“No. Mrs. Jones saw her cutting across the woods this morning. But she didn’t stop there.”
“I guess she must have them gold pieces of her aunt Mattie’s after all, and took her chance to clear out when the clearin’ was good. Can’t say as I blame her!”
Mary Louise sighed: that was the logical conclusion for everybody to come to.
“So I think I’ll go home now, Hannah,” she said. “I won’t wait for my father to come for me. And shall I take the key, or will William want to keep it?”
“You take it,” urged the old man. “I don’t want to feel responsible for it. My duty’s outside the house.”
Hannah handed it over with a sigh of relief.
“I’m that glad to get rid of it! And you tell Miss Mattie that I’m livin’ at my sister Jennie’s. I’ll write the address down for you, if you’ve got your little book handy.”
Mary Louise gladly produced it from her pocket: this was easy—getting Hannah’s address without even asking for it.
“Is this where you were last night?” she inquired casually, as the woman wrote down the street and number.
“Yes. At least, except while we was at the movies. My sister Jennie made William go with us—he never thought he cared about them before. But you ought to see him laugh at Laurel and Hardy. I thought I’d die, right there in the Globe Theater.”