suttinly heavy. Some food. Where at this stuff go, Miz’ Jessica?”
“In the kitchen of course, stupid,” snapped Jessica at him, though she was forced to admit, mentally, that it wasn’t poor Germinal’s fault that he was not Valentine Morley.
Lunch, as cooked by Elizabeth and served by Germinal, was a satisfying affair, and after it was over Jessica decided that she would be the better for a nap; they had traveled far and she was tired, though she felt it now for the first time. She told Elizabeth to take a nap for the rest of the afternoon, and retired to the pretty little room she had chosen for herself.
Fully clothed she lay down on the bed and tried to compose her mind to sleep, but it would not come. She could not help thinking of the queer circumstance of her being here at this time. Yesterday, at this hour, she had no thought of Virginia, and to-day she was here. . . . It was peculiar.
Why had she done as Ignace Teck required? Was there something really in thought transference . . . mental suggestion . . . hypnotism? Those greenish eyes . . . they did take hold of one.
And what did he expect to accomplish down here? That money of her father’s, now . . . did he really think it was hidden somewhere on this estate? And if it was, how did he propose to go about finding it? That brought her to the thought of the books. Perhaps they held the secret. Why not? Her father had been queer, mentally, during the last few years of his life. There were those who insisted that he was not entirely sane . . . that he was a monamaniac on the score of his money.
Perhaps that was so. If it was, there was nothing
