# The Green Jacket/Chapter 13
### XIII

She was down early at her work. But early as she was, some one was before her. The door to the breakfast-room was closed. Through it she could hear faintly the sound of dishes or the clink of a spoon, but no voices. Mr. Mason was apparently breakfasting alone.
Margaret Campbell brought in her breakfast and arranged the dishes on the tray. Then she stood waiting, one hand on the back of Milly's chair, her friendly eyes surveying the tray to see if anything were lacking.
Milly leaned back with a little motion of her lips, and the woman bent her head.
Almost without sound Milly shaped the words: "Will Mrs. Mason come down to breakfast?"
The woman made a gesture of assent toward the closed door.
"I want it open," said Milly softly. And with a nod of comprehension the woman passed to the door, moving with noiseless step and busying herself for a minute at the sideboard. She came out, leaving the door ajar behind her.
Through the crack Milly could see the back and shoulders of the man at the table. The room was filled with sunshine. . . . The man read his paper and turned it, and stopped to take a drink from his coffee-cup, and went on reading. All his movements were quick and nervous.
Milly moved noiselessly from the table where her own breakfast waited. She took up her knitting and seated herself where she could see more easily into the sun-filled room. A mass of vines and flowers in the window made shadows on the white cloth, and the kettle with its blue, flickering flame steamed gently. . . . One could not fancy anything harsh or unpleasant touching the brightness of the room where the man read his paper and the kettle hummed softly over the blue flame.
There was a little sound in the room beyond and the faint rustle of a woman's dress. The door opposite opened slowly.
She seemed a little haggard to Milly, in the morning light, as she glanced half-wistfully at her husband and moved toward the table. He did not turn or look up. When she had seated herself behind the coffee-urn he turned his paper and glanced at her absently, as if first aware of her presence.
"Good morning," she said. Her hands, hovering over the cups and spoons, trembled a little and she pressed the electric bell by her plate, seeming to steady herself.
If the man responded to her greeting, Milly did not hear the words. He laid down his napkin a little deliberately and got up, creasing his paper in quick folds.
She glanced up. "Are you through, Oswald?" Her voice had a note of surprise.
He nodded brusquely. "I have a busy day." He moved toward the door and paused and looked back. "Bradley is going to send out a car this morning—if you want to see it?" He waited her answer, not looking at her.
She was pouring cream into her cup and she set down the pitcher quickly. "When will it be here?" she asked.
"About eleven."
"And you are not going into town?"
Milly felt the anxiety that tinged the question. But if the man felt it he gave no sign.
"I shall go back with the car—after we've looked it over."
"And stay all day?"
"Probably." He raised his eyes and caught sight through the door of the sewing-room of a woman knitting. Her eyes were following the flying needles and her head was a little bent. . . .
He gave a gesture of surprise and turned to his wife, moving his hand and lowering his voice a little.
"Who is that—in there?"
He stood looking down, listening to the hurried explanation.
"How long will she be here?" he asked.
"A few days—you don't mind, do you, Oswald?"
"Of course not," he said brusquely. He went quickly out.
Milly put aside her knitting and brought her tray to the table and began her breakfast.
Through the half-open door she could see Mrs. Mason giving directions to the maid who had come in response to her bell.
When Mrs. Mason finished her breakfast she paused on her way out, at the door of the sewing-room. The maid in the room behind could be heard clinking cups.
Milly made a little gesture and Mrs. Mason stepped into the room.
"I am ready to work on your dress to-day," said Milly. The words were clear and distinct and carried to the room beyond, but her glance made a little signal and Mrs. Mason's hand on the door drew it together behind her as she came in.
"It is all right," said Milly. The low, even tone might have been proposing a new pattern or discussing gores and seams. "There will be plenty of time after eleven. Meantime, I want to see the servants. Can you manage for Margaret to be free if I want her?"
"It is so annoying—this morning of all others!" said the woman excitedly. "Why should he stay at home?" The clinched hands at her sides trembled a little. "Why should he stay? Does he suspect something?"
"Hush!" said Milly. "Your nerves are unstrung. Isn't it natural he should want you to see the car before he buys it?"
"Oh—yes!" The voice stifled with the words. "Yes—I know I am foolish. But it has been so long! And everything is so different—you saw him!" She motioned toward the closed door. "You saw how he hurried, just now—to get away from me!" Her hands made a little tragic gesture; then they covered her eyes swiftly, and Milly saw the tears pressing behind them.
"Listen! You will hamper me if you are excited and nervous." She spoke with decision and the woman took down her hands. She smiled a little wanly.
"I do not see why I should be like this! . . . I think it is because since you came I am beginning to hope. And I am afraid, too!" She spoke in a half-whisper with her glance on the door, behind which they could hear the maid moving about softly. She turned to Milly:
"I shall be brave! You will see! I am going to tell Margaret to come at once for your tray. I shall not be like this again! You will see!"
She nodded brightly and went out. Through the French window Milly could see Mr. Mason crossing the terrace toward the garage. In the adjoining room the maid had finished her work and gone out. The quiet and peace of the sunshine outside seemed to pervade the house.
When Margaret came for the tray she motioned her to sit down. "I want to ask you about one or two things," she said. "And this is a good time. Are the servants in the house now the same ones who were here two years ago when the emeralds disappeared?"
The woman's face seemed suddenly to pale. She sat down with a half-frightened look and closed her lips firmly. But in spite of the pressure of her will on them they trembled a little.
"You need not be afraid," said Milly kindly. "Mrs. Mason wants you to tell me anything you know. She will be happier when we have solved this mystery than she has been for a long time. You must help me, Margaret."
The woman gulped a little and looked at her without speaking. Then her eyes filled