“Is that so?” Anna stroked her cheek reflectively. “Mrs. Hale feels Miss Judith’s marriage more than she is willing to allow, I believe, and she’s just looking ’round to find somebody to ‘mother.’”
“It’s a funny deal her picking on Miss Polly for that,” laughed Maud as she arranged the tea dishes on the tray preparatory to departure. “D’ye know, as poor as I am, I’d give a month’s wages to know who had a hand in killing Mr. Austin.” She paused and placed her lips against Anna’s right ear. “Them bloody shears Mr. Ferguson is forever exhibiting never belonged to Miss Judith,” she whispered, “but Miss Polly’s are missing from her desk.”
Down in Robert Hale’s den Polly Davis stopped transcribing his manuscript notes to stare at three letters which she spread before her. She read them in rotation for at least the seventh time, then settled back in her chair and, resting her weight on its arms, contemplated the notes.
The first was but a scrawl:
Dearest:
You must dine with me to-night. I will not take a refusal and will call at the usual hour.
Your devoted lover,
John.
The second letter was from Judith:
Do not hesitate to use the enclosed check for your contemplated trip. Return the loan at your convenience, and let me know if you should need more.