k and closed them
without saying a word. For her eyes had met those of Moya and read there
a warning.

Jack Kilmeny nodded a brisk farewell to Farquhar, smiled at Miss Dwight,
and moved with his guards to the clump of trees where the horses had
been left. His eyes had looked for Joyce, but she was not at that moment
in sight.

The last faint beat of the retreating hoofs died away. An awkward
constraint settled upon the party left at the Lodge. It was impossible
to discuss the situation openly, yet it was embarrassing to ignore the
subject in the thoughts of all. After a decent interval they began to
drop away, one by one, from the group. India followed Moya, and found
that young woman in her room.

"What are you hiding?" Miss Kilmeny asked quickly.

Moya produced from her hatbox a gray sombrero and put it on the table.
"I didn't know it was you--thought it might be Lady Jim," she explained.

"Why wasn't I to tell Jack Kilmeny that he had taken Ned's hat by
mistake?" India wanted to know.

"Because it wasn't by mistake."

"Not by mistake! What would he want with another man's hat?"

"I'm not sure about that. Perhaps he _didn't want his own_. You see, I
had started myself to tell him about the mistake, but his eyes asked me
plain as words not to speak."

"But why--why?" India frowned at the hat, her active brain busy. "It
would be absurd for him to want Ned's hat. He must have had some reason,
though."

"Don't they search prisoners before they lock them up?" Moya asked
abruptly.

India shook her head. "I don't know. Do they?"

"Of course they do." Moya's eyes began to shine. "Now suppose there is
something about that hat he didn't want them to see."

"How do you mean?" India picked up the hat and turned it round slowly.
"It's worn and a bit disreputable, but he wouldn't care for that."

Moya found a pair of scissors in her work basket. With these she ripped
off the outer ribbon. This told her nothing. Next she examined the
inside. Under the sweat pad was a folded slip of paper. She waved it in
excitement.

"What did I tell you?"

"But--if he is innocent--what could there be he wanted to hide?"

"I don't know." Moya unfolded the paper enough to see that there was
writing in it. "Do you think we ought to read this?"

"I don't know," India repeated in her turn. "Perhaps it may be a message
to you."

Moya's face lighted. "Of course that's it. He wanted to tell us
something when the rest were not ther