“Not yet, ma’am.”
Marian moved over to the hall seat and sat down wearily. “Get a sheet of paper and a pencil, Jones,” she directed. “I want to leave a note for—for Mr. Maynard.”
“Surely, ma’am.” Jones fumbled about on the hall table and produced a much chewed pencil and a small piece of folded paper. “Just write your message here, ma’am, and I’ll give it to Mr. Maynard.”
Marian threw back her cloak and the butler inspected her striking costume of Jeanne d’Arc with admiring eyes. Forgetful of Jones’ presence, Marian stared at the blank paper, then wrote a few lines, and folded it into a cocked hat, added “Dan Maynard, Esq.,” in her distinctive writing and handed the note to Jones.
“I will be greatly obliged, Jones,” she said, stepping to the door, “if you will not mention my presence here to-night to any one, but give my note to Mr. Maynard.”
“Certainly, ma’am, I understand.” But the butler’s face was blank as he closed the door behind Marian and went slowly down stairs. He quickened his footsteps on hearing subdued voices in the hall leading to the basement front door, and reached there just in time to see the housekeeper hand her suit case to a taxi-cab driver.
“Here, wait!” he called, but instead of complying the taxi-driver slipped outside and Mrs. Ward shot the bolt into place before turning to face the irate butler.
“Hold your fuss!” she exclaimed authoritatively. “And mind your own business.”
“It is my business to know who comes here at night,” stormed Jones, giving vent to his bottled up anger at last. “Think you Mrs. Burnham likes to have hangers-on at her kitchen door?”
“And think you she likes to have such companions as you bring here?” Mrs. Ward’s blood was up. “The man whom the police want—the man you have kept here.”