lat of light stabbed the
blackness coming through the irregular shape of the latch hole. She could
hear voices in low tones speaking on the other side of the door. Gradually
her eyes grew accustomed to the light and one by one objects came out of
the shadows and looked at her. A white pitcher with a broken nose, a row
of bottles, a bunch of seed corn with the husks braided together and hung
on a nail, an old coat on another nail.

Down on her knees beside the crack of light went Miranda. First her eye
and then her ear were applied to the small aperture. She could see nothing
but a table directly in front of the door about a foot away on which were
quills, paper, and a large horn inkstand filled with ink. Some one
evidently had been writing, for a page was half done, and the pen was laid
down beside a word.

The limits of the latch hole made it impossible for Miranda to make out
any more. She applied her ear and could hear a man's voice talking in low
insinuating tones, but she could make little of what was said. It drove
her fairly frantic to think that she was losing time. Miranda had no mind
to be balked in her purpose. She meant to find out who was in that room
and what was going on. She felt a righteous interest in it.

Her eyes could see quite plainly now in the dark closet. There was a big
button on the door. She no sooner discovered it than she put up her hand
and tried to turn it. It was tight and made a slight squeak in turning.
She stopped but the noise seemed to have no effect upon the evenly
modulated tones inside. Cautiously she moved the button again, holding the
latch firmly in her other hand lest the door should suddenly fly open. It
was an exciting moment when at last the button was turned entirely away
from the door frame and the lifted latch swung free in Miranda's hand. The
door opened outward. If it were allowed to go it would probably strike
against the table. Miranda only allowed it to open a crack. She could hear
words now, and the voice reminded her of something unpleasant. The least
little bit more she dared open the door, and she could see, as she had
expected, Marcia's bonnet and shoulder cape as she sat at the other side
of the room. This then was the room of the messenger who had sent for Mrs.
Spafford so peremptorily. The next thing was to discover the identity of
the messenger. Miranda had suspicions.

The night before she had seen a man lurking near the Spafford house when
she went ou