“Thank you. I thought so. Now, then, sit down and tell me about it.”
Perspiration was oozing from the constable’s forehead. He wiped it away and sat down, staring stupidly at the great man and wondering how he had come to admit a fact that he had sworn to keep secret to his dying day.
“There is nothing to tell, sir,” he said weakly.
“Begin at the beginning, stating why you spied in the hallway, outside of Judge Ferguson’s door.”
“The night before, sir, I had seen—seen——”
“Hazel.”
“I had seen Hazel carrying the box home. She passed under a light and I was in the shadow. It was Mrs. Ritchie’s blue box. The next day I watched. She brought the box down to the post office with her, wrapped in a cloak to make the bundle look round, and then covered with paper. Everyone was excited over the judge’s death, that day. The girl watched her chance and in the afternoon stole upstairs with the box, put it on the office table and hurried away. I sneaked up afterward and looked through the keyhole, but I found Hazel had forgotten to lock the door behind her, although she had carried off the key. I went in and looked at the box. It was unlocked and empty, except for a paper or two, which I did not touch. I left it there and went into the post office; but Will Chandler, Hazel’s father, said she had run over to the Ferguson house on an errand.”
“By the way, Phoebe,” said Cousin John, “can you get Janet Ferguson for me?”
“Yes; I can telegraph to her from my room.”
“Thank you.”