Kitabı oku: «The Girls of St. Wode's», sayfa 17
“Well, I happen to be very fond of the classics myself,” answered Annie, “so I ought not to blame Belle; but she does go to the fair with the thing, does she not?”
“It seems so to me, dear; but then I am, comparatively speaking, an ignorant woman. We women of the last generation had not the advantages which you young creatures now receive. What Belle means by the Ionian and non-Ionian dialects I am absolutely ignorant about.”
“It does not matter,” said Annie gently.
“I agree with you; my love, it scarcely matters much; but your pale cheeks and that anxious expression in your eyes matter a great deal. If I can be of any use to you, Annie, understand that I shall be only too pleased.”
“Do you mean it?” said Annie. She went up to Mrs. Acheson. The widow held out her hand, which Annie clasped.
“Do you really mean it?” continued Annie.
“I do, my dear child. I wish you would tell me what really troubles you.”
“I long to confide everything to you,” replied Annie, “but I dare not; please don’t ask me. Let me be happy while I am here, and don’t be – oh, don’t be too kind!”
“What does the poor child mean?” thought Mrs. Acheson. She now laid her hand on Annie’s shoulder, drew her to her side, and kissed her tenderly on her forehead.
“I am drawn to you because you are a motherless girl,” she said; “and whenever you feel that you can give me your confidence I shall be only too happy to receive it, and also, Annie, my dear, to respect it. I am an old woman, and have seen much of life; perhaps I could counsel you if you are in any difficulty.”
“No, no; it may not be,” said Annie in a whisper which nearly choked her.
“Very well; we will say no more at present. I am going now to give directions about the carriage.”
At eleven o’clock an open landau was at the door, and Mrs. Acheson and Annie went for their drive. It was a lovely summer’s day, and Regent’s Park looked its best. Long years afterward Annie Colchester remembered that drive. The delightful motion of the easy carriage in which she was seated, the soft breezes on her cheeks, Mrs. Acheson’s kind and intelligent conversation returned to her memory again and again. Oh, why was life so different for her to what it was for other girls! Oh, that she could confide in Mrs. Acheson! But then the knowledge that this good woman pitied her because she imagined that she was suffering from a girlish depression, or some other equally unimportant contretemps, caused her heart to rise with wild rebellion in her breast.
“If I could tell her the truth – the truth – would not her ears tingle and her heart beat,” thought Annie to herself. “Good as she is, she is not the person to help me in a great calamity of this sort. In her quiet, sheltered, prosperous life, what can she know of sorrows like mine? Oh, Rupert, why were you and I left alone in the world, and why – why did you turn out bad, and why do I love you so much?”
The drive was over, and the time arrived when Annie was to set off to meet Rupert in Regent’s Park. She arrived at the rendezvous a minute or two late, and he was already waiting for her. He still wore the immaculate frock-coat, and looked quite the handsome, smart young man of the world; but when he saw Annie coming to meet him alone a heavy frown completely altered his expression, his lips took a sarcastic and even malignant curve. He went up to his sister and shook her by the shoulder.
“Now, what is the meaning of this?” he said.
But Rupert’s very insolence made Annie brave.
“It means,” she replied, “that I do not intend to do what you ask.”
“You don’t? You’re a nice girl to help a fellow.”
“I have made up my mind,” continued Annie. “I won’t ever do anything wrong to help you again.”
“Oh, you won’t, won’t you? Then listen – heartless girl. Don’t you know that I have you completely in my power? If I were to tell what you did at Wingfield you could be arrested on a charge of forgery. There is an ugly punishment accorded by the law to such proceedings.”
“You cannot frighten me, Rupert,” said Annie, much to the astonishment of that gentleman, “for I have thought the whole thing carefully over. It would be quite impossible for me to be punished and for you to go scot-free; so, for your own safety, you will keep what you know in the dark. Now, the thing for you to consider is that I do not intend to help you to get any money from my friends, the Achesons.”
Rupert was so much astonished at Annie’s tone that for a moment he did not reply. Then, all of a sudden, he changed his tactics. He ceased to be furious, and became, in the poor girl’s opinion, far more dangerous. He drew her hand through his arm and invited her to walk with him. He then proceeded to sketch a most vivid and graphic picture of his own sufferings, the extreme danger in which he stood, and the awful disgrace which would fall upon Annie’s devoted head when the law of the land took its course upon him.
