Ruth told him carefully what to look for—as far as the outside of the volume appeared. She devoutly hoped he would not be curious enough to open it.
For no matter who really owned the old album—and to whom its wonderful contents would be finally awarded—the oldest Corner House girl felt herself to be responsible for the safety of the book and its contents. How it came in the garret, why it was hidden there, and who now had the first right to it, she did not know; but Ruth was sure that the odd find was of great value and that it would be a temptation to almost anybody.
Neale might have gone away for an entirely different reason; yet he had the treasure trove in his possession last, and Ruth would not feel relieved until she had recovered it.
In five minutes Con came downstairs again, but without the book.
“I seen nawthin’ of the kind,” he said. “But here’s the envelope of the letter he resaved.”
He handed it to Ruth. The address was written by a hand that certainly was not used to holding a pen. The scarcely decipherable address was to “Mist. Nele O. Sorber.”
“Shure the postman skurce knew whether to bring it here, or no,” Mr. Murphy explained.
“I—I would like to take this,” Ruth said slowly.
“Shure ye may. I brought it down ter ye,” said Mr. Murphy, taking up his hammer once more.
“But where do you suppose he could have put that book of ours?” Ruth asked, faintly.