“Yes.”

“And you say it is missing?”

“It has mysteriously disappeared.”

“Nonsense,” said Uncle Peter, who had returned with a fine string of trout.  “No one would care to steal an old book, and the thing hasn’t legs, you know.”

“Nevertheless,” said Irene gravely, “it is gone.”

“And the letter with it!” added Mary Louise regretfully.  “You ought to have let me read it while I could, Irene.”

“What letter are you talking about?” asked the lawyer.

“It is nothing important, Uncle Peter,” Irene assured him.  “The loss of the book does not worry me at all.”

Nor did it, for she knew the letter was not in it.  And, to avoid further questioning on the part of Mr. Conant, she managed to turn the conversation to less dangerous subjects.

CHAPTER XVII

THE HIRED GIRL

Mr. Conant had just put on a comfortable smoking-jacket and slippers and seated himself in the den, pipe in mouth, when the old-fashioned knocker on the front door of the Lodge began to bang.  It banged three times, so Mr. Conant rose and made for the door.

Mrs. Conant and Mary Louise were in the kitchen and Irene was in her own room.  The lawyer reflected, with a deprecating glance at his unconventional costume, that their evening caller could be none other than their neighbor, the beautiful Miss Lord, so as he opened the door he regretted that his appearance was not more presentable.

But it was not Miss Lord who stood upon the porch awaiting admittance.  It was a strange girl, who asked in a meek voice: 

“Is this Hillcrest Lodge?”

“It is,” replied the lawyer.

The girl came in without an invitation, bringing a carpet-bag in one hand and a bundle tied in a newspaper tucked under the other arm.  As she stood in the lighted room she looked around inquiringly and said: 

“I am Sarah Judd.  Where is Mrs. Morrison, please?”

Mr. Conant stood and stared at her, his hands clasped behind his back in characteristic attitude.  He could not remember ever having heard of Sarah Judd.

“Mrs. Morrison,” he said in his choppy voice, “is in Europe.”

The girl stared at him in return, as if stupified.  Then she sat down in the nearest chair and continued to stare.  Finding her determined on silence, Mr. Conant spoke again.

“The Morrisons are spending the summer abroad.  I and my family are occupying the Lodge in their absence.  I—­eh—­eh—­I am Mr. Conant, of Dorfield.”

The girl sighed drearily.  She was quite small, about seventeen years of age and dressed in a faded gingham over which she wore a black cloth coat that was rusty and frayed.  A black straw hat, fearfully decorated with red velvet and mussed artificial flowers, was tipped over her forehead.  Her features were not bad, but her nose was blotched, her face strongly freckled and her red hair very untidy.  Only the mild blue eyes redeemed the unattractive face—­eyes very like those of Mary Louise in expression, mused Mr. Conant, as he critically eyed the girl.