But Annie, for some reason which she did not quite understand herself, felt strangely strong that afternoon. Perhaps it was Mrs. Acheson’s kindness; perhaps it was the thought of Leslie, and what Leslie endured through Annie’s former ill-doing. Even Belle, with all her eccentricities, had a perceptible influence upon Annie now.
“For all these good, these dear people look upon crime as an impossibility,” thought the girl. “Now, Rupert seems to take it as the ordinary course of existence. There is no saying; I may get to look at things from his standpoint if I don’t take care. I dare not; I will never yield to his entreaties.”
So, though he begged of her, and implored of her, and bullied her, and flattered her, though he used all his eloquence, Annie remained firm.
It was the first time in all Rupert’s experience that he found her so, and it was the first time he thoroughly respected his sister. At the end of that interview he saw that if he was to get anything out of the Achesons he must do it in his own way.
“You have astonished and pained me,” he said at last. “I never thought you would desert me. Even in my darkest hour I have always thought ‘Well, at least there is Annie.’ Now my hour of gloom has truly arrived, my black hour come, and I am only able to say ‘Annie has deserted me.’”
“No,” answered Annie, “I have not really deserted you; but I will not consent to drag either you or myself any lower. I dragged you low enough when I gave you that last money; I have lowered myself. I shall never be the same again. I have also injured one of the best girls in the world. I bitterly repent of the sin which I committed. I am truly sorry for poor Leslie. Now, Rupert, you know my decision.”
“Yes, it is true what I have just said: you have utterly forsaken me.”
“No; for I still love you.”
“Oh, don’t talk humbug, Annie!” said Rupert with an angry interjection. “When you utter the word ‘love’ at such a moment like the present you make me actually sick.”
“I will not utter it again,” said Annie; “but I can still feel it. Rupert, I will not do wrong for you. On that point I am firm. Now I must leave you. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Acheson gave me a message for you. She wished to know if you would dine with them this evening. Of course you will not come. Under the circumstances it would be quite impossible; but you may as well send back a polite message.”
“Say, with my compliments, that I shall be heartily pleased to accept the invitation,” answered Rupert.
“How can you dare?”
“Will you give the message? May I not accept my own invitation, or am I to be beholden to you?”
“Well, come if you like,” said poor Annie. “I cannot quarrel with you nor argue with you any longer. Come if you wish to do so; but plainly understand that, if you attempt to ask Belle Acheson to lend you any money, I shall immediately tell the entire truth to Mrs. Acheson.”
“I believe you; you are turning into a perfect little fiend. Well, at any rate expect me at dinner time.”
CHAPTER XXXI – HANDWRITING
After Annie and Leslie had left him, Mr. Parker returned to his office. There were two or three candidates still waiting for the vacant post of secretary. One of his clerks came to inquire what was to be done with them.
“I cannot see them,” was the reply. “You may as well say that the matter is practically settled, and that there is no use in any of them waiting.”
The clerk withdrew, and Mr. Parker began to pace up and down the length of his room.
“Well, bless my soul!” he said; “I cannot make out what all this means. There is a mystery somewhere. Why won’t Leslie Gilroy confess the truth? Well, if I don’t get to the bottom of this thing my name’s not Charles Parker. I believe – yes, I cannot help believing – that somehow the girl is innocent; but appearances are much against her.”
He opened a certain drawer in a cabinet which stood behind his desk, took from it a letter, and began to read. The letter ran as follows:
“Dear Mr. Parker:
“I am in great trouble and perplexity. I have got into a terrible scrape here, and only you can get me out again. I dare not confide in mother; you alone can help me. Will you give my friend, Annie Colchester, sixty pounds for me, and will you give it in notes and gold? I will never do what I have done again if only you will trust and forgive me this time. I cannot imagine how I have been led into these terrible debts; but I can only say I will never incur another. Please give the money to Annie at once, for the matter is most urgent.
“Your affectionate friend,“Leslie Gilroy.”
