manners," Rebecca Mary thought disapprovingly.
"But why isn't he at the shop with the others?"
"If Granny Simmons were here she'd say you had the fidgets," remarked
Joan precociously. "She always tells me that I have the fidgets when I
can't sit still."
"It is a day to make a man have the fidgets," and her father stopped on
his way back from the window to pat her cheek. "You will never know,
_mignonne_, what this day means to your father."
"You could tell me?" hinted Joan.
But he only laughed and patted her cheek again before he went back to
his place. Rebecca Mary looked at him curiously. What a strange man he
was, not a bit like an American, like young Peter or--or Richard. She
wasn't sure she understood him, he was so strange. But she really didn't
bother very much about Frederick Befort then for she, too, was in a
strange mood. She wanted to be by herself and think. She scarcely knew
of what she wanted to think but she was conscious of a little glow of
content. Perhaps if she went down by the river bank she could discover
why she felt so contented and happy when she had been so restless and
unreasonable. She was glad to hear Frederick Befort promise to play ball
with Joan although she wondered again why he did not go to the shop, but
that was his business, not hers.
She ran upstairs to find Granny asleep and with a sigh of relief she
crossed the terrace on her way to the river bank. But Joan called to her
from the tennis court and ran toward her. Rebecca Mary might have
ignored the childish hail once, but she couldn't do it now, and she
walked slowly toward the court.
"Look what my father made for me!" Joan demanded breathlessly. She
always spoke of her father with an emphasis as if her father was made of
"sugar and spice and everything nice" while other fathers were
compounded of dust and water without a grain of seasoning. She held up
what was meant to be a ball, but it was made from an old glove stuffed
with--papers. Rebecca Mary could feel them crackle. The glove fingers
were wound around the palm to hold the papers firm. It really wasn't
much of a ball to any one but Joan, who capered proudly and almost
snatched it from Rebecca Mary as if she could not quite trust even her
with it. "My father made it for me," she repeated joyously.
Her father laughed. "Miss Wyman does not think that was any great feat,
_ma petite_," he teased. "She does not think it is a very good ball."
Miss Wyman was a true descendant of George Washington, and she horrified
Joan by confessing that Frederick Befort was right, and she had seen
better balls than the one he had made out of an old glove and some
scraps of paper.
"What do you really think yourself?" She caught a tennis ball from the
court, where it lay neglected, and showed him what a ball could be.
"But that's a ball from a store!" Joan saw the difference in a flash.
"And my father never made a ball before. He said so. This is the first
one he ever made, and he made it for me."
"No one else would accept it." He pinched her cheek. "Now, Joan, you
must play by yourself. I must go to the shop, but I tell you again you
cannot throw this ball I made over the hedge. It is not like a store
ball."
"If you wait I'll show you!" Joan was only too eager to show what she
could do, but he turned impatiently away.
"This may be the greatest day of my life, Miss Wyman." He stopped in
front of her. "Will you be so very kind as to wish me luck?" He took the
hand which hung at her side and pressed it.
She looked at him in surprise, and she was more surprised when she saw
the flush on his usually pale face. She wondered why this should be such
a great day, but as he did not tell her she did not ask but prettily
offered her best wishes. He pressed her hand again and went toward the
shop with long eager steps. Rebecca Mary looked after him curiously. She
shook her head. No, she didn't understand him at all, not even a little
bit. And because a closed box is always more fascinating than an open
one she would have continued to think of Frederick Befort if Joan would
have let her. But Joan was pulling her sleeve.
"I'll show you, then, Miss Wyman. Shall I? Shall I show you that I can
throw my ball over the hedge?" She was on tiptoe to show Miss Wyman.
Rebecca Mary looked at the only hedge near them, the arbor vitæ which
kept Riverside from spilling into the road, and shook her head. "You'll
lose it if you do. You can't go after it, you know." She reminded Joan
that she was a prisoner.
