The new task occupied Betty until lunch time, and when Welch appeared with her tray, as on the previous day, she ate with relish, grateful to escape the ordeal of another hour in that room of mystery under the Argus eyes of Mrs. Atterbury and her servitor.
The former returned as she concluded her simple meal.
"You have finished the letters? Good! I can see that you are going to be a valuable aid. Your predecessor, Inez Harly, was a conscientious girl, but stupid—!" Mrs. Atterbury rolled her eyes with an expressive shrug. "My dear, have you ever done any library work at home in—let me see, where did you come from?—Greenville, Iowa?"
"'Library work'?" Betty repeated with a smile. "Our community was not important enough to have attracted the attention of Mr. Carnegie, but we had quite an extensive library of our own, and I always took care of it for my—my mother."
If Mrs. Atterbury noted the odd hesitation in the last words she gave no sign.
"Then you understand the rearrangement, classification and listing of books? I wonder if you will attend to mine? There are, I believe, over four hundred in this room alone and many others are scattered practically all over the house. The sets are all in a jumble and I never seem able to put my hand on any particular volume when I want it."
"I think I can do it." Betty's eyes had turned again wistfully to the window and her heart sank. "It will take me several days, I am afraid, but if you have nothing more pressing for me to do—"
"I haven't at the moment." Mrs. Atterbury moved toward the door. "I shall be glad if you will begin this afternoon. Take all the time you require and when the books are arranged, please catalogue them for me. There are a few rare volumes among them which may interest you, if you are a student. I will send for you when Miss Pope comes."
The books were in an almost hopeless state of confusion and Betty had no mind for her task. She was still shaken with the horror of the previous night's discovery, and the imperturbability of the other woman had suggested to her a new and startling train of thought. What if Mrs. Atterbury herself were ignorant of the tragedy which had taken place beneath her roof? Could it have been the work of Welch? The girl had read the evidence of his guilty knowledge unmistakably stamped upon his elemental, brutish face that morning, but Mrs. Atterbury's inscrutable countenance defied analysis.
The continued strain was telling upon the girl and she longed unspeakably for the cold, bracing air of out of doors, but it was evident that her employer intended to grant her no leisure that day. Could the rearrangement of the books have been merely an expedient to keep her occupied and close at hand? Mrs. Atterbury had shown her nothing but kindness, yet she was conscious of the woman's dominant character, and that beneath all her suavity lurked the pitiless tyranny of an inflexible will. She was beginning to feel the iron hand within the velvet glove, and she shuddered at the mere fancy that it might some time close about her.