"Oh, nothing," fluttered Mary, "except that my old nurse is odd and doesn't know American ways very well. And if she should come around looking for me, a watchman would not understand her, I'm afraid."
"Tell me what she looks like and I'll post Jim. He's a careful enough chap, but you know, young ladies, we have had some trouble about here lately."
Mary described Reda as best she could, and being assured the man behind the tree was really some passerby and not a prowler, the girls went back to the house to find Grace and Madaline.
The two latter could hardly wait to come down the stairs by steps, so impatient were they to reach Cleo and Mary.
"Oh, look!" exclaimed Grace. "Here's a letter for Mary. We picked it up out by the gate. It must have been left there just as we came along. But we couldn't see that it was a letter until we got into the light. Here, Mary," and she handed over a square, common business envelope. "It is only addressed to 'Maid Mary,'" finished Grace.
"Come on up to our room, to my room," suggested Cleo, surmising the letter might be better read privately. "Aunt Audrey has guests on the porch."
"All right," agreed Mary, crushing the letter in her hands. "Come along, girls. Whatever it is we may all know it, I don't want any new secrets; the old ones are heavy enough burdens."
Up in Cleo's room, under the softly shaded light, Mary tore open the envelope. She knew the hand was laboriously penned by some foreigner. Then she read aloud:
"Reda is sick. She says you can't come here, but wants her things.
Send the box by express. Reda will come out when she can walk.
"Carmia Frantez."