"The guard will bring it to me if I ask him." Joan was not a bit afraid
that she would lose her ball even if Rebecca Mary did shake her head and
doubt whether the guard would leave his post by the gate to hunt among
the bushes which edged the road for a ball. She raised her arm to send
the ball flying over the hedge, but Rebecca Mary caught her hand.
"I fear your father is not a very good ball maker, Joan. See, the
fingers have come unfastened. The stuffing is falling out." She took the
glove from Joan and tried to push the papers back into it.
"The stuffing is my father's papers. He took them from his pocket,"
Joan told her proudly. "Can you put them back?"
"I'd better sew them in or they will be all over the place. Why----" she
broke off to stare at one of the scraps of papers which had fallen into
her hand. There were figures on it and a tiny drawing and a few German
words. How strange! She pulled a larger piece from the glove and after
she had smoothed it she found more German words.
Like an express train dashing through a country station many things
dashed through Rebecca Mary's brain as she stood and looked at the bits
of paper. She remembered what Major Martingale had said about the great
experiment, how important it was and how Germany was trying to get
control of it to regain her old position in the commercial world. She
remembered that Frederick Befort had been named for one kaiser and had
been a friend of another kaiser, who had decorated him. She remembered
many things Joan had said about Germany and that the kaiser had called
her "_ein gutes Kind, Johanna_," and Joan's whisper that her father did
not wish her to speak of Germany now, he wanted her to forget Germany.
She remembered also that Frederick Befort had said he was from
Luxembourg where the Germans had had great influence and power, that he
had gone to school in Germany. And Mrs. Erickson had heard him talking
German to one of the mechanics behind the woodshed!
Rebecca Mary had heard many a spy story during the war, and she shivered
as she looked at the bits of paper in her hand. Oh, it couldn't be
possible that Frederick Befort had come to the Simmons factory, that he
had come to Riverside to obtain possession of the secret of this great
experiment which was to do so much for the world. He couldn't be one of
the German secret agents which the newspapers had had so much to say
about during the war. It wasn't possible, and yet when she had added one
to one and then to two and three she could obtain but one answer.
The work at Riverside was practically finished. Richard had told her so
that morning. Frederick Befort would have all the information he wanted
by now, and, of course, he would wish to get it to Germany as soon as
possible. That was why he had torn his papers and stuffed them into an
old glove which Joan was to throw over the hedge. If the guard saw it he
would think it was only a child's plaything. A confederate was hiding in
the bushes and would catch the ball when it was tossed out. The whole
plan had been skillfully thought out and was now as plain as print to
Rebecca Mary's horrified mind.
Joan pulled her sleeve impatiently. "Can't you fix it? Let me take it
and throw it over the hedge as my father told me." She tried to take the
ball from Rebecca Mary.
"No, no! Leave it alone, Joan, or you'll have the papers all over the
grass." She had to think like chain lightning. "I'll run in and sew it
up. Don't tell your father," she cautioned chokingly. "He wouldn't like
it if he knew that his ball came to pieces so soon."
With the ball in her hand, and Joan trotting along beside her, she went
back to the house wondering what on earth she should do and how she
could get rid of Joan for a few minutes. Joan found the way herself when
she saw the farmhouse kitten asleep on the steps.
"It has run away. I'd better take it right back or Mrs. Erickson will be
cross with me again. She said I was always taking her things and
forgetting to bring them back."
"Yes, run over with the kitten." Rebecca Mary knew if Joan once ran over
she would stay for some time, long enough perhaps to forget about the
ball, for there were wonderful things to interest a child at the
farmhouse.
Rebecca Mary shut the door of her room and turned the key before she
pulled the rest of the papers from the old glove. Oh, there was no doubt
about it! The papers were covered with drawings and German words.
