Tuesday afternoon Miss Lord's big touring car stood at the door of Hillcrest Lodge, for Agatha had invited the Conant party to ride with her to Millbank. Irene was tucked into the back seat in a comfortable position and beside her sat Mrs. Conant, who was going to make a few purchases at the village store. Mary Louise rode on the front seat with Agatha, who loved to drive her car and understood it perfectly.  
When they drove away there was no one left in the house but Sarah Judd, the servant girl, who was washing the lunch dishes. Bub was in the shed-like garage, however, washing and polishing Will Morrison's old car, on which the paint was so cracked and faded that the boy's attempt to improve its appearance was a desperate one.
 
Sarah, through the kitchen window, watched Bub for a time rather sharply. Then she went out on the bluff and looked down in the valley. Miss Lord's big car was just passing the Huddle on its way up the valley.
 
Sarah turned and reentered the house. Her meek and diffident expression of countenance had quite disappeared. Her face now wore a look of stern determination and the blue eyes deepened and grew shrewd.
 
She walked straight to the den and without hesitation approached the farther wall and took from its pegs Will Morrison's fine hunting rifle. In the stock was a hollow chamber for cartridges, for the rifle was of the type known as a "repeater." Sliding back the steel plate that hid this cavity, Sarah drew from it a folded paper of a yellow tint and calmly spread it on the table before her. Then she laid down the rifle, placed a chair at the table and with absorbed attention read the letter from beginning to end—the letter that Irene had found in the book.
 
It was closely written on both sides the thin sheet—evidently of foreign make—and although the writing was faded it was still clearly legible.
 
After the first perusal Sarah Judd leaned her elbows on the table and her head on her hands and proceeded to study the epistle still more closely. Then she drew from her pocket a notebook and pencil and with infinite care made a copy of the entire letter, writing it in her book in shorthand. This accomplished, she replaced the letter in the rifle stock and hung the weapon on its pegs again.
 
Both the window and the glass door of the den faced the back yard. Sarah opened the door and stood there in deep thought, watching Bub at his work. Then she returned to the table and opening a drawer drew out a sheet of blank paper. On this she wrote the following words:
 
"John Folger, 1601 F. Street, Washington, D. C.
 
Nothing under sterling over letter bobbing every kernel sad mother making frolic better quick. If England rumples paper Russia admires money.
 
Sarah Judd."
 
Each word of this preposterous phrasing she wrote after consulting another book hidden cleverly among the coils of her red hair—a tiny book it—was, filled with curious characters. When the writing was finished the girl seemed well satisfied with her work. After tucking away the book in its former place she went to her room, got her purse and then proceeded to the shed and confronted Bub.
 
"I want you to drive this car to Millbank, to the telegraph office at the railway station," said Sarah.
 
Bub gave her a scornful look.
 
"Ye're crazy," he said and went on with his polishing.
 
"That needn't worry you," retorted the girl.
 
"It don't," declared Bub.
 
"You can drive and you're going to," she continued. "I've got to send this telegram quick, and you've got to take it." She opened her purse and placed two coins on the fender of the car. "There's a dollar to pay for the message, and there's a five-dollar gold-piece to pay you for your trouble."
 
Bub gave a gasp. He came up beside her and stared at the money. Then he turned to look at Sarah Judd.
 
"What's up?" he demanded.
 
"Private business. Don't ask questions; you'd only get lies for answers. Go and earn your money."
 
"Miss' Conant, she's gone to Millbank herself. Ef she sees me there, I'll git fired. The boss'll fire me himself, anyhow, fer usin' the car when he tol' me not to."
 
"How much do you get a week!" asked Sarah.
 
"Four bits."
 
"That's about two dollars a month. In two months the Conants will move back to the city, and by then you'll have earned four dollars. Why, Bub, it's cheaper for you to take this five-dollar gold-piece and get fired, than to work for two months for four dollars."
 
Bub scratched his head in perplexity.
 
"Ye ain't count'n' on the fun o' workin'," he suggested.
 
"I'm counting on that five dollars—eight bits to a dollar, forty bits altogether. Why, it's a fortune, Bub."
 
He took out his knife, looked around for a stick to whittle and, finding none, put the knife in his pocket with a sigh.
 
"I guess Will Morrison wouldn't like it," he decided. "Put up yer money, Sairy."
 
Sarah withdrew the gold-piece and put a larger one in its place.
 
"There," she said; "let's make it ten dollars, and save time."
 
Bub's hesitation vanished, but he asked anxiously:
 
"Tain't go'n' to do no harm to them gals thet's stoppin' here, is it?"
 
"It is to do them a good turn that I'm sending this telegram."
 
"Honor bright?"
 
"Hope to die, Bub."
 
"All right; I'm off."
 
He folded the letter, placed it inside his Scotch cap and stowed the money carefully in his pocket.
 
"Don't let any of the folks see you if yon can help it," warned Sarah; "and, whatever happens, don't say anything about that telegram to a living soul. Only—see that it's sent."
 
"I'm wise," answered Bub and a moment later he started the car and rolled away down the road.
 
Sarah Judd looked after him with a queer smile on her face. Then she went back to her kitchen and resumed her dish-washing. Presently a scarcely audible sound arrested her attention. It seemed to come from the interior of the Lodge.
 
Sarah avoided making a particle of noise herself as she stole softly through the dining room and entered the main hallway. One glance showed her that the front door was ajar and the door of the den closed—exactly the reverse of what they should be. She crept forward and with a sudden movement threw open the door of the den.
 
A woman stood in the center of the room. As the door opened she swung around and pointed a revolver at Sarah. Then for a moment they silently faced one another.
 
"Ah," said the woman, with an accent of relief, "you're the servant. Go back to your work. Mrs. Conant told me to make myself at home here."
 
"Yes, I know," replied Sarah sarcastically. "She said she was expecting you and told me it wouldn't do any harm to keep an eye on you while you're here. She said Miss Lord was going to get all the family away, so you could make a careful search of the house, you being Miss Lord's maid, Susan—otherwise known as Nan Shelley, from the Washington Bureau."
 
Susan's hand shook so ridiculously that she lowered the revolver to prevent its dropping from her grasp. Her countenance expressed chagrin, surprise, anger.
 
"I don't know you," she said harshly. "Who are you?"
 
"New at the game," replied Sarah Judd, with a shrug. "You don't know me, Nan, but I know you; and I know your record, too. You're as slick as they make 'em, and the one who calls herself Agatha Lord is just an infantile amateur beside you. But go ahead, Nan; don't let me interrupt your work."
 
The woman sank into a chair.
 
"You can't be from the home office," she muttered, staring hard at the girl. "They wouldn't dare interfere with my work here."
 
"No; I'm not from the home office."
 
"I knew," said Susan, "as soon as I heard the story of your coming, that it was faked. I'd gamble that you never saw Mrs. Morrison in your life."
 
"You'd win," said Sarah, also taking a chair.
 
"Then who could have sent you here?"
 
"Figure it out yourself," suggested Sarah.
 
"I'm trying to. Do you know what we're after?"
 
"A clew to Hathaway. Incidentally, any other information concerning him that comes your way. That includes the letter."
 
"Oh. So you know about t............