“Tell me, Miss O’Gorman, has young Mr. Dulaney ever brought back your father’s notebook, and could he make head or tail of the pot-hooks?” asked Hortense, pretending to be very nonchalant.
“No, not yet, but he was to get to it last evening,” answered Josie. “But here he is now.”
Bob Dulaney came in the shop looking decidedly perturbed.
“Oh, Miss O’Gorman, I am worried stiff,” he cried, taking in the other occupants with a general bow. “I can’t bear to meet you, but I must have it over with. Do you know something has happened to the book you lent me, your father’s notebook, I mean. I have not had it out of my possession since you handed it to me, in my breast pocket all the time and when my coat was not on my back it was hanging on a chair by my bed. I have not had time to open the little book until last night. Then I untied the hard knot of the ribbons and found the book filled with nothing but blank pages. I can’t account for it. Certainly when you showed it to us when you moved in, it had ciphered notes in it. I remember well that you untied the strings and the pages were covered close with hieroglyphics. You put it back on the shelves tightly tied up and I fancy it had not been opened since. In fact, I think you said it had not when you lent it to me.”
It was difficult for Josie to pretend to the perturbed young man, but she felt she must keep up the farce before the watchful Hortense. She devoutly hoped Irene and Elizabeth could hold on to themselves. She could plainly see they were excited and that Irene was filled with pity for poor Bob.
“It is too bad,” said Josie with as cold a voice as she could muster. “I should not have let the book get out of my possession. Of course, I don’t know myself what was in it, never having had time to dig out the meaning since my father died, but I understood from him that the information in it would be of the greatest value for the secret service.”
“I know it—but oh, Miss O’Gorman, I can’t tell you how I feel about it. I’m so miserable. I’m going to see a detective about it immediately. I don’t see how it happened, or who could have known even that I had it. Could it have been done before I took it?”
“Well, hardly,” spoke up Hortense with something of a sneer. “I was here when Miss O’Gorman gave it to you and she remarked at the time that—”
“Well, there is no use in crying over spilt milk, as my father used to say,” interrupted Josie. “I have learned a lesson and that is perhaps as worth while as the information detectives may have gained from the book—that is, not to lend too promiscuously.”
Irene turned away her face. She felt so sorry for Bob she could not bear to look at him. She felt Josie was carrying the thing too far, but she knew she must keep out of the discussion. If she could only let Bob know that she trusted him.