Nance laughed.
“I’m thinking, Molly,” she remarked, “that to-day would be an excellent time to get rid of that other slipper. I don’t feel as if I could sleep comfortably another night in these rooms with the guilty thing around. Until we dig a hole and bury it deep, we shall never have any peace of mind.”
Molly was carefully peeling the shell from the end of an egg.
“Do you think we could leave her alone this afternoon?” she asked. “How long does quinine continue its ravages?”
“Oh, not long,” answered Nance, in a most matter of fact voice. “She’s such a sensitive subject, that is the trouble. Quinine doesn’t usually make people take on so. I never met any one so excitable and high strung as Judy. She gets her nerves tuned up to such a high pitch sometimes that I wonder they don’t snap in two.”
“Nance, don’t you think we ought to confess the whole thing to Miss Walker?”
“Do you think Judy would ever forgive us if we did?”
Molly sighed.
“I’m afraid not,” she said. “Confessing would involve so much. We would have to go back so far to the original cause, those wretched Shakespeareans. It would be pretty hard on poor old Judy. But the slipper, Nance—it’s such a ridiculous thing, our hiding that slipper. Where shall we hide it?”
“We must dig a grave and bury it,” said Nance, “and we must do it this afternoon and get the thing off our minds. Then all evidence will be destroyed and there will be no possible way of finding out about Judy.”