"Parts?" He attempted to look puzzled, but I would not have it.
"You know what I mean," I declared; "seventy parts, twenty-eight, or whatever the numbers are she so constantly mutters."
His admiration was unqualified and sincere.
"Miss Butterworth," said he, "you are a woman after my own heart. How came you to think that her mutterings had anything to do with a hiding-place?"
"Because it did not have anything to do with the amount of money I gave her. When I handed her twenty-five cents, she cried, 'Seventy, twenty-eight, and now ten!' Ten what? Not ten cents or ten dollars, but ten——"
"Why do you stop?"
"I do not want to risk my reputation on a guess. There is a quilt on the bed made up of innumerable pieces. There is a floor of neatly laid brick——"
"And there is a Bible on the stand whose leaves number many over seventy."
"Ah, it was in the Bible you found——"
His smile put mine quite to shame.