“There,” said the good merchant to himself, “there is her own letter – her own statement in black and white. She got into a scrape, went in debt, and wanted me to give her money. Well, if it were only debt – the ordinary girlish wish to possess herself of fal-lals and finery – why, I could forgive the child. There’s a look on her face which makes it hard for any man to withstand her; but the thing is this: she has not made a full statement; she did not want money for ordinary debts; she had another reason, and she would not divulge it. Why did she write to me as she did? What can be up? ’Pon my word! I feel quite frightened. There’s that mother of hers, the best of good women, and that noble young fellow her brother, and the rest of ’em; plenty of character, plenty of go, plenty of spirit, nothing mean or underhand about one of them; and there’s Leslie, whom all the rest look up to as the straightest of the straight and the best of the best, and who has about the most open face I ever looked into; and yet, if this letter is true, she is a sly, cunning little rogue, as sly and cunning as can be. I pity the mother, that I do: but there, is the girl guilty? Isn’t there some explanation of this extraordinary mystery?”
Mr. Parker looked again at the letter, then he folded it up and was about to put it back into his cabinet when he saw the paper on which Leslie had scribbled her request to him that day, lying on the floor. He stooped and picked it up, and the next moment his red face had turned pale, for Leslie’s scribble, carelessly written as it was, seemed to him to be written in a decidedly different hand from that of the letter. A moment later, all eagerness, quite trembling with excitement, the shrewd man of business was comparing both writings. There was a strong resemblance; most of the capitals were formed in the same way, but there was also a distinct difference.
With pursed-up lips and a wise shake of his head, Mr. Parker slipped the letter and the scrap of paper into his pocket, and left the office. On his way out he spoke to his head clerk:
“Hudson, don’t expect me back to-day. I shall return at my usual hour to-morrow.”
“Something has happened to annoy the chief very considerably,” thought the clerk to himself as Mr. Parker’s back disappeared through the doorway.
A moment later the great tea-merchant found himself in the street, the next he had hailed a hansom, and given the address of Mrs. Gilroy’s house in West Kensington.
“I could go by train, but a hansom will take me quicker,” he muttered to himself. “I hope to goodness she won’t be in; it’s Llewellyn I wish to have a chat with. Yes, I must investigate this matter, and I don’t want the mother to know anything about it until I can feel my bearings. There’s a way out of this somehow, and I believe the poor girl is nothing but a dupe. Can it be possible that she is shielding someone; but no, that can’t be the case, for when I went down to Wingfield she knew all about the story and never denied for a moment that she had written the letter. She looked sorry enough, but not surprised – no, not surprised. Bless me! if I know what the whole thing means. These girls, with their modern education, know a thing too much when they’re a match for a shrewd old fellow like myself. But I’ll see Llewellyn. I’ll sound him, whatever happens.”
When Mr. Parker got to the Gilroys’ house it so happened that Llewellyn himself was going up the steps. He was just about to put his latchkey into the door when the merchant’s hearty voice arrested him.
Llewellyn turned round, and a smile broke over his face.
“But mother’s out, I am afraid, Mr. Parker. You’ll come in all the same though, won’t you?”
“Yes, Llewellyn, my man, I just will. I want to have a word with you, my boy.”
“Certainly, sir. Is there anything I can do?”
“Take me where we can be alone for a minute or two. Your sister isn’t in – eh?”
“Do you mean Leslie?”
“Yes, your eldest sister, Leslie.”
“No, Mr. Parker; she is with her friends, the Chetwynds. One of the girls is very ill, and the other won’t do without Leslie.”
“I’m not specially surprised at that,” said the merchant. “She seems the sort of girl one would rely on a good bit; but that is not what I have come about. See here, Llewellyn, have you got a letter of your sister’s handy?”
“A letter! What do you mean?” said Llewellyn,
“Just what I say. I want to see one of your sister’s letters.”
“But I don’t understand,” said Llewellyn.
“And I don’t want you to understand, my boy. I want you just to exercise a little bit of faith in your father’s old friend, and not to say a single word to your mother about this. Now, go and find some letters of your sister’s. When you have found them, I want you to put a couple of them into my care. If they contain any secrets you may trust me not to blab; but this is a serious matter, and there is more in it than meets the eye. There, my boy, just do what you are told.”
“Of course I have got several of Leslie’s letters,” answered Llewellyn. “I think there are a few which do not contain anything of a private nature. I will give you one or two, sir, with pleasure.”
Llewellyn left the room, returning presently with a packet of letters kept together with an elastic band.
“There,” he said, “you can have them all, sir. I have not even looked at them. Leslie is as open as the day, and there is nothing in her letters that you may not see.”
“As open as the day – eh? You really think so. She’s not a bit secretive, now?”
“Secretive! My sister?” said Llewellyn, drawing himself up and flushing angrily.
