Jones looked involuntarily over his shoulder. “Not so loud,” he cautioned. “Heinrich has joined the Mission; he seeks Divine guidance.”
“Then let him seek it elsewhere than in this house.” Mrs. Ward turned contemptuously away. “Pick up your clothes and be off.”
Jones gathered up the soiled dish towels in silent fury. As he tucked them under his arm some dark stains on one cloth caught his eye.
“Ah! Paint is it or ink?” He sniffed at the cloth, holding it close under his nose. “And why did you put fresh paint on your suit case?”
Instead of replying Mrs. Ward walked into the servants’ dining room and, sitting down, composedly picked up her knitting. Jones hesitated uncertainly in the hall, then, thrusting the note which Marian had given him inside a pocket, he followed Mrs. Ward into the room and stationed himself opposite her.
“Why did you alter the initial on the suit case?” he demanded, and waited in growing wrath for an answer. Receiving none, he again addressed the housekeeper. “Silence will not help you,” he announced. “I know—all.”
“Then why ask me questions?” inquired Mrs. Ward practically.
“Because I desire to know why that taxi-driver is here so often; in the back way; in the window, yonder,” pointing to the one opening on the walk which separated the Burnham residence from its next door neighbor, and which gave light and air to the rooms on that side of the house. “What does he here of so secretive a nature?”
Mrs. Ward laid down her knitting and met his angry gaze with one equally furious.
“What concern is it of yours?”