Suzanne was silent for a moment moving her glance from him to the window. Mr. Larkin had a good chance to look at her and took it. He noticed the feverish color, the line between the brows, the tightened muscles under the thin cheeks. He made a mental note of the fact that she was agitated.

"Well that night, the night of July the seventh," she said in a low voice, "I was wakeful. I often am, I've always been a nervous, restless sort of person. About half past one I thought I heard a noise – some one on the stairs – and I got up and looked out of my door. I can see the head of the stairs from there, and as it was very bright moonlight any one coming up would be perfectly plain – I couldn't make a mistake – what I saw was Miss Maitland. She was going very carefully, tiptoeing along as if she was trying to make no noise. At the top she turned and went down the passage to her own room which is just beyond my mother's."

She paused and shot a tentative look at him. He met it, teetered his head in quiet comprehension and murmured:

"She didn't see you?"

"Oh no, she was not looking that way. And I didn't say anything or think anything then – thought she'd gone downstairs for something she'd forgotten. The next day it had passed out of my mind; it wasn't until I heard that the jewels were gone that it came back and then I was too shocked to say a word. It all came upon me in a minute – I remembered how I'd seen her and remembered that she knew the combination of the safe."

"Oh," said Mr. Larkin, "she knew that, did she?"

"Yes, she keeps her account books and money in there, things she uses in her work. You see she's been thoroughly trusted – never looked upon as anything but perfectly honest and reliable."

"Then she's filled her position to Mrs. Janney's satisfaction?"

"Entirely. Of course we really don't know very much about her. She was highly recommended when she came, but people in her position if they do their work well – one doesn't bother much about them."

"Have you noticed anything in her conduct or manner of life lately that could – er – have any connection with or throw any light on such an action?"

Suzanne pondered for a moment then said:

"No – she's always been about the same. She's gone into the city more this summer than she did last year, on her holidays, I mean. And – oh yes, this may be important – that night, when we came home from dinner, she asked my mother if she could have the following day – Saturday – in town. Mrs. Janney said she might and she went in before any of the family were up."

"Um," murmured Mr. Larkin and then fell into a silence in which he appeared to be digesting this last item. When he spoke again it was to propound a question that ruffled Suzanne's composure and caused her blue eyes to give out a sudden spark:

"Do you happen to know if she has any admirer – lover or fiancé or anything of that sort?"

"I know nothing whatever about it, but I should say not. Certainly I never heard of such a person. I never saw any man in the least attracted by her and I should imagine she was a girl who had no charm for the other sex."

Mr. Larkin stirred in a slow, large way and said:

"Such a robbery is a pretty big thing for a girl like that to attempt. She must know – any one would – that jewels like Mrs. Janney's are hard to dispose of without detection."

Suzanne shrugged, her tone showing an edge of irritation:

"That may be the case, I suppose it is. But couldn't she have been employed by some one – aren't there gangs who put people on the spot to rob for them?"

"Certainly there are. And that would be the most plausible explanation. Not necessarily a gang, however, an individual might be behind her. At this stage, knowing what I do, that would be my idea. But, of course, I can say nothing until I'm better informed. What I'll do now will be to look up her record and then I think I'll take a run down to Berkeley and see if I can pick up anything there."

Suzanne looked uneasy:

"But you'll be careful, and not let any one guess what you're doing or that you have any business with me?"

He smiled openly at that:

"Mrs. Price, you can trust me. This is not my first case."

After that there was talk of financial arrangements and future plans. Mr. Larkin thought he would come out to Berkeley in a day or two and take a lodging in the village. When he had anything of moment to impart he would drop a note to Mrs. Price and she could designate a rendezvous. They parted amicably, Suzanne feeling that she had found the right man and Mr. Larkin secretly elated, for this was the first case of real magnitude that had come his way.

At the appointed time Suzanne met Mrs. Janney at the tea room and on the way home they exchanged their news. The nursery governess had been found, approved and engaged, and the oculist had said to go on with the lotion and if Bébita's eyes did not improve to bring her in to see him. Both ladies agreed that their labors had exhausted them, but each looked unusually vivacious and mettlesome.

