heaps and
mounds of papers! Am I right? do I exaggerate? Alps, Pyrenees of papers!
You saw them?"

"I didn't see anything higher than Mt. Washington," said Margaret
soberly. "There were a good many, I confess."

"They burst from drawers," pursued Rita, enjoying herself immensely;
"they toppled like snow-drifts; they strewed the floor to a depth of--"

"Oh, Rita, Rita! do rein your Pegasus in, or he will fly away
altogether. There certainly were a great many papers, and they confirmed
our poor little Peggy in her belief that the man she had seen was Hugo
Montfort, making his ghostly search for the papers he lost. Whereas you
think--"

"Think! when I tell you that I _know_!"

"You think," Margaret went on calmly, "that it was John Strong, the
gardener. Well, and what if it was?"

"What if it was? Marguerite, you are impossible; you have the
intelligence of a babe new born. What! we find this man in his master's
room, spying upon his private things, _romaging_--what is that
word?--_romaging_ his papers, most likely making himself possessed of
what he will, and you say, what of this? _Caramba_, I will tell you what
of this it would be in Cuba! String him up to the wall and give him
quick fifty lashes; that would be of it!"

"Long Island is a good way from Cuba!" said Margaret. "I don't think we
will try anything of that sort here, Rita. And when you come to think of
it, my dear, we have been here a few weeks, and John Strong was here
before we were born; Aunt Faith told me so. Don't you think he may
perhaps know what he is about rather better than we do?"

"Know what he is about!" Rita protested, with a shower of nods, that he
knew very well what he was about. The question was, did their uncle
know? And the black velvet coat, what had Margaret to say to that? she
demanded. It was evident that this good man, this worthy servant, was in
the habit of wearing his master's clothes during his absence. Did
gardeners habitually appear in black velvet? Ha! tell her that!

Margaret did not know that they did, but it was perfectly possible that
Mr. Montfort might have given some of his old clothes, a cast-off
smoking-jacket, for example, to his gardener and confidential servant.
There would be nothing remarkable in that, surely. Besides, were they
absolutely certain that the mysterious individual was dressed in black
velvet? Poor, dear Peggy was in such a state of excitement, she might
well have fancied--and so on, and so o