WHO TOOK THE MANUSCRIPT?
All this time Emily Grimshaw had not taken her eyes away from Irene.
Now she turned to the others, contrition written in every line of her
face.
“I see it all now,” she murmured. “And I’ve been as big a fool as Sarah
Glenn for all she was supposed to be crazy.”
“Perhaps it was the fault of that tonic you’ve been taking,” Peter
suggested, his eyes twinkling wickedly.
“Piffle!” the old lady snorted. “That’s good stuff, bottled in bond. A
wee bit strong, though,” she added, shaking her head, “a
wee—bit—strong.”
Emily Grimshaw had her poetry and rose, a little unsteadily, preparing
to leave. It was then that she thought of the purpose of her visit.
“Young woman,” she demanded of Irene, “if you’re not Joy Holiday, why
did you take those manuscripts?”
“I didn’t take them,” the accused girl answered, regarding her steadily
with those starry eyes that had inspired the loveliest line of _Golden
Girl_.
Judy made an almost inaudible sound of protest. Irene couldn’t keep on
denying it. No one would believe her now. She touched her arm and
whispered, “Tell her, dear. It’s no good pretending. The rest of us
have forgiven you and I’m sure she will too.”
Irene’s eyes widened. “Forgiven me? For what, may I ask? Why, I didn’t
see that poetry from the moment it was taken until I found it lying on
my grandmother’s table.”
“You expect us to believe that, Irene?” This was Peter’s voice, the
voice he would some day use in the court room.
Dale turned on him. “Of course she does. And I do believe it. Sarah
Glenn may have taken her own poetry——”
“When she was too sick to move out of her house?”
“Or Jasper Crosby may have sneaked into the office,” Dale went on,
disregarding his question. “Irene says she didn’t take the poems and
that ends the matter once and forever. If the rest of you want to go on
distrusting her it’s none of my affair but I knew all along that Irene
was too fine, too wonderful——”
Irene herself stopped him. Her voice was almost a command. “Leave them
alone, Dale. Why shouldn’t they suspect me?”
“Because you didn’t do it.”
Irene was silent. She couldn’t say any more because the last she knew
of the poems they were in Judy’s hands. It was after all lights were
out and they were in bed that she told her.
“You said never to mind the work; you’d straighten things. And then
some one took the poetry out of my hands. Wasn’t it you?”
“It certainly wasn’t,” Judy declared. “I had just opened the door for
Dale Meredith but he wasn’t there yet.”
“Did you turn your back? Could anyone else have come in?”
“Why,” Judy exclaimed, “I believe they could have—if they had been
very quick.”
“Uncle Jasper is quick. But why would he take the poetry?”
Now Judy knew! It was like a heavy load falling from her shoulders. She
remembered what Emily Grimshaw had said about his suing her. He had
schemed to do it and stolen the poetry himself. Besides, he may have
suspected Irene’s identity and been afraid she would find out too much.
Irene’s eyes sought Judy’s and found in them understanding and
sympathy. She had told the truth, and, with Judy to explain, everyone
would believe her. But she couldn’t forget that it was Dale Meredith
who had believed her without an explanation.
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