But the next morning Madeline came back in dismay from her visit to Mr. Harrison’s Harding office.
“He’s away,” she lamented. “The agent was there, and I talked to him; but he can’t do anything. He’s in deep disgrace now for letting us have so many repairs. And Mr. Harrison won’t be back for at least a week; so you’ll have to tackle him yourself after all.”
“Oh, Madeline, can’t you stay over?”
Madeline shook her head decisively. “Absolutely impossible. I’ve just hired a studio apartment consisting of two closets, miscalled rooms, and I’ve begun a novel. It was spinning along like mad when you stopped it. I should have to go to-morrow anyway, so why not go now, in time for the roller-skating party? I did want to stay long enough to find the other secret drawers, though.” Madeline frowned absently at the old desk.
“Perhaps there aren’t any others,” Betty reminded her practically.
“Oh, but I’m sure there are. I have a leading.” Madeline stretched out her hand, and, just as she had predicted, it hit the spring. A fan-shaped panel slipped to one side, the wall at the back of the opening dropped, and a tiny drawer, deep and very narrow, appeared, the small key still in the lock.
“There!” said Madeline triumphantly, opening it. “Oh, it’s stuffed full! Betty Wales, these are love-letters, I just know it! Tied with pink ribbons and scented with lavender. Did you ever imagine anything so nice? It’s surely all right to read them, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps we ought to take them to the woman you bought the desk of,” Betty suggested.
“But her husband had just taken it for a bad debt, and I remember she said all the family it really belonged to had died or moved away.”
“Then I guess it’s all right, so long as they’re so very old.”