Before leaving the mansion, Madge asked permission to take the diary home for a few days. In their haste to reach the end, the girls had not read every paragraph but had skipped those that looked uninteresting. Madge had little hope that she would find any new material, but at least thought it would do no harm to reread the diary at her leisure.
“You never admit defeat, do you?” Cara asked as they walked home together. “As far as I’m concerned, I consider the adventure washed-up.”
“I haven’t completely given up,” Madge returned. “But I must confess I haven’t a tangible clue.”
She did not have time to reread the diary that night, and in truth, she rather dreaded the ordeal. It was a long tedious task, one that offered slight hope of success. Nevertheless, Madge continued to think of the Swenster pearls and to wonder if she had not overlooked some hitherto unimportant clue.
“In the diary Florence said that she had taken old Uncle George Jackson into her confidence. Why didn’t I think to ask Miss Swenster who she meant?”
This seemed such an oversight that Sunday afternoon she dropped around at the mansion.
“Uncle George?” Miss Swenster repeated, in response to her question. “Why, he was the old Negro caretaker I told you about. You can’t hope to learn anything from him for he has been dead years and years. In fact, his son is an old man now. Or was the last time I heard. He too may be dead by this time.”
Madge came to life at this scrap of information. Instantly it flashed through her mind that possibly Uncle George Jackson’s son might know something of the pearls.
“Can you tell me his name?” she questioned eagerly.
“Uncle George’s son? Why, it must have been Ross. Yes, that was it. Ross Jackson.”