ice but didn't, thank our stars--an' I didn't
run onto her but once or twice. She was movin' about the house, and her
face was like death.

"Just before lunch, I came down to the library, lookin' for a sewin'
basket. Mrs. Markham was at the table, writin' a note. In meanders
Annette Markham an' begins to pull out the books in the library,
listless. She'd open one, flip the pages, put it back and open another.
She kept that up quite some time. I wasn't noticing special until she
took out three or four together, reached into the space they left and
pulled out a sizable gray book that had fallen down behind the
stock--or been put there!

"Mrs. Markham had just looked up, and I saw her git stiff. She spoke
quick--'Annette!'--jest like that--sharp, you know. Annette looked at
her. Mrs. Markham reached over and took the book away. The girl, never
looked down at it again, I can swear to that--she was starin' straight
at her aunt. Mrs. Markham dropped the book on the table, but she put
her elbows on it, and said: 'I'd been hunting everywhere for that--I'm
glad you found it.' Annette never said a word, never tried to get the
book back; she jest went on rummaging.

"Well, one thing was clear. Mrs. Markham didn't want her to git as much
as a sight of that book. Why? It was about the funniest little thing
I'd seen in that house. Better believe I found business in the front
parlor where I could keep my eyes on 'em. After a minute or two,
Annette walked out, listless as ever. Soon as her back was turned, Mrs.
Markham went to the desk an' locked the book in the top drawer.

"It was an hour before the coast was clear for me to git into the
parlor and open that lock with a skeleton key an' a hairpin. An' when I
seen the title of that book--well it got as clear--"

Blake saw, through the veil above his sight, that Rosalie's face had
broken out dimples and sparkles as a yacht breaks out flags. It
irritated him remotely.

"What has that to do with the case?" he asked; and then, weakly, "I
don't want to hear about it."

"If I was to tell you," persisted Rosalie rolling the sweets of
revelation under her tongue, "that jest the name of the book in the
secretary showed your girl was all right and you and I was fools, what
would you say?"

The veil lifted from Blake. It was he himself who had risen from his
chair, was leaning over the table, was asking:

"What do you mean? Tell me--what do you mean?"

Rosalie herself rose, leaned o