“There, don’t get peppery. I’m very much obliged to you. You shall have these letters back again in a day or two at the farthest.”
“But are you going, Mr. Parker?”
“Yes; I must hurry back to town as fast as ever I can. Now, good-by to you; but hark, Llewellyn, not a word of this to your mother.”
“Certainly not, if you do not wish it, sir; but I fail to understand.”
“You must have faith, my boy. You will know all sooner or later.”
With the letters in his pocket, Mr. Parker went straight off to Scotland Yard. There he had an interview with Chief-Inspector Jones, got the address of a special expert of handwriting, and drove off to the man’s house.
Mr. Essex was in, and Mr. Parker had a short, emphatic interview with him.
“Well, sir.” he said finally, “you quite understand. You will examine the letters, and let me know the result to-morrow morning.”
Mr. Essex promised, and the merchant went away.
“Now,” he said to himself, “if this is a little game which some good people are trying to hide from Charles Parker they will quickly find themselves in the wrong box.”
CHAPTER XXXII – WHO HAS TAKEN THE KEY?
Punctual to the hour, and in a suitable evening dress, Rupert Colchester appeared at the Achesons’ house. Mrs. Acheson received him with her usual kindness. She was alone in the room when the young man happened to put in an appearance.
“Do you know,” she said, “that I am quite glad to have an opportunity of seeing you by yourself. I am not at all happy about your sister.”
“Indeed,” replied Rupert, putting on a sympathetic and very interested air. “Be sure of this, that anything you may happen to say to me about Annie will have my most tender consideration and my deepest interest. Annie and I are practically alone in the world. What is wrong with the dear girl?”
“She is very far from well; that I can see,” replied Mrs. Acheson. “She is also very much depressed, unnaturally so; and do you know, Mr. Colchester, that she did not know anything about your appointment in the Civil Service. She was amazed when I told her you were going to India.”
“Ah!” said Rupert, thoughtfully tapping the back of his heel against the brass rail of the fireplace, “I felt sure she would feel it dreadfully. The fact is, up to the present I have not dared to break the news to her, she is so intensely affectionate. Of course I intended to do so to-night. Now that you have done so, it is a great relief to me. She will not feel it so dreadfully after a little; and I know I can buoy her up with hope, for my intention is that she shall join me in a year or two. She shall be my housekeeper until she enters a good home of her own. I could not think of marrying until my dear Annie had a home of her own.”
“I felt certain that you had a good motive in keeping the important news back from her,” replied innocent Mrs. Acheson; “and I respect you all the more for your consideration.”
Just at that instant Belle and Annie entered the room. Belle wore her best dress. It was not much to look at; but something very great and uncommon must have induced her to put it on. It was made of soft black silk, and had ruffles of lace round the neck and wrists. She wore also a very narrow gold chain round her neck. When Rupert spoke to her, Belle found herself blushing.
Dinner was announced. Mrs. Acheson asked him to take her daughter down, and she herself conducted Annie to the dining-room. Annie had made no attempt to improve her appearance; she sat, feeling shy and uncomfortable, scarcely opening her lips, while Rupert carried the conversation his own way. He was a clever man, and he contrived on the present occasion to make himself quite brilliant. He talked about India, spoke of the liner in which he was going out; turned aside to Annie to say, “I will explain everything to you, my dear, presently”; told good stories about his early life in America, and then about his education in London; and managed to delight both Mrs. Acheson and Belle by the peep he gave them into a world which they had never entered. His manners to Belle were all that could be desired. He was extremely courteous and deferential and managed to convey a touch of admiration which was never unduly obtrusive. Such a strong effect did he have upon her that she forgot her beloved classics as she listened to him.
The meal came to an end, and when the ladies rose Rupert accompanied them to the drawing-room.
“No wine for me, thanks,” he said. “I am practically a teetotaler.” He then drew a chair near Belle’s side, and contrived to draw her into a literary conversation of deep interest.
Annie felt on thorns as she watched the two. More firmly each moment was she making up her mind. If Rupert dared to ask Belle to lend him any of the money in the wooden box she would confess all. She felt herself a hypocrite, and could scarcely stand Mrs. Acheson’s kind and affectionate remarks.
