Al Hewett, when questioned, shook his head.
“Nope,” he said, “the’ ain’t nobody brought it here. ’Course I’d ’a’ saved it fer you if they had. I remember the letter all right, I happened to notice the postmark. It was fo’m Tombstone, Arizony. Know anybody out there?”
The girl shook her head. “Was there any printing—or—writing on the envelope?” she asked.
“Not that I recall,” said Mr. Hewlett, mindful of his official state. “Of course you understan’ with the amount of mail we handle in this office that we couldn’t be expected to notice any one letter in pertickler. I’m real sorry, Barb’ra,” he added, with genuine good feeling. “Jimmy’s pretty small t’ deliver mail. He’s a nice little shaver, though. Anythin’ in the line o’ groceries to-day?”
“Not to-day,” said Barbara, her cheeks flushing.
Then she looked up with sudden determination. “Is your father here?” she asked, in a low voice. “If he is—I’d like to see him.”
“Pa’s in the back room makin’ up accounts,” the younger Hewett informed her. “I’ll call him, if you say so.—Pa!”
“No; don’t, please,” objected Barbara hastily. “I’ll go and speak to him there.”
But Mr. Abram Hewett had already appeared in answer to the summons and was advancing briskly behind a counter gay with new prints and ginghams. His face stiffened at sight of Barbara, and he darted an impatient look at his son.
“Could I speak with you—just a moment, Mr. Hewett?” asked Barbara, in a low, determined voice, “on business?”