Rebecca Mary groaned. What should she do? She put her hands over her
eyes to shut out the sight of those German words, but she could not shut
the thought of them from her brain. She felt nauseated. To think that a
man would use his little daughter as Frederick Befort had planned to use
Joan. It was despicable. She never wanted to see Frederick Befort again,
and she had liked him so much. Why, only this noon---- She began to
understand now his extravagant gayety at luncheon, he had thought his
work was done, and he had stayed with them to find a way for Joan to
give the information he had collected to his confederates. No one would
suspect Joan. And she had wished him luck! She groaned again. It was all
so very plain to her that she turned and hid her face against the back
of the chair.
After a long, long time, five minutes perhaps, she rose suddenly and
with her lips pressed tight together went to the desk and found an
envelop in which she put the scraps of paper. She looked about for a
place to hide the package for it was too bulky to carry in her pocket.
Where would be a good place? She opened the closet door. Across one end
were several drawers and above them were two shelves. On the top shelf
was a bandbox. Rebecca Mary climbed up to the bandbox and looked into
it. She took out a hat and turning it over, tucked her package inside
the lining. Then she replaced the hat and put the box on the shelf. She
stood in the doorway and gazed anxiously at the box. It looked as
innocent as a box could look. No one ever would imagine that it held a
secret. Rebecca Mary sighed as she shut the closet door.
Then she took several sheets of Sallie Cabot's best note paper and drew
meaningless lines on them and wrote what might be taken at a careless
glance for German words, and tore the paper into scraps with which she
stuffed the old glove. She would let Joan toss it over the hedge so Joan
could tell her father. If Frederick Befort thought his plans had reached
his confederate he would do nothing more. He couldn't get away himself,
and Rebecca Mary would have a little time in which to think what she
should do. She must tell someone, not Major Martingale, he would be
merciless, but Peter, or, no--Richard! Richard would be the man for her
to tell. But, oh, how she did hate to tell any one. Suppose she should
speak to Frederick Befort himself, persuade him to promise to forget
everything that had happened at Riverside, to remain true to the oath he
had given Major Martingale? If she could do that--if she only could.
She had liked Frederick Befort. He was so different from any man she had
ever met. He had fascinated her with his talk of courts and grand
duchesses and emperors, she thought now a little bitterly. There was an
air of mystery about him which would pique a girl's interest, but if the
mystery meant that he was a German secret agent she wouldn't be
interested another minute. She would only be horrified and disgusted.
Oh, what should she do? Never had a teacher in the third grade of the
Lincoln school been given such a problem to solve. If only she could
wake up and find that it was a dream she would be so happy to forget it
all. She shouldn't want to remember this when she was sixty, she told
herself drearily.
But it wasn't a dream. The old glove on the desk told her it wasn't,
and she took it in her hand. "Well, Count Ernach de Befort," she said
under her breath, "I have spoiled your scheme for the present. If Joan
throws this to your confederate he will be puzzled what to make of it."
Even as she spoke Joan pounded on the door.
"Are you there, Miss Wyman? Have you mended the ball my father made me?
Can't you be quicker? I want to throw it over the hedge before my father
comes to dinner."
And she did throw it over the hedge as she stood on the tennis court. It
was a good throw for a little girl, and Joan was jubilant as she ran
across the court and climbed up on the stone wall, behind the arbor vitæ
to see where the ball had fallen. Rebecca Mary ran too, although her
legs did feel too weak to carry her, and her heart was beating so fast.
She caught the toes of her white oxfords in a cranny of the wall and
lifted herself so that she might look. But although they both looked and
looked there was no ball to be seen on that stretch of the road. Down by
the gate the guard was leaning against the fence, but the guard was not
a ball, and they were looking for a ball.
"It's gone!" Joan was surprised. "Some one must have taken it. Who do
you think it was, Miss Wyman, a fairy or an ogre?"
"An ogre!" Rebecca Mary said fiercely. She felt so fierce that she was
faint. "A horrid black ogre. Oh, Joan! Why did you throw it?" she
wailed.