“I—I have reason to believe so,” replied Ruth, with hesitation.
“What is it?” was the cobbler’s direct question.
“A—a sort of scrap-book. An old album. A big, heavy book, Mr. Murphy. Oh! it doesn’t seem possible that Neale would have taken it away. Have you seen it anywhere about, sir?”
“He brought it home Christmas Eve, ye say?” was the noncommittal reply.
“That is when Agnes let him have it—yes,” said the girl, earnestly.
“I did not see him when he came home that night. I was abed. I told ye he got a letter. I left it on his bureau when I went to me own bed. Shure, he might have brought in an elephant for all I’d knowed about it afther I got to sleep,” declared the cobbler, shaking his head. “Old Murphy-us himself, him as was the god of sleep, niver slept sounder nor me, Miss Ruth. He must have been the father of all us Murphies, for we were all sound sleepers, praise the pigs!”
“Perhaps the book is in his room,” Ruth said, with final desperation.
“A big book, is ut?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Have you seen it?”
“I have not. But I’ll go up and look for ut this instant,” Mr. Murphy said, rising briskly.