CHAPTER VIII – MOLLY'S STORY

I've been asked to tell the part of this story in which I figure. I've done that kind of work before, so I'm not as shy as I was that first time, and since then I've studied some, and come up against fine people, and I'm older – twenty-seven on my last birthday. But as I said then, so I'll say now – don't expect any stylish writing from me. At the switchboard there's still ginger in me, but with the pen I'm one of the "also rans."

Fortunately for me, I was always a good one to throw a bluff and, having made a few excursions into the halls of the rich and great, I felt I could be safely featured as a nursery governess. She belongs in the layer between the top and bottom and doesn't mix with either. I wouldn't have to play down to the kitchen standards or up to the parlor ones, just move along, sort of lonesome, in the neutral ground between. As for teaching the child, I knew I could do that as well as the girls who are marking time until they marry, or the decayed ladies who employ their declining years and intellects that way.

It didn't seem to me hard to size up the family. Mrs. Janney was the head of it, the middle and both ends – a real queen who didn't need a crown or a throne to make people bow the knee. Mr. Janney was a good, kind old gentleman who was too law-abiding to get rich any way but the way he did. Mrs. Price wasn't up to their measure – an only child, born with a silver lining. She was one of those slimpsy, thin women that a man would be afraid to hug for fear she'd crack in his arms or snap in the middle. She was very cordial and pleasant to me and I will say she was fond of her little girl.

When I came to the servants I couldn't see but what every one of them registered honesty. If it had been printed on their foreheads with a rubber stamp it couldn't have been plainer. There were only two new ones in the outfit – girls, one of them my chambermaid – and no one, not even a sleuth desperate for glory, could have considered them. Outside there were gardeners and chauffeurs – in all there were twenty-one people employed – but it was the same with them. They were a decent, well-paid lot, the garage men and head gardener living on the place, the laborers lodged in the village.

The one person my eye lingered on was Miss Maitland the Secretary. Not that there was anything suspicious about her, but that she wasn't as simple and easy to see into as the others. She was a handsome girl, tall and well made, sticking close to her job and not having much to do with any one. Her study was just under the day nursery where we had lessons and had its own door on to the piazza. When she wasn't at work, she'd either sit there reading or go off walking by herself and there was something solitary and serious about her that interested me. The nursery window was a good look-out, commanding the lawns and garden and with the tennis court to one side. After lessons I'd let the blinds down and coil up there on a cushion, and I saw her several times coming in and going out, always alone, and always looking thoughtful and depressed.

To get any information about her I had to be very careful for Mrs. Janney thought the world of her, but I managed to worm out some facts, though nothing of any importance. She had come to Mrs. Janney from a friend who had had her as secretary for two years. She was entirely dependent on her work for her living, was an orphan, and had no followers. The only thing the least degree out of line was that several times during the spring and the early summer she had asked for more days and afternoons off than formerly. Mrs. Janney didn't seem to think anything of this and I didn't either. The girl – settled down in her place and knowing it secure – was slackening up on her first speed.

There were a lot of people coming and going in the house – oftenest, Mr. Richard Ferguson. I'd heard of him – everybody has – millions, unmarried, and so forth and so on. I hadn't been there thirty-six hours before I saw that Mrs. Price had an eye for him. That's putting it in a considerate, refined way. If I was the cat some women are, I'd say she was camped on his trail, with her lassoo ready in her hand. Of course she'd work it the way ladies do, very genteel, pretend to be lazy if he wanted to play tennis and when he was off for a swim wonder if she had the energy to walk to the beach. But she always got there; every time, rain or shine, she'd be awake at the switch. I didn't know whether he responded – you couldn't tell. He was the kind who was jolly and affable to everybody; even if he was a plutocrat you had to like him.

I had a good deal of time to myself – lessons only lasted two hours – and I roamed round the neighborhood studying it. The second afternoon I went into the woods, where there's a short-cut that goes past Council Oaks to the beach. Off the path, branching to the right, I found two smaller trails both leading to the same place – a pond, surrounded by trees, and with a wharf, a rustic bench, and two bathing houses, where the trails ended. In my room that evening I asked Ellen, my chambermaid, about the pond and she told me it was called Little Fresh and that the bathing houses and wharf had been built by the former owner of Grasslands. But the first year of Mrs. Janney's occupation a boy from the village had been drowned there, since when Mrs. Janney had forbidden any one to go near or bathe in Little Fresh. She had put up trespassing signs and locked the bath houses, and no one ever went there now, because, anyway if you didn't go in and get drowned, folks said you might catch malaria.

