Through the morning hours that followed Hester busied herself, as usual, with the housework and the kitchen work, trying to be diligent and good tempered, and putting from her resolutely the temptation to flee from this place that might soon be full of peril for her. But as noon approached she eyed the clock anxiously, and at every sound of wheels hurried to the window. There was a train from London at twenty minutes to twelve. Would Betty Thompson be on it? Would a man from Scotland Yard be on it? Would one of these two arrive before the other, and, if so, which one?
Then she wondered what would happen if a detective did come. After all, Anton's letter gave only a vague clue. No name was signed and no names were mentioned. Robert Baxter could tell nothing about the robbery, because he knew nothing. And the Reverend Merle could tell nothing for the same reason. There was only Anton to be feared, and Anton wasn't going to put himself under the cold, investigating eye of an officer of the law, not if the Storm girl sized him up right, and she thought she did. On the whole, the situation might be worse, still——
Twelve o'clock! Half past twelve! And no arrival! Perhaps Miss Thompson wasn't coming. Perhaps she didn't believe the thing was important. And straight-way the imps of darkness whispered that this was fate. Hester had done her best, she had written the letter to Miss Thompson, and now, if no one would help her, if no one would take the money when she was trying to give it up—why she had better—she had better——
At this perilous moment a carriage came crunching up the drive, and, glancing out, Hester recognized Betty Thompson on the back seat.
Well, that settled it. The hour had come for the testing of Hester Storm. She must go to Miss Thompson now and make her confession. She must tell this sweet young woman who had trusted her and befriended her that she was a thief, that she had stolen the bishop's purse. She had better go quickly, while she had the courage.
It was twenty minutes later when the Storm girl, white-lipped, entered the library where the secretary was arranging in a dull green vase some yellow roses that she had just picked in the conservatory. She looked up brightly and came forward with extended hand.
"Well, Hester," she smiled, "you see that I believe in you. Your letter came this morning at half-past eight, and at half-past nine I was on the train. Poor child, you look—why, you look ill?"
"Do I? Well, I—I am not feeling any too good."
"What is it? What has happened? Come over here." With kind concern Betty led her troubled friend to the davenport. "You know I'll be glad to do whatever I can to help you. Now then?"
Hester sighed wearily. "You can't help me, lady, except to—believe what I say—wish me luck when I've gone."