"I shouldn't be surprised. Having your grandchild lost is enough to mix up any woman."
He didn't answer and we ran on some way, out of the woods on to a long straight stretch of road. The motor in front was going at a tremendous clip, Mrs. Janney's veil lashing out like a wild hand beckoning us on.
"Look here," says Ferguson, soft and gentle right into my ear, "what are you, anyway?"
"Me?" I bounced round and gave him a baby stare. "I'm a governess. What do you think I am?"
"You may be a good governess but you're a poor liar. I was in the telephone closet and heard what Mrs. Janney said to you on the stairs. And I don't think you're a governess at all—you're a detective."
I thought a minute but what was the use, he had me. So I raised up my chin and met him, eye for eye:
"All right, I am. What of it?"
"Oh, lots of it. I've had my suspicions for some time. You tapped that 'phone message from New York?"
"I did—it's my job. I have to do it."
"Don't apologize—it wastes time and we haven't any to lose. Now just tell me Miss Rogers, or Mrs. Babbitts, what have you found out about the robbery; where were you getting to before this hideous mess to-day?"