“I don’t think you and Poppy ought to attempt it alone.”
“Oh,” I let the cat out of the bag, “there’s four of us now.”
“Four of you?” she repeated the number, looking at me curiously.
I almost had to tell her then who the other two were. And why not? Tom hadn’t said that we were to keep his identity a secret.
“Did you know, Mrs. Clayton,” I began, “that Mr. Weckler has a grandson?”
She stared.
“A grandson?” Then she searched my face to see if I were in earnest. “Why, Jerry, you must be mistaken. For if Mr. Weckler has a grandson he surely would have mentioned it to me. I’ve been here for years.”
“We told Tom that his grandpa didn’t know about him,” I waggled. “But he flew up, hot-tempered. According to the story he tells, his mother wrote home for help, when she was down and out, and the letter never was answered. So, in a way, you can’t blame the kid for being sore. I’d feel the same way, I guess, if it had been my mother.”
“Jerry!” came the further cry. “Are you talking about Mr. Weckler’s daughter?”
I nodded.