Coming down the staircase, with the assistance of a flurried Somers, was Mrs. Nash. She had donned a pretty negligée, and the excitement and her exertions combined had brought the color to her face. Miriam hastened to Somers’ assistance and Roberts was immediately behind her.
“This is most imprudent, Mrs. Nash!” he exclaimed sternly. “In your condition—”
“Poof!” Mrs. Nash snapped her fingers. “I am getting on famously. Don’t be pessimistic, Doctor; instead, you should congratulate me upon my recovery. Thank you, my dear,” as Miriam helped her toward the dining room. “Come here, Alexander, and give me your arm.”
At sound of her voice, the clergyman wheeled around and stepped backward with such suddenness that he walked on the fire tongs and fender.
“Dora—here! Have you taken leave of your senses?” he demanded.
“I seem the only one to have retained my senses,” she retorted tartly. “Miss Ward, you were always assuring me I was not very ill, but judging from Doctor Roberts’ conduct and my husband’s, they must have thought me at the point of death.”
Nash collected his scattered wits and came forward. “I suppose you will have your way, though the skies fall,” he said resignedly. “But I should have thought, my dear, that poor Zybinn’s sudden death through imprudent neglect of his health would have warned you to be careful.”
What rejoinder Mrs. Nash made was lost by Trenholm, who had stood out of sight behind the grandfather clock watching the scene. He waited until, judging from the sounds that came from the other room, they were seated around the dinner table, and then, taking care to make no noise, he ran lightly up the staircase and darted into Mrs. Nash’s bedroom.
Before going to her supper, Somers had aired the room and remade the bed, and Trenholm’s electric torch showed everything in order. First convincing himself that he was the only person in the bedroom, he went over to the wall and taking from his pocket the pen and ink drawing which he had carried away almost under Mrs. Nash’s nose, he hung it back in its place.
Trenholm laid down his torch on a convenient chair and drew out the thirteenth letter. He had inserted a little paste under the flap before leaving his bungalow, and to all intents and purposes the envelope looked as if it never had been opened. Holding it in his hand, he scanned the bedroom eagerly and spied a dustpan and brush which Somers had carelessly forgotten and left standing by the bureau. Trenholm slipped over to it and laid the envelope on the small pile of trash in the pan. When he had arranged it to his liking, the envelope looked as if it had been brushed up with the rest of the trash, but the Canadian stamps were plainly in view.