“You! What has become of Mrs. Dun-stan?”
“I'm Mrs. Dunstan.” Realization of her self-betrayal came to her. The soft tears welled up into her soft eyes. “Oh, dear; oh, dear!” she mourned.
“Don't make that noise,” he ordered testily; “what's the matter with the woman!”
“Ye'll not—not be wanting me here any more.”
“Oh, I don't say that,” returned the cautious Mr. Morse. “You're not wholly unsatisfactory. But what does that mummery of an old woman mean?”
In vain Molly tried to penetrate the blue glasses which masked his expression. Anyway, his voice had mollified. “I'll tell ye it all, if ye'll listen,” she said wistfully.
Miles Morse surprised himself by promptly saying: “I'll listen.”
No one could have wished a more intent listener. Molly told it all, including the deal whereby D. Wiggett had secured her money. At the conclusion her employer suggested that Molly bring him the deed, or other documents in the case, on the morrow. She did so. He read the principal document with a queer tightening of the lips which Molly couldn't understand at all, but which the Bonnie Lassie, had she been present, would have interpreted readily enough since she had seen it on another occasion, when the spare and arid man had set out to trail the horse-flaying teamster to justice.
“This isn't a deed at all,” said he.
“That's what Mr. Wiggett was telling me.”