A MESSAGE AND A MAP
This time there was no mistaking the right road; it ran straight past Quality House to Arden—unbroken but for graveled driveways leading into private estates. Patsy traveled it at a snail’s pace. Now that Arden had become a definitely unavoidable goal, she was more loath to reach it than she had been on any of the seven days since the beginning of her quest. However the quest ended—whether she found Billy Burgeman or not, or whether there was any need now of finding him—this much she knew: for her the road ended at Arden. What lay beyond she neither tried nor cared to prophesy. Was it not enough that her days of vagabondage would be over—along with the company of tinkers and such like? There might be an answer awaiting her to the letter sent from Lebanon to George Travis; in that case she could in all probability count on some dependable income for the rest of the summer. Otherwise—there were her wits. The very thought of them wrung a pitiful little groan from Patsy.
“Faith! I’ve been overworking Dan’s legacy long enough, I’m thinking. Poor wee things! They’re needing rest and nourishment for a while,” and she patted her forehead sympathetically.
Of one thing she was certain—if her wits must still serve her, they should do so within the confines of some respectable community; in other words, she would settle down and work at something that would provide her with bed and board until the fall bookings began. And, the road and the tinker would become as a dream, fading with the summer into a sweet, illusive memory—and a photograph. Patsy felt in the pocket of her Norfolk for the latter with a sudden eagerness. It had been forgotten since she had found the tinker himself; but, now that the road was lengthening between them again, it brought her a surprising amount of comfort.
“There are three things I shall have to be asking him—if he ever fetches up in Arden, himself,” mused Patsy as she loitered along. “And, what’s more, this time I’ll be getting an answer to every one of them or I’m no relation of Dan’s. First, I’ll know the fate of the brown dress; he hadn’t a rag of it about him—that’s certain. Next, there’s that breakfast with the lady’s-slippers. How did he come by it? And, last of all, how ever did this picture come on the mantel-shelf of a closed cottage where he knew the way of breaking in and what clothes would be hanging in the chamber closets? ’Tis all too great a mystery—”
“Why, Miss O’Connell—what luck!”
Patsy had been so deep in her musing that a horse and rider had come upon her unnoticed. She turned quickly to see the rider dismounting just back of her; it was Gregory Jessup.
“The top o’ the morning to ye!” She broke into a glad laugh, blessing that luck, herself, which had broken into her disquieting thoughts and provided at least fair company and some news—perhaps. She held out her hand in hearty welcome. “Are ye ‘up so early or down so late’?”
“I might ask that, myself. Is it the habit of celebrated Irish actresses to tramp miles between sun-up and breakfast?”
“’Tis a habit more likely to fasten itself on French cooks, I’m thinking,” and Patsy smiled.