At last the slow evening came to an end. By this time Rupert had perambulated almost every foot of the drawing-room. He had stood close to the box – once his hand had touched it. It was when he was looking at Belle’s precious Greek Testament which lay on top of it. Rupert quoted a few sentences out of the Testament in his melodious voice to Belle, who nodded and praised his accent. He then went and stood in the deep embrasure of the window, looked out at the moon, which threw its radiance over the garden outside, and all of a sudden, without the least warning, began to talk of burglars.
“This is a very nice house,” he said; “but with that garden at the back it is not too safe; and you have no men on the premises, have you?”
“No,” said Belle; “but I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Well, I have the greatest dread of burglars breaking into a house inhabited only by women.”
“Oh, we are not at all afraid,” replied Belle. “Who would burgle here? We have no special valuables; a very little silver, no more. Besides, the windows are all thoroughly secured.”
She showed the device of the latch to Rupert, who said it was clever, very ingenious indeed. A moment or two afterwards he took his leave. As he did so, he nodded to Annie.
“See you to-morrow, little sis,” he said. “Cheer up about India, old girl; you shall come and join me by and by. – Good-by, Mrs. Acheson; I cannot tell you how I have enjoyed my evening.”
To Belle he did not say a word about his special enjoyment; but he gave her a look full of eloquence. She found herself blushing, and her heart beat a trifle quicker than its wont.
When the hall-door closed behind him, both ladies were eloquent in his praise.
“A charming fellow, and what a nice expression!” said Mrs. Acheson.
“He is a clever, which is better than being a charming, man,” said Belle; “he has a great and sincere respect for all learning. In his way he is an enthusiast. I do not care for conversation with men as a rule; but I must own that I respect Mr. Colchester, and enjoy talking to him. He is so sincere and so straightforward.”
“May I go to bed?” said Annie suddenly. “I have a bad headache, and should like to lie down.”
“Oh, poor child,” said Mrs. Acheson, “I do hope you are not sickening for anything, dear. You have looked so ill since you have been with us. Will you have some sal-volatile or eau-de-Cologne? What do you take when you have bad headaches?”
“Nothing,” answered Annie. “I lie down and try to sleep.”
She hurried from the room, scarcely waiting to bid either lady good-night. Mrs. Acheson and Belle sat up a little longer, then they also retired for the night.
Annie had lain down on her bed without undressing. It is true she pulled the counterpane over her in case Mrs. Acheson or Belle should come into the room; but sleep was far from her wakeful eyes.
By and by the house grew quiet. She heard the servants going up to their attics overhead; she heard Mrs. Acheson shut herself into her own room, and Belle shut herself into hers. Belle slept with her door locked, and Annie heard the key being turned. A few moments later profound silence fell upon the house; the lights were all out. One by one the inhabitants slept, all but Annie, who lay with every nerve tingling and her sense of waiting preternaturally acute.
While Rupert had been in the house she had followed all his movements with a terrible knowledge of him and his ways which gave her the clew to much that he was doing. When he laid his hand on the wooden box, Annie felt as if a burning-red hand had touched her own heart. When he stood by the window she could scarcely contain her uneasiness. When he spoke about burglars it seemed to her that the whole of what was immediately to follow was laid bare to her. Rupert was in desperate straits; he would stop at nothing to achieve his object. Was it possible that he, the man whom Annie loved, whose father had been good and respectable, whose mother had been one of the gentlest and sweetest of women, would stoop as low as this? Alas! Annie feared it. Now was her time for action. She slipped softly out of bed, unfastened her door without making any noise, and glided down through the silent house. Mrs. and Miss Acheson were both sound sleepers; the servants were far away. She reached the ground floor, turned the handle of the drawing-room door, found the door locked from the outside. Taking great care, she unlocked it, still without making any sound. Then, in her stockinged feet she crossed the room and took her place in shadow close to the window where Rupert had stood that evening.
The moon was still up, and its light fell across the room. The drawing-room had three large windows with Venetian blinds. It looked on to a fair-sized garden; the windows were not more than three feet from the ground. Annie now observed with increased apprehension that the blind to this window was up. She instantly remembered that it had got out of order that morning, and heard Mrs. Acheson say that she must send for a man to repair it. Rupert must have also noticed that fact as he stood with Belle close to the window.
