The Green Jacket (Mystery Classics Series). Jennette Lee

and she did not offer again to take it up. The woman's eyes seemed to follow hers as they read, with a look of questioning in them:

      Dear Aunt Helen: I am thanking you every minute for coming to me. I know now you do not blame me. I could not talk freely with you. I am under a pledge. But a great wrong is being done. You must not rest till you know. The nurse has told me of Millicent Newberry. I think she can help you—and she can keep a secret. Go to her soon, dear Aunt. I am loving you always.

      Marian.

      Milly read it through without comment and folded it and returned it to her.

      "Who is Marian?" she asked. "What is her other name?"

      "She was Marian Mason," said the woman.

      Milly's needles knit a double stitch before she looked up.

      "‘Was'?" she said slowly. "Then she is——"

      "She died," said the woman. "The day before this was mailed." She touched the letter. There was a little quiver in her voice.

      "She called you 'aunt'?" said Milly with a motion toward the letter.

      The woman hesitated an instant. "I am not her aunt," she said at last. "She chose to call me aunt—but she was really my adopted daughter. We adopted her when she was twelve years old, and gave her our own name—Mason."

      Another double stitch slipped into the wool, and the woman's voice went quietly on.

      "You see she tells me to come to you." She touched the letter again. "That means I must tell you everything." She seemed to shrink a little.

      "You need not be afraid."

      "No—" It was almost eager. "I want to tell you! But I have suffered—and it comes crowding back!" She raised a gaunt hand to her breast and hurried on as if fearful her purpose might fail her.

      "I am Mrs. Oswald Mason. We live at Lincoln. We have always lived there, and Marian lived with us until two years ago. Then she went away. I have not seen her since—until two weeks ago when she wrote, asking me to come to her. She said they had told her she was dying, and she wanted to see me—" She paused, wrestling with herself.

      "You went to her, did you?" The voice was gentle, and she raised a grateful look.

      "I went at once. I could not have kept from going. . . . I always loved her dearly. Even when the trouble came, I loved her—though I was very hard on her." The voice dropped almost to a whisper.

      "What was the trouble?" asked Milly.

      "A necklace of emeralds—they were mine," said the woman. "And they disappeared."

      Something in the words and voice knit a swift, flying stitch into the green wool. But the quiet face was unmoved.

      "And you thought she took them?"

      "Oh—I didn't know!" The woman's hands in the wrinkled gloves clasped themselves tightly. "I did not think—they were gone!"

      "Was there any reason——?"

      "She was in my room alone nearly all the afternoon before they disappeared. She was doing up some laces for me and we had been looking over my jewels—cleaning some of them." She hesitated a minute. "I do not look like a woman who would have fine jewels, do I?" She raised her hollow eyes. "But my husband thinks I am beautiful." She said it softly and half-apologetically. "He likes to give jewels to me."

      Something far within the woman's face—a certain wild beauty—seemed to shine out elusively, and Milly, over her knitting, had a sense of truth in the words and a quick curiosity about the man who had seen and evoked the beauty in its uncouth setting.

      "I am old now," went on the woman slowly. "It was when I was young he gave them to me, most of them—but none so beautiful as the emeralds—" She seemed lost in thought, and Milly did not speak or move. Already her mind was busy bringing order out of the detached, chaotic words.

      "I could not help seeing that Marian admired them—the emeralds—while we were cleaning them. She held them up to the light and played with them, and finally she put them on and went over to the mirror and looked at herself a long time." The woman seemed to hurry over the words as if fearful of their import. "I put the necklace in the case and left it, unlocked, on my toilet-table when I went out. I did not come in till just before dinner, and I had to hurry and dress. But just before I went down-stairs, I saw the case and locked it and put it in the cabinet where I always keep it."

      She sat silent, looking before her. "I did not look in it. I could not dream of anything—I would sooner have suspected myself!" The hands in the wrinkled gloves were pressed tightly together. "I could not suspect Marian!" she said under her breath.

      "When did you miss them?" asked Milly.

      The eyes returned to her swiftly. "It was in the morning—next morning. Mr. Mason was starting for New York, and I remembered a pin I wanted him to take—to match a stone that had been lost, and I ran up to my room to get it. The minute I opened the case I knew the emeralds were gone." She paused a minute. "It was curious I should have discovered it so soon. Sometimes I did not open the box for days."

      "Did you tell your husband?"

      "At once. I hurried down with the box in my hand. I knew how valuable they were and I was so thankful he had not gone before I discovered it. He was terribly startled. I could see from his face, when I told him, that they must have been even more valuable than I knew. But he made light of it. He told me not to worry. He said I had mislaid them and would find them somewhere in the room. He made me promise not to mention it to a soul. Then he had to hurry to catch his train, and I was left alone. . . . I hunted everywhere."

      "But you did not find them?"

      "No—they had been stolen." The woman's voice was dull, but there was a quick crimson spot in either cheek that gave a wild glow to her face. "They have been a curse to me!" she said almost fiercely. "There has always been a curse on them—always!"

      Milly was folding her work slowly. She put it in the drawer and got up.

      "You want me to take the case?" she asked.

      The woman nodded without speaking. She seemed still wrestling with the emotion that had caused her to cry out.

      Milly opened the drawer at the right and took out an agreement form and passed it to her with a pen, indicating the line.

      "If you will be kind enough to sign there, I shall be glad to take the case."

      The woman received it with dazed look. She read it through and glanced up quickly.

      "But this gives you a great deal of power!" she said protestingly.

      "Yes, I do not take a case otherwise," replied Milly.

      The woman dipped the pen slowly. "It is strange," she said. "But I had thought of asking you to give me this power." She touched the paper.

      "You wanted me to find out who took the emeralds—and then let you decide what should be done with the thief?" Milly was not looking at her. The question was almost careless.

      "Yes." The woman smiled wanly. "Of course you would not do a thing like that!" She traced her name on the paper and Milly blotted it slowly.

      "Yes, I should be quite willing to do it. But you need not be afraid to trust me with this. You and I want the same thing, I think. . . . I will only keep it for safety—in case some one else tries to force my hand." She replaced the paper in the drawer and turned to the woman.

      "I want you to drop the case, and any fear or responsibility you may have. Do not think of the emeralds again till I ask you about them."

      "But I have not told you all!" protested the woman? "Don't you need to know more than this?" She made a little gesture.

      "Sometime—not now," said Milly. "You are tired and nervous. Go home and rest. Forget everything. To-morrow I shall come to you as seamstress."

      "But I have not——"