“It’s Miss Leslie, Miss Susanna.” Jonas had appeared in the open doorway of the library.
“Oh! What a relief! Ask her to come in here, Jonas.” Miss Hamilton had bobbed up from the chair at sound of the bell. She dropped into it again, with a thankful sigh.
“Where have you been keeping yourself, Leslie?” Sight of Leslie Cairns in the doorway, looking her best in a smart ecru ensemble and ultra-trim little felt hat, brought Miss Susanna to her feet again, and hurrying across the room to greet her welcome caller.
“Yes! where have you been, elusive person?” Marjorie hastily shoved a book, held in her right hand, back into place on a shelf and came forward, dust cloth cheerfully waving a greeting to the visitor. “Twice I’ve ’phoned you. ‘Out’ was the answer Annie gave me both times. Then I wrote you a note, demanding your presence at Travelers’ Inn at dinner tomorrow evening. I ’phoned Leila, asking her and Vera to come, too. They can’t come because the Bertramites are entertaining them at Baretti’s. They’ll be back at the Hall, though, by seven-thirty, for the Bertramites have to study. Leila said, why not foregather in Vera’s and her room for the evening. Now you see what it’s all about. My note to you was a sketchy scrawl. I wrote it in a hurry. Perhaps you haven’t received it yet.” Marjorie glanced inquiringly at Leslie.
“Yes; I received it in the morning mail. I was anxious to see you, and Miss Susanna, so I took a run over here instead of telephoning. I had an idea you were still busy with the library job. It looks great.” Leslie’s eyes roved approvingly over the beautiful old room with its wealth of books from many lands.
“This is the last case, and I have only two more shelves to do. Please tell Leslie about it, Goldendede, while I work very hard to finish it.” Marjorie energetically resumed work, making herself a mental promise to spend a day soon in the library in a leisurely exploration of the treasures of the quaint old bookcase.
Presently coming to the bottom shelf, she sat down upon the thick velvet rug, reaching mechanically for the first book at the left end of the shelf. It was, she saw, a copy of the dissertations of Epictitus, bound in green morocco, the soft fine leather worn by constant use. She smiled. Epictitus had been Brooke Hamilton’s favorite philosopher, so Miss Susanna had told her. She wiped away the dust very gently from the priceless volume, then opened it, about to give the yellowed leaves a mild shake.
To her surprise a considerably smaller, black, cloth-bound book dropped from among the leaves of the Epictitus into her lap. It was a thin little book, not more than six inches long and three inches wide. About an inch from the top of the cover a white label had been pasted that bore the writing of the departed master of the Arms. “Brooke Hamilton,” she read, “Personal Notes.”
Marjorie’s heart began a sudden joyful throbbing. Could the little black book be the particular, important notebook of which Miss Susanna had regretfully spoken as lost at the time when she had turned over to Marjorie the material for her distinguished great-uncle’s biography?
With a joyful little cry Marjorie was on her feet, and holding out the little black book to Miss Hamilton.