A few days after that Bébita asked me to go into the woods with her and look for lady-slippers; the kitchen maid had found two and Bébita had to see if there weren't any left for her. Everybody said it was too late for them, but that didn't faze Bébita who had the kitchen maid's word for it and was set upon going.

The woods were lovely, all green and shimmery with sunlight. We took the trail I've spoken of, I strolling along the path, and Bébita hunting about in the underbrush for the flowers. I was some little distance ahead of her when I saw a figure moving behind the screen of trees toward the right. I could only catch it in broken bits through the leaves, hear the footsteps soft on the moss, and I didn't know whether it was a man or a woman. Then it came into view, out of the trail that led to Little Fresh Pond, and I saw it was a man, who stopped short at the sight of me.

He was good-looking, the dark kind, naturally brown, and sunburned on top of it until he was as swarthy as an Indian, the little mustache on his upper lip as black as if it was painted on with ink. Now I'm not one that thinks men ought to be stunned by my beauty, but also I don't expect to be stared at as if the sight of me was an unpleasant shock. And that's the way that piratical guy acted, standing rooted, glaring angry from under his eyebrows.

I was going to pass on haughty, when Bébita's voice came from behind in a joyful cry of "Popsy." She rushed by me, her arms spread out, and fairly jumped at him. The ugly look went from his face as if you'd wiped it off with a sponge, and the one that took its place made him another man. He caught her up and held her against him, and she locked her feet behind his waist and her hands behind his neck swinging off from him and laughing out:

"Oh, Popsy, I was looking for lady-slippers and I found you."

"Well," he said, gazing at her like he couldn't look enough, "would you rather have found a lady-slipper?"

She hugged up against him, awful sweet and cunning.

"Oh, Popsy, that's a joke. I like you better than all the lady-slippers in the world. Where have you been?"

"Over on the bluff, calling on some people. I'm taking a short cut through the woods."

"Where are you going now?"

"To Cedar Brook. My car's out there on the road at the end of the path."

I knew Bébita had been told not to speak of her father. I'd heard it from Annie and Mrs. Janney had cautioned me, if she asked any questions, to say that he had gone away and was not coming back. Children are queer, take in more than you think, and I believe the little thing felt something of the tragedy of it. Anyway she said nothing more on that subject, but loosing one hand, waved it at me.

"That's my new governess, Miss Rogers. I'm studying lessons with her."

He looked at me, and having no free hand, just nodded. Though his expression wasn't as unfriendly as it had been, it didn't suggest any desire to know me better. He turned back to Bébita.

"Dearie, you'll have to let go for I must jog along. I've a date to play tennis at Cedar Brook and I'm late now."

He kissed her and she loosened her hold sliding through his arms to the ground. Then with a few last words of good-by he swung off down the path. Bébita looked after him till the trees hid him, gave a sigh, and without a word pushed her little hand into mine and walked along beside me. She seemed sobered for a while, then picked up heart, began to look about her, and was soon back at her hunt for the flowers.

I was nearing the second path to Little Fresh, when again I saw a figure coming behind the trees. This time it showed in a moving pattern of lilac and the sight made me brisk up for I'd seen Miss Maitland that morning in a lilac linen dress. I quickened my step until I came to a turning from which I could look up the branch trail, and sure enough, there she was, walking very lightly and spying out ahead. At the sight of me she too stopped and looked annoyed. But women are a good deal quicker than men – in a minute the look was gone and she was all smiles of welcome.

"Oh, Miss Rogers, and Bébita too! How nice to meet you. Are you going to the beach?"

Bébita explained our quest and said she was going to give it up – there wasn't a single lady-slipper left.

Miss Maitland's smile was kind and consoling:

"I could have told you that. They're gone for this year."

"Have you been looking for them?" Bébita asked.

No, Miss Maitland had been to the beach for a bath, and as the closed season for lady-slippers had begun, we turned back, Bébita and the Secretary in front, I meekly following. In answer to the child's questions Miss Maitland said she had taken a long swim, out beyond the raft.

