A look of surprise came into Gregory Jessup’s face. “Why, Miss O’Connell! I had no idea what I said that day would fasten Billy on your mind like this. It’s awfully good of you; and he’s a perfect stranger—”
Patsy broke in with a whimsical chuckle. “Aye, I’ve grown overpartial to strangers of late; but ye hearken to me. Ye’ll have to leave a sign by the roadside for him—if ye want to reach him. Otherwise he’ll see ye first and be gone before ever ye know he’s about.”
“What kind of a sign?”
“Faith! I’m not sure of that yet—myself. It must be something that will put trust back in a lad and tell him to come home.”
“And where would you put it?”
“Where? On the roadside, just, anywhere along the road he’s used to tramping.”
Gregory Jessup’s face lost its puzzled frown and became suddenly illumined with an inspiration. “I know! By Hec! I’ve got it! There’s that path that runs down from the Burgeman estate to our old cottage. It was a short cut for us kids, and we were almost the only ones to use it. Billy would be far more likely to take that than the highroad—and it leads to the Burgeman farm, too, run by an old couple that simply adore Billy. He might go there when he wouldn’t go anywhere else. That’s the place for a message. But what message?”
“I know!” Patsy clapped her hands. “Have ye a scrap of paper anywheres about ye—and a pencil?”
Hunting through the pockets of his riding-clothes, Gregory Jessup discovered a business letter, the back of which provided ample writing space, and the stub of a red-ink pencil. “We use ’em in the drafting-room,” he explained. “If these will do—here’s a desk,” and he raised the end of his saddle, supporting it with a large expanse of palm.