But this was no time for deductions, Judy knew, when so much work remained to be done—twice as much now. And there was no use sitting in comfort on the sofa, either. Alone, she could group the poems better at her own desk.
She lowered the typewriter until a place was clear above it and then went for the pile of manuscripts. She looked on the table back of the sofa, but they were not there.
“That’s queer,” she thought. “I’m sure we left them right on the corner of that table. I saw Irene when she put Golden Girl back, and it was right on top. But maybe she moved them afterwards.”
Next Judy looked on the sofa and under all three cushions. She felt beneath the arms, then got down on her hands and knees and looked under the sofa on the floor. She even lifted the rug and looked under that.
“What are you doing?” Emily Grimshaw inquired, looking up with a scowl.
“Hunting for something,” Judy answered vaguely. She was not ready to tell her employer that the manuscripts were missing, not after having been told how valuable they were. Perhaps, absent-mindedly she had placed them in one of the drawers of her own desk.
After another ten minutes of Judy’s frantic searching the agent’s patience was exhausted.
“Sit down, young lady, and tell me why you are turning my office upside down in this ridiculous fashion. As if I hadn’t enough worries!”
“I’m sorry, Miss Grimshaw,” Judy replied contritely. “But the poems you gave me—the originals, I mean—they seem to have—disappeared.”
“Disappeared! Stuff and nonsense!” the old lady snorted. “Like all girls, you’ve been careless, and misplaced them.”