Annie got still deeper into the shadow of the thick curtains, and waited. All too soon she heard just what she expected to hear – steps in the garden outside; the steps approached the window. The bright flood of moonlight was broken by a huge shadow; a man was standing on the window-sill. Annie did not stir. She heard the grating noise of a small diamond against the glass; a square was quickly cut out, a hand and arm intruded themselves, and the hasp, the construction of which had been explained to Rupert by Belle, was quickly unfastened. The next instant the window was lifted, and Rupert Colchester stepped into the room. He went at once to the table where the wooden box stood, laid his hand on it, and was about to turn back when Annie, making a sudden movement, confronted him, standing in the white light caused by the moon.
“You must put that box back, Rupert,” said Annie; “if you don’t I shall call out.”
Her sudden and unlooked-for appearance and her brave words staggered the man. He was holding the box in his hand. He dropped it now in his agitation. Before he could stoop to pick it up, Annie had snatched at it, flown across the room, and put it out into the hall. She then locked the drawing-room door, and slipped the key into her pocket.
“Now, Rupert,” she said, coming back to him, “the window is open, and you can go. I know you won’t injure me, for, after all, however wicked you are, I am your own sister, and the only person in all the world who loves you. You can go, Rupert; you can escape; the way is clear. But steal that box you don’t; I would rather die than let you.”
By this time the astonished and discomfited man had found his voice.
“I have not come here to be betrayed by you,” he said. “I am desperate, so you had best leave me alone. Give me the key of the door this minute; if you don’t I shall take it by force.”
“Rupert, I hear someone stirring overhead: Mrs. Acheson has heard you already. Oh, go, for Heaven’s sake.”
“A nice position you’ll be in,” he said with a sneer.
The noise in the room above was more audible than ever. Someone was heard walking across it.
“You’ve done for me,” he cried. “A nice sister you are! Yes, I suppose I had best hook it.”
Steps were now heard coming downstairs. Rupert, scowling at Annie, made a rush to the window, put his foot over the ledge and disappeared. He had scarcely done so before Mrs. Acheson’s voice was heard calling at the other side of the locked door.
“Is anybody in this room?” she cried. “Who has taken the key? What is wrong?”
Annie thought for a moment; she then walked straight to the door and flung it open.
“How you frightened me,” said Mrs. Acheson, coming in. “My dear child, what is the matter? How terrible you look! What is wrong?”
“I have had a fright,” replied Annie; “there has been an attempt at burglary.” She shook all over. “Don’t question me now, for I cannot bear it,” she said. “It is safe – he has not taken it. Do you see the square cut out of that pane of glass? He came in that way; he was just about to take the box when I showed myself.”
“The box, child? What box?”
“Belle’s wooden box.”
“What! that wooden box that Belle keeps full of coins?”
“Yes, the same. I saved it; it is in the hall. I – I feel a little faint.”
“Poor child, no wonder! What a terrible scare you have had! Who would have supposed that burglars would come to us? Well, dear, if the box had been stolen, how disappointed they would have been to find only ordinary coins. But come upstairs, Annie; I must get you some sal-volatile at once.”
Mrs. Acheson dragged Annie upstairs, then went to the servants, awoke them, and sent two of them off immediately to the nearest police-station. She questioned Annie still further with regard to the burglary; but could get little or nothing out of her, and concluded that she was stunned by the sudden shock. It was not until the widow had gone back to her room that she remembered how very strange it was that Annie should have locked the drawing-room door, how still stranger it was for Annie to be in the drawing-room at all. She was not naturally suspicious: but these circumstances did cause her a little serious thought.
When the morning dawned she went to her daughter’s bedroom.
Belle had heard nothing of the adventures of the previous night, and was considerably annoyed when her mother rattled the handle of the locked door, and asked for admission. Belle opened the door, and then stood somewhat crossly waiting for Mrs. Acheson to speak.
“What is the matter?” she asked.
The widow related what had occurred; said that she had found Annie in the drawing-room with the door locked, and Belle’s wooden box of coins at the other side.
“My coins! my treasures!” said Belle, color and animation rushing into her face. “How brave of dear Annie: how splendid of her! I know why she did it; it is unnecessary to explain the matter to you just at present, mother. I can only say that the box was full of valuables, and dear, brave little Annie has rescued them. Oh, she and I must indeed be one after this, all during the remainder of our lives. How queer, mother; it was only last night Mr. Colchester said something about burglars. He seemed to think we were in danger with the drawing-room window so close to the ground and looking into the garden; but I explained to him the ingenious way in which the windows were fastened, and then he seemed to think we were absolutely safe. I must go at once now to dear Annie, and thank her.”
