“Mary, you are the best woman in the world and the best friend I ever had.”
This brought her around completely. Her natural, honest, kindly smile broke out upon her face.
“Bless you, miss,” she said heartily, “I'd do most anything for you. You can trust me not to speak of the paper.”
“I know I can, Mary dear.”
When she had gone I did go over to my desk and took out a slip of paper. After some careful thinking I printed in ink a few lines in Russian script.
“At eleven o'clock of next Wednesday morning I will meet you in the ice-cream parlor of the only drug-store in Pine Cone. Be prepared to translate the Slavonic curiosity, and be assured of a reward.” I dared not risk any signature, but, for fear there might be something in these lines that would rouse the suspicion of their authenticity, I racked my brain for some signal that might be a convincing one. At last I pulled out a red-gold hair from my head, placed it on the paper as though it had fallen there, and folded it in. Then I put my paper into a blank envelope, which I sealed and secreted in my dress. This done, I tore the letter Mary had found into a hundred minute pieces and burned them, hiding the ashes in my window-box of flowers. I had memorized the address and name of Mr. Gast.
At lunch I asked Mrs. Brane, who had sufficiently recovered from her headache to appear, whether she would n't like me to go over to Pine Cone and buy her the shade hat for which she had been longing ever since Mary had reported the arrival of some Philippine millinery in the principal shop. I said that I felt the need of a good, long walk.
Henry, without a flicker of interest in my request, went on with perfect and discreet performance of table-duty, but I felt that he was mentally pricking up his ears. He must have wondered what the purpose of my expedition really was. I hoped that, if any rumor of it reached the ears of my double, she would take the precaution of keeping close in her mysterious hiding-place during my absence. It was absurd how I felt responsible for the life of every member of the household. Paul Dabney did not ask to accompany me on my walk, though Mrs. Brane evidently expected him to. He was absent and silent at lunch, crumbled his bread, and wore his air of demure detachment like a shield. He was as white as the table napery, but had a cool, self-reliant expression that for some reason annoyed me.
I started on my long and lonely walk about half an hour after lunch. I was nervous and fearful, and wished that I, too, had a pocket such as Paul Dabney's bulging one where, so often, I fancied he kept his right hand on the smooth handle of an automatic. I thought scornfully of his timidity. My own danger was so enormously greater than his, and his own was so enormously greater than he could possibly suspect.
I must confess, however, that it taxed my nerve severely to cross the bridge over the quicksand that afternoon. It had been mended, of course, the very evening of Paul's accident but I tested every plank before I gave it my weight, and I clung to the railing with both clammy hands. Not until I reached the other bank did I let the breath out of my lungs.