She was in bed now, and lay looking around the room with speculative gaze.  Beside her stood her wheeled chair, with its cushion of dark Spanish leather.  The girl smiled and, reaching for her work-basket, which was on a stand at the head of the bed, she drew out a pair of scissors and cut some of the stitches of the leathern cushion.  Then she tucked the letter carefully inside and with a needle and some black linen thread sewed up the place she had ripped open.

She had just completed this task when she glanced up and saw a face at her window—­indistinctly, for even as she raised her head it drew back and faded into the outer gloom.

For a moment Irene sat motionless, looking at the window.  Then she turned to the stand, where the lamp was, and extinguished the light.

An hour, perhaps, she sat upright in bed, considering what she should do.  Then again she reached out in the darkness and felt for her scissors.  Securing them, she drew the chair cushion upon the bed and felt along its edge for the place she had sewn.  She could not determine for some time which was the right edge but at last she found where the stitches seemed a little tighter drawn than elsewhere and this place she managed to rip open.  To her joy she found the letter and drew it out with a sigh of relief.

But now what to do with it was a question of vital importance.  She dared not relight her lamp and she was helpless when out of her chair.  So she put back the cushion, slid from the bed into the chair and wheeled herself in the dark to her dresser, which had a chenille cover.  Underneath this cover she spread the letter, deeming that so simple a hiding-place was likely to be overlooked in a hasty search and feeling that the letter would be safe there for the night, at least.

She now returned to her bed.  There was no use trying to resew the cushion in the dark.  She lay awake for a long time, feeling a certain thrill of delight in the belief that she was a conspirator despite her crippled condition and that she was conspiring for the benefit of her dear friend Mary Louise.  Finally she sank into a deep slumber and did not waken till the sun was streaming in at the window and Mary Louise knocked upon her door to call her.

“You’re lazy this morning,” laughed Mary Louise, entering.  “Let me help you dress for breakfast.”

Irene thanked her.  No one but this girl friend was ever permitted to assist her in dressing, as she felt proud of her ability to serve herself.  Her toilet was almost complete when Mary Louise suddenly exclaimed: 

“Why, what has become of your chair cushion?”

Irene looked toward the chair.  The cushion was gone.

“Never mind,” she said, although her face wore a troubled expression.  “I must have left it somewhere.  Here; I’ll put a pillow in its place until I find it.”

CHAPTER XIX