“I wish I knew,” said Mary Louise, musingly.  “Irene, I’ve an idea she came to Bigbee’s just to be near us.  There’s something stealthy and underhanded about our neighbors, I’m positive.  Miss Lord is a very delightful woman, on the surface, but—­”

Irene laughed softly, as if amused.

“There can be no reason in the world, Mary Louise,” she averred, “why your private affairs are of any interest to outsiders, except—­”

“Well, Irene?”

“Except that you are connected, in a way, with your grandfather.”

“Exactly!  That is my idea, Irene.  Ever since that affair with O’Gorman, I’ve had a feeling that I was being spied upon.”

“But that would be useless.  You never hear from Colonel Weatherby, except in the most roundabout ways.”

“They don’t know that; they think I might hear, and there’s no other way to find where he is.  Do you think,” she added, “that the Secret Service employs female detectives?”

“Perhaps so.  There must be occasions when a woman can discover more than a man.”

“Then I believe Miss Lord is working for the Secret Service—­the enemies of Gran’pa Jim.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“What is on that black ribbon around your neck?”

“A miniature of my mother.”

“Oh.  To-night it got above your dress—­the ribbon, I mean—­and Agatha kept looking at it.”

“A good detective wouldn’t be caught doing such a clumsy thing, Mary Louise.  And, even if detectives were placed here to watch your actions, they wouldn’t be interested in spying upon me, would they?”

“I suppose not.”

“I’ve never even seen your grandfather and so I must be exempt from suspicion.  I advise you, my dear, to forget these apprehensions, which must be purely imaginary.  If a thousand spies surrounded you, they could do you no harm, nor even trap you into betraying your grandfather, whose present location is a complete mystery to you.”

Mary Louise could not help admitting this was true, so she kissed her friend good night and went to her own room.

Left alone, Irene put her hand to the ribbon around her neck and drew from her bosom an old-fashioned oval gold locket, as big as any ordinary watch but thinner.  She opened the front of the ease and kissed her mother’s picture, as was her nightly custom.  Then she opened the back and drew out a tightly folded wad of paper.  This she carefully spread out before her, when it proved to be the old letter she had found in the book.

Once again she read the letter carefully, poring over the words in deep thought.

“This letter,” she murmured, “might indeed be of use to the Government, but it is of far more value to Mary Louise and—­to her grandfather.  I ought not to lose it; nor ought I to allow anyone to read it, at present.  Perhaps, if Agatha Lord has noticed the ribbon I wear, it will be best to find a new hiding place for the letter.”