"Now, Mrs. Ballou, tell me who is Miss Amy Holmes?"
She started and flushed.
"Another school friend," she replied, in a tone which said plainly, "the bottom is reached at last."
Evidently she expected some comment, but I only said:
"One more, Mrs. Ballou, why have you held back this bit of paper until now?"
"I am coming to that," she retorted, "when you have done with your questions."
"I have finished. Proceed now."
Once more she began:
"I was worried and anxious about the papers, but, on second thought, I determined to know something more before I saw or wrote you. I did not think it best to ask Grace any questions; she is an odd child, and very quick to suspect anything unusual, and it would be an unusual thing for me to seem interested in the autographs. It was two days before I found out who wrote the lines in the album. I complained of headache that day, and Grace took my share of the work herself. Amy was in the parlor reading a novel. I went in and talked with her a while, then I began to turn over the leaves of the album. When I came to the printed lines, I praised their smoothness, and then I carelessly asked Amy if she knew what the initials A. B. stood for. She looked up at me quickly, glanced at the album, hesitated a moment as if thinking, and then said: 'Oh, that's Professor Bartlett's printing, I think, his first name is Asa. He is an admirable penman.'