"How silly!" she exclaimed. "There!"
With a quick movement, she bore down upon the centre tack—number ten—and lo! a section of the table edge flew outward, disclosing an aperture perhaps six inches long and a quarter of an inch wide. It was very much like a slit in a door for letters.
But there was no ruby yet, nor any aperture large enough to accommodate the one for which we were looking. I leaned over with a puzzled scowl and peered into the slit.
"There 's a folded paper in there," I announced. My fingers were too large to force into the opening, and Genevieve promptly produced a hat-pin. Next moment we had the paper out—or papers, for there were three sheets folded together.
Across the back, written in Felix Page's small cramped hand, was this inscription:
Memorandum of Agreement between
Felix Page
and
Cristofano Paternostro, Michele Paternostro
and Filippo Paternostro.
"Well, we 're hot on the scent, at any rate," was my comment, as I unfolded the papers. Then I quickly folded them again, without a glance inside.
"Wait!" said I. "This is a solemn occasion, and it should be recognized with some fitting observance."
"Oh, don't tease!" cried Genevieve, dancing up and down with impatience, and trying to pluck the papers from my hand.
"I 'm not teasing, my dear," said I; "I 'm terribly serious. We are pretty near the end of the trail, little girl; after we have read this imposing document we will have reached the end. I 'm halfway sorry, too, notwithstanding the grim tragedy that has hung over us. We must celebrate the last event with an appropriate rite—a fire upon the library hearth."