“‘Lemme help you miss,’ I says, as polite as could be—“and watcha think, she snatched back, and says, ‘You lemme lone. Get outahere!’ or somethin’ like that. Oh, she was mad all right.” “She has a high temper, hasn’t she?” “Yes’m, there’s no denyin’ she has. Then again, she’s sweet as pie, and nice an’ gentle. She’s a queer makeup, I will say.” “There, Callie, that will do; don’t gossip,” and Miss Bascom, sure she had learned all the maid had to tell, went downstairs to tell it to Mrs. Adams. The landlady seemed less receptive than usual, being still mindful of her husband’s admonitions. But Miss Bascom’s story of the burnt photograph roused her curiosity to highest pitch. “There’s something queer about that girl,” Mrs. Adams opined, and the other more than agreed. “Let’s go up and talk to her,” Miss Bascom suggested, and after a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Adams went. The landlady tapped lightly at the door, but there was no response. “Go right in,” the other whispered, and go in they did. Miss Mystery lay on the couch, her eyes closed, her cheeks still wet with tears. She did not move, and after a moment’s glance to assure herself the girl was sound asleep, Miss Bascom audaciously opened one of the small top drawers of the dresser. Mrs. Adams gasped, and frantically made motions of remonstrance, but swiftly fingering among the veils and handkerchiefs, Miss Bascom drew out a large roll of bills, held by an elastic band. Anita Austin’s eyes flew open, and after one staring glance at the intrusive woman, she jumped from the couch and flew at her like a small but very active tiger. “How dare you!” she cried, snatching the money from Miss Bascom’s hand, even as that elated person was unrolling it. And from inside the roll, down on the painted floor, fell a ruby stickpin. CHAPTER X WHO IS MISS MYSTERY? Mrs. Adams fell limply into a chair, her round eyes staring in horror. Miss Bascom had taken upon herself the rôle of dictator and with an accusing finger pointed at Miss Mystery she said: “What have you to say for yourself?” “Nothing,” replied Anita Austin, coolly, “except to insist that you leave my room.” “Leave your room, indeed! I am only too glad to! And I know where to go, too.” Miss Bascom’s determined air as she strode out of the door gave a hint of her desperate intention and within five minutes she was out on the road toward the village. Mrs. Adams, still almost speechless with surprise and dismay, looked sorrowfully at Anita. Something in the girl’s face stayed the kindly words the woman meant to say, and, instead, she broke out: “You must leave this house! What are you anyway? A thief—and a murderer?” “Oh! Don’t!” Anita put up her hand as if to ward off a physical blow. Then, as if the cruel words had stung her to a quickened sense of her own danger, she cried, piteously: