The Opened Shutters. Clara Louise Burnham

the lawyer. "Did you think I kept a brace of detectives in the back yard? I'm sorry about this. I'm"—

      Miss Lacey emerged from the handkerchief as suddenly as she had entered it. "Oh, the mistake I made—the minute I saw you wouldn't do your part in this—the mistake I made not to ask Thinkright. I never thought of him; but it came to me on the cars that he would have been the right one. I suppose you'd have consented easily enough that Sylvia should go to the farm; and now—Oh, Mr. Dunham, I can't forgive you for putting that typhoid fever idea into my head, but if she did have"—

      "A farm?" interrupted Dunham quickly, with an interest not lost upon his employer. "A farm would have been just the thing. Where is it, Judge Trent?"

      "It's a little place I have in Maine. A cousin of mine runs it for me. So you think, Martha, that I'm below criticism in this whole matter, do you? That's a rather bright thought of yours about Thinkright."

      "But it comes too late," returned Martha excitedly. "How do you know that Sylvia won't take the night train for the West right off to join that horrible Nat?"

      "Then you think she has money?"

      "I don't know. I only know she spurned the idea of any help from us."

      "Wouldn't take a cent, eh?" rejoined Judge Trent. He turned toward Dunham. "I'll take that twenty-five then, Boy. It's pay-day for Hannah."

      Dunham started from his leaning posture by the mantelpiece, and the lawyer watched his embarrassed countenance as he began a search through his pockets. He succeeded in extracting bills from two.

      "I've only eight dollars here, Judge," he said at last, avoiding the other man's eyes.

      "H'm. You and Miss Lacey must have painted the town," remarked Judge Trent, accepting the money. "Had a good appetite for dinner in spite of your troubles, hadn't you, Martha?"

      "We didn't have luncheon together," returned Miss Martha, indignant at her friend's flippancy. "Do you suppose I cared whether I ever ate again or not?"

      "The boy deserted you, did he? Didn't I tell you to take care of Miss Lacey?"

      Dunham caught Judge Trent's eye for a second, and looked away. "I think I took care of her," he replied coldly.

      "Of course you did," said Miss Martha impatiently. "He had business to attend to. Now perhaps you'll choose some other time for joking, Calvin Trent, and tell me what you propose to do while valuable minutes are flying."

      The judge drummed thoughtfully now on his desk. "That was a bright idea of yours concerning Thinkright," he remarked musingly.

      "Then make it worth something!" responded Miss Lacey. His deliberate manner was driving her to frenzy. "Send a telegram if you can't send a detective. Say, 'News to your advantage coming,' or something like that. Anything to keep her there while we send for Thinkright."

      "Send for him, eh?" mused the judge aloud.

      "Why, of course!" responded Martha, in the very throes of impatience. "She wouldn't come with me, would she? She certainly wouldn't come with you!" The speaker brought out the last pronoun with a vicious satisfaction.

      "Too bad of you to blacken me to her like that," remarked the judge. "I sent, as I supposed, an entirely capable representative. John admitted that he could carry off the affair with flying colors. How about that hand you had tied behind you, Boy?"

      Dunham changed his position. "It was a very strange and hard situation, Judge Trent," he replied stiffly. "Most unexpected and uncomfortable all around."

      "Then I may assume that you untied the hand?"

      The young man did not reply. His indignation at his employer's imperturbability was becoming as pronounced as Miss Lacey's.

      "I ought to have gone," continued Judge Trent. "Really I didn't suppose that a fellow recommended as an expert by such high authority as himself could be so invertebrate. You actually came away just because the girl told you to. Why, a novice could have done that."

      Dunham regarded the little man with a stern displeasure which entertained the judge highly. Then John turned toward Miss Lacey: "Just where is this farm you speak of?"

      "It's in Casco Bay. You take the train from Portland and then drive."

      "And this man with the strange name?" pursued Dunham.

      "Oh, it isn't his name, but nobody thinks of calling him anything else. He's Judge Trent's cousin, Jacob Johnson, and he lives on this farm winter and summer. He's a good soul, and he was cousin to Sylvia's mother, too, of course, and he"—

      "Casco Bay. I have friends who go there in the summer." Dunham's manner grew purposeful.

      Judge Trent rubbed his chin the wrong way. "I could send a detective, Martha," he said thoughtfully. "I don't keep them in the back yard, but I usually have one around the office. I could shadow the girl."

      Miss Lacey took hope. This met her longings. "If we only surely knew where she is!" she responded acutely.

      "Yes, if we only did," the judge replied equably. "Where is she, Dunham?"

      The young man flushed at the question.

      "I can't tell you," he answered, after a moment's pause.

      "Of course he can't," exclaimed Martha. "How queer you act, Calvin. Do you intend to do anything, after all?" Tears sprang to her eyes and overflowed, but she paid no attention to them as she gazed distractedly at the exasperating lawyer.

      Judge Trent's manner changed. He even smiled into the tearful countenance, and as she had suddenly risen he rose too.

      "Yes, Martha," he answered, "I expect to see something done about it right away. The fat actor shan't get Laura's little girl this time."

      Miss Lacey regarded the shrewd face in the intervals of wiping her eyes. "You'll telegraph to Sylvia, and send another message to Thinkright to come right here. Of course we can't be sure that Sylvia will get it, though—and there's all Thinkright's traveling expenses." The speaker's wet eyes looked appealing.

      "Dunham's going to tell us where Sylvia is," returned the judge quietly. He paused, and Martha looked bewildered by this persistence. She turned toward John questioningly.

      "I can't," replied Dunham again.

      Judge Trent shrugged his shabby shoulders. "Oh, well, I suppose you can telegraph for us, then."

      John swallowed, and meeting the lawyer's eyes, realized that he might as well save circumlocution.

      "Well—yes."

      "Of all things!" exclaimed Martha, with a start. "What do you mean?"

      The judge hooked his thumbs in his armholes, regarding Dunham quizzically. "How about Jacob Johnson, Esquire, alias Thinkright. Do you suppose if I sent to him to shake the hayseed out of his hair and come on here you might unburden yourself to him somewhat?"

      "Look here, Judge Trent," said Dunham, with exasperation, "perhaps you think I've had a pleasant day."

      The lawyer approached the speaker and patted his big arm. "Could you, John, could you, do you think?"

      "Yes, confound you!"

      "Then we're fixed, Martha," said Judge Trent calmly. "You're all right, Dunham. You didn't overrate yourself at all."

      "But I don't understand," exclaimed Martha tremulously, looking from one to the other.

      Judge Trent opened the door for her ceremoniously.

      "The intricate workings of the law, Martha, are difficult of explanation; but, after all, what do you care if the net result proves to be the arrival of your niece at the Mill Farm in a few days."

      "Of your niece, Calvin," returned Miss Lacey, moving to the door, followed by Dunham, whose brow was lowering. "Don't think of coming with me, Mr. Dunham," she added, turning to him. "It is still fully light—and," ingratiatingly, "did you say you were going to telegraph Sylvia?"

      "Yes."