“All right. Then I’ll tell you who did it. It was Leila Harper.”
“Oh, no,” Jewel cried out in protest.
“Yes.” Leslie’s sober features broke up in laughter. “Oh, Kid, you must let me tell it to Leila. She’s due to get a shock. That spite-chaser, Miss Norris, gave the editor of the ‘Gazette’ the impression that she was Miss Harper. I nearly dropped when he shot it at me. Then I guilefully drew him into giving me a description of Miss Harper, and he described Miss Norris instead.”
“Go and tell her,” Jewel gave laughing permission. “Tell her everything.”
“Now would not that discourage even an Irish playwright?” was Leila’s droll reception of the news of her supposed perfidy. “I am no villain, but it seems I swank as one in editors’ offices. I shall warn Vera against myself. Even now I may be conniving against her, and that without even poor Midget suspecting me. Oh, wurra, wurra!”
Leslie presently left Leila, her face bright with recollection of the Irish girl’s warm commendation. She had, partly by chance, partly by determined resolve, managed to strike a telling blow for democracy. She and Laura Taylor had also made a pact toward reclaiming Stephanie Norris from the narrowness of her snobbish ways. On returning to her room on the night of the frustrated attempt at hazing, Stephanie had sat down and cried, saying she was not sorry the plan had failed, and blaming Mildred Ferguson for proposing it in the beginning. Toward Laura she had even exhibited an oddly grudging respect.
While Leslie trod the trail of democracy, Marjorie continued to help Miss Susanna hunt for the secret drawer. Miss Hamilton had received but one brief letter from Peter Cairns in which he wrote that he had, as yet, nothing of special importance to report in regard to Lawyer Norris.
“Why, oh, why, can’t that miserable secret drawer open like magic, and show itself?” grumbled Miss Susanna one November afternoon following a fresh going over of the Chinese room. “I shan’t waste any more time in this room. I don’t believe he ever put those papers in here. Did he?” she inquired of a squat, severe-visaged Chinese idol that stood on top of a teakwood cabinet. “You wouldn’t tell me, if you could speak.” She pointed an accusing finger at the squatting god.
“Could it possibly be anywhere in Mr. Brooke’s bedroom?” Marjorie said speculatively. “We’ve never hunted much for it in there.”
“Let’s go up there and see what we may see. It wouldn’t have been like him, though, to keep his papers there,” the old lady said a trifle wearily.