“See what Mame sent me,” said he; “just read it.”
There was a page of it, the purport being that the writer had done what she had through jealousy, which she knew now was unfounded; she was suffering indescribable agonies from remorse; and, to prove she meant what she said, if her darling Ned would forgive her she would get him out before a week was over. If he agreed he was to be at his window at six o’clock Wednesday night. The day was Thursday.
“How did you get this?” asked Amos. “Do you mind telling?”
“Not the least. It came in a coat. From Barber & Glasson’s. The one Mrs. Raker picked out for me, and it was sent up from the store. She got at it somehow, I suppose.”
“But how did you get word where to look?”
Paisley grinned. “Mame was here, visiting that fellow who was taken up for smashing a window, and pretended he was so hungry he had to have a meal in jail. Mame put him up to it, so she could come. She gave me the tip where to look then.”
“I see. I got on to some of those signals once. Well, did you show yourself Wednesday?”
“Not much!” He hesitated, and did not look at the sheriff, scrawling initials on the blotting-pad with his pen. “Did you really think, Mr. Wickliff, after all you’ve done for me—and my mother—I would go back on you and get you into trouble for that—”
“’S-sh! Don’t call names!” Wickliff looked apprehensively at the picture of his mother. “Why didn’t you give me this before?”
“Because you weren’t here till this morning. I wasn’t going to give it to Raker.”