"A lot to do! What do you mean? Does Patty make you take care of your room?"
"Oh, not that sort of work. I've got to—to—write letters."
"To your father?" Bill's look was significant.
"Yes—no,—oh, a lot of letters."
"Look here, Azalea, you come out with me for a few minutes,—I won't keep you long." Farnsworth took her arm, and led her gently down the verandah steps and along a garden path.
"Now, my child," he said most kindly, "tell me why you pretended that letter was from your father, when it was not?"
"Oh, yes, it was—"
"Stop, Azalea! Don't add to your list of falsehoods! You wrote that letter yourself on my typewriter, in my library. Why did you do it?"
"How do you know?" Azalea turned an astonished face to her inquisitor.
"I recognised the typing. How do you know how to use the machine so well? Were you ever a stenographer?"