“My dear,” cut in Emily, “they’re the salt of life!”
“Then I don’t like salt. Perhaps it’s because I’m a plain person that I like plain things. Here’s more mystery.”
The only thing left in the box was an envelope. When I took it out I found that on it this was written:
“This envelope is for Mary Blyth, and is not to be opened by her till she is inside 84, Camford Street.”
I showed it to Mr. Paine, who was copying the label.
“What shall I do with that?”
“As you are told. Open it when you are in the house, and afterwards, if it is not expressly forbidden, you can, if you choose, communicate the contents to me.”
While he copied the label I went with Emily into an inner room, which turned out to be his bedroom; put the chain about my waist inside my bodice, and closed the padlock; and it was only when I had done so that I discovered that it had no key, so that how I was to open it, and get the chain off again, goodness only knew. Emily kept talking all the while.
“Pollie, isn’t it all just lovely? In spite of what you say, your Uncle Benjamin must have been a really remarkable man. It’s like a romance.”
“I wish my Uncle Benjamin hadn’t been such a remarkable man, then he might have left me the money and the house without the romance. Bother your romance, is what I say.”