"What, my dear?"
"Old Mrs. Pottle!"
"You mean——" he glanced benevolently at Hester.
"I mean that Miss Storm has no place to go in Ippingford, no friends except ourselves and—there are two spare rooms at the lodge. I am sure Cousin Hiram would have no objections, and poor Mrs. Pottle needs some one to help her. Would you mind helping at the lodge, my dear?"
"No, indeed," answered Hester sweetly. "I am only too glad to help. It's so kind of you and your husband to give me the opportunity."
Thus it came about that, on the following evening, Hester of the scarlet cloak was watching eagerly near the lodge when Hiram Baxter's big automobile swung in through the gate and moved swiftly up the drive with a musical murmur of its smooth running engine. On the back seat was Miss Elizabeth Thompson, and Hester thrilled with excitement as she recognized the fair American, the lady of the golf bag. Here was her chance, her great chance, but—she had one misgiving. Miss Thompson knew her as Jenny Regan, and now she had given the curate and his wife her real name, Hester Storm.
CHAPTER VII
THE NEW SECRETARY
Hester's problem was exceedingly simple; she wanted two or three minutes alone with Miss Thompson's golf bag. That was all she asked of fortune, two or three minutes; and, for the accomplishment of this purpose she had summoned all her wits and all her daring. Easy enough to talk about keeping straight, but if you happened to be a girl who knew where $25,000 was lying in wait for some one to pick it up and were the only person in the world who had a line on this pleasant bunch of money—say, what was the use of arguing? She had made the break and would see the thing through. It wasn't every well-meaning citizen who could land a fortune by putting in a little time chasing a golf bag!
Meantime, while this dark-eyed schemer waited for a chance to ravish the beautiful bank notes from their unsuspected hiding place, Betty Thompson, all unconscious of Hester's presence, was going through agitated hours in the little mezzanine chamber opening off the library that she had chosen for her bedroom, partly on account of its appropriate situation for a secretary and chiefly because of its quaint unusualness. At the first glance her fancy had been taken by the odd little staircase that curved up in a corner of the big room to a narrow door high in the paneled oak wall. For the rest it was a plain, convent-like chamber with whitewashed walls and one small window opening, like that of Horatio's study, over the roof of the conservatory.