Suddenly Bébita popped out with:

"Did you see my Daddy?"

There was a slight pause before she answered; when she did her voice was full of surprise:

"Mr. Price! Was he on the beach?"

"No, in the woods. We met him. He was taking a short cut."

Miss Maitland said she hadn't seen him, that he must have been some distance in front of her, and changed the subject.

While they were talking I was thinking and absently looking at her back. They'd both come out of the branch trails that led to Little Fresh; they had taken different paths and not come at the same time; they had each got a jar when they saw me. As I thought, my eyes went wandering over her back and finally stopped at the nape of her neck. The hair was drawn up from it and hidden under her hat. I could see the roots and the little curly locks that drooped down against the white skin. And suddenly I noticed something – they were perfectly dry, not a damp spot, not a wet hair. The best bathing cap in the world couldn't keep the water out like that. She had not been bathing at all, she had been with Chapman Price at Little Fresh Pond. And they wanted no one to know; were sufficiently anxious to lie about it.

The next day in a conference with Mrs. Janney, I asked her if Mr. Price had ever shown any interest in Miss Maitland. She was amazed, as shocked as if I'd asked if Mr. Janney had ever been in love with the cook. Chapman Price had taken no more notice of Miss Maitland than common politeness demanded, in fact, she thought that of late he had rather shunned her. She was curious to know why I asked such a question, and when I said I had to ask any and every sort of question or she'd be paying a detective's salary to a nursery governess, she saw the sense of it and quieted down.

That was more than I did. The way things were opening up, I was getting that small, inner thrill, that feeling like your nerves are tingling that comes to me when the darkness begins to break. I didn't see much, just the first, faint glimmer, but it was the right kind.

Two days later a thing happened that changed the glimmer to a wide bright ray. It was this way:

In the afternoon the family, unless they had a party of their own, were always out. The only person who stayed around was Miss Maitland, sometimes working over her books, sometimes sitting about sewing or reading. That day – about four – I'd seen her as I passed the study window writing at her desk. I'd gone on into the big central hall where I wasn't supposed to belong, but feeling safe with everybody scattered, I thought I'd make myself comfortable and take a look at the morning papers. I'd just cuddled down in the corner of the sofa with my favorite daily when I heard the telephone ring.

Now the bell of the telephone is to me like the trumpet to the old war horse. And hearing it that way, tingling in the quiet of the big, deserted house, I got a flash that any one wanting to talk to Miss Maitland and knowing the habits of the family would choose that hour. There was a 'phone in the lower story – in a closet at the end of the hall – and the extension one was upstairs in a sort of curtained recess off the main corridor just outside my door. I rose off the sofa as if lifted by a charge of dynamite and slid for the stairs. As I sprinted up I heard the door of Miss Maitland's study open.

The upper hall was deserted and I dashed noiseless into that alcove place, one hand lifting off the receiver as soft as a feather, the other pressed against my mouth to smother the sound of my breathing. On the floor below Esther Maitland had just connected; I got her first sentence, quiet and clear as if she was in the room with me:

"Yes. This is Grasslands."

A man's voice answered:

"That you, Esther?"

I could tell she recognized it, for instantly hers changed, showed fear and a sort of pleading:

"Oh, why do you call me up here? I told you not to."

"My dear girl, it's all right – I know they're all out at this hour."

"The servants – I'm afraid of them – and there's a new nursery governess come."

"I know. I met her in the woods that day. Did you?"

"Of course I did. How could I help it? I said I'd been bathing. We mustn't go there again – it's much better to write."

The man gave a laugh that was good-humored and easy:

"Don't take it so hard. There's not the slightest need to be worried. I called you up to say everything was O. K."

Her answer came with a deep, sighing breath:

"It may be now – but how can we tell? The first excitement's dying down but that doesn't mean they're not doing anything. Don't think for a moment, because it's worked right so far, that we're out of the woods."

"I'm wise to all that, I know them better than you do. And the fellow that knows has got it all over the fellow that doesn't. Watchful waiting – that's our motto."

"Very well, then let it be watchful. And don't call me up unless it's urgent. I can see you in town when I go in. I won't talk any more. Good-by."

I heard the stillness of a dead wire and then before I let myself think, flew into my room, found a pad and pencil and wrote it down word for word.