“I’ve looked everywhere except in your desk, and they couldn’t be there.”
“They couldn’t, eh? We shall see.”
Soon the agent had her own desk in worse confusion than Judy’s, but no papers could she find. She poured herself another drink from the bottle and regarded Judy with a wild light in her eyes.
“Joy Holiday took them! That’s what happened! I knew that girl was here for a reason.”
After that there was a long silence during which Emily Grimshaw sat moving her lips but making no sound. It was uncanny! Judy longed for five o’clock and freedom from her queer employer.
No one had entered the office; of that Judy felt sure. The sofa was opposite the door. No one could have passed it and taken the pile of papers from the table without being seen. And no one could enter without a key. The door locked from the inside, and Judy never left the catch off except when Emily Grimshaw was there. That had been her employer’s instructions, and she had followed them to the letter.
What, then, could she mean by saying Joy Holiday took the poems? Why had she collapsed the moment Irene looked up at her, and who or what had taken the pile of manuscripts?
Judy shivered. Would it be stretching the truth to say that some strange, invisible force had been at work in the office that day? Irene, timid, lovable little girl that she was, couldn’t possibly frighten a big capable woman like Emily Grimshaw. She must have seen something else!
Without meaning to, Judy glanced over her shoulder. Then a thought came to her that seemed all at once amusing. Dale Meredith had said there weren’t enough mysteries in real life. Wait till she told him this one! A writer of detective stories ought to be interested. He might even have a theory, perhaps from his own novels, that would work out a solution.
Or perhaps Dale knew what had happened to the poetry. He didn’t seem dishonest, but if he refused to show an interest or showed too great an interest.... How was it that people told the guilty party?