"She seems ill at ease with me," he said, "and frankly told me that she preferred to make her statement to you. Go ahead, Bathurst; above all we must retain her confidence."
Mrs. Ballou looked careworn, and seemed more nervous than I had supposed it in her nature to be.
She looked relieved at sight of me, and, as soon as we were alone, plunged at once into her story, as if anxious to get it over, and hear what I might have to say.
This is what she told me in her own plain, concise, and very sensible language, interrupted now and then by my brief questions, and her occasional moments of silence, while I transferred something to my note-book.
"I presume you have wanted to know what I did with that letter I took," she began, smiling a little, probably in recollection of her adroit theft. "I will tell you why I took it. When you first showed it to me, the printed letters had a sort of familiar look, but I could not think where I had seen them. During the night it seemed to come to me, and I got up and went into the parlor." Here she hesitated for a moment, and then went on hurriedly: "Grace—my girl, you know—has a large autograph album; she brought it home when she came from the seminary, and everybody she meets that can scratch with a pen, must write in it. I found this precious album, and in it I found—this."
She took from her pocket-book a folded paper and put it in my hand. It was a leaf torn from an album, and it contained a sentimental couplet, printed in large, bold letters.
I looked at the bit of paper, and then muttering an excuse, went hurriedly to the outer office. In a moment I was back; holding in my hand the printed letter of warning, which I had confided to the care of my Chief.
I sat down opposite Mrs. Ballou with the two documents before me, and scrutinized them carefully.