“You did take it off out here,” he cried. “It was on that chair there. I remember seeing it. Probably it has fallen on the floor somewhere.”
Atkins returned, grumbling that the kitchen floor was a “healthy place to heave a shirt.”
“Where is it?” he asked after a hurried search. “I can't find it nowheres. Didn't put it in the fire, did ye?”
“Of course I didn't. I saw it. . . . Why, I remember that woman's picking it up when she sat down.”
“Woman? What woman?”
“That Baskin—Buskin—whatever her name is. The housekeeper at the bungalow.”
“Was she—HERE?” Seth's question was almost a shout. His helper stared at him.
“Yes,” he answered; “she was. She came to borrow some butter.”
“To—to borrow—butter?”
“Why, yes. You didn't think I invited her in for a morning call, did you? Don't act as if you had been struck by lightning. It's not so very serious. We've got to expect some trouble of that kind. I got rid of her as soon as I could.”