them at the door just as Pelham and Brian, appearing from different quarters, joined them also.
“What did you learn?” demanded Pelham.
“Nothing,”’ answered Mr. Dodd, briefly.
“Did you ask about the wallet?”’ inquired Brian.
Mr. Dodd shook his head. “Mary, you tell them,” he said to his wife. “I am going to telephone.” He went to the library and shut himself in. The three looked their inquiries at Mrs. Dodd.
“The boy is ill,” she explained. “He is lying in a fever, and is not able to talk.”
“Sick!” exclaimed Brian, scornfully. “Just from a fall!”
Harriet checked her retort. Her mother reproved Brian gently. “A blow on the head, a deep cut in the arm, a sprained ankle, and much loss of blood are enough for most people. Besides, we all think, from the look of his clothes, that he got wet in the woods yesterday, perhaps by blundering into a swamp. And he slept out without any covering. The doctor says it may mean pneumonia.”’
Harriet sat down. The news made her feel weak. Before he fell, had he already been feeling faint and sick? If he should die, what then would be her duty concerning the wallet? For as the face of the boy rose before her, and she saw his very eyes, earnest and appealing, she felt again that he must be honest.
She heard the boys and her mother talking, but could not listen to what they said. Her problem absorbed her. Was her promise binding? She sat thinking until her father joined them again.
“It ’s puzzling,” he said. “I ’ve been telephoning the station-master at Winton. He says that the matter of the disappearance yesterday is very clear to him. The older brother was in the greatest distress so long as he believed that the boy had fallen from the train: but when it was clear that no body was to be found, then he seemed certain that his brother had run away. All he wanted then was to follow him quickly to New York. He refused to give any address, and they have n't heard from him since.”
“How about dragging the ponds?” asked Pelham.
“There are n't any ponds along the route,” answered Mr. Dodd. “That was some reporter’s foolishness. Until he heard from me, the station-master supposed that the man had found his brother. And really, when you think of it, that is the natural conclusion. There is nothing to prove that this boy is that boy.”
“What are you going to do?” asked his wife.
“Nothing at all,” answered Mr. Dodd. “The station-master at Winton knows all there is to know, and if Wilson comes back, will send him over here. Meanwhile, the boy can’t get away.” He turned to the door.
“Father,” said Harriet, rising.
“Not now, dear,” he said. “I am driving your mother down to the store, and must hurry to the mill. We ’ll be back before supper.”
Harriet, after watching her father and mother drive away, went slowly to her room. The wallet still weighed heavily in her pocket, and she wanted to be rid of it, at least until she could talk the matter over with her parents. She shut herself carefully into her chamber. In her part of the house she knew that there was no one. Yet it was with caution that she took the wallet from her pocket, listened for a while, and then, going nearer to the light, looked at the cause of her troubles.
Then, with a start, she studied it eagerly, turning it over and over. It was a large wallet, and a long one too, made of good leather that had withstood much wear. It was stuffed with some- thing, but she did not open it. On one side, she saw faint impressions where once gilt letters had been stamped: a few tiny glittering spots were still adhering. Though she carefully turned the wallet to and from the light, Harriet could read nothing.
Yet she began to smile. “Now,” she asked aloud, “where shall I put it?” As she looked around the room, she realized how little real privacy she had there. Not only she herself, but also her mother and an old family servant constantly went to her bureau, bringing her clothes from the laundry or the sewing-room. Harriet saw no place in her chamber where she could hide the wallet.
A glance out of the window showed her Pelham and Brian on the tennis-court. Feeling safe from interruption by them, she went to the upstairs writing-room, which was nothing else than the old nursery. Here stood her and Peclham's desks, where in school-time they studied in the evening. To her desk she went.
It was a fine old one. Harriet was very proud of its swell front, its claw feet, its brass handles, and the beautiful dark wood. But now she was thinking of something else. In the center of its row of pigeonholes was a wide space for her ink-stand, and flanking this space were two little columns, looking like decorations set against wide partitions. Grasping one of these by its square capital, Harriet pulled at it. Pillar and partition both drew out, and Harriet had what she wanted. The partition was nothing else than a long and tall and very thin box, open at the back. Into 1t Harriet pushed the wallet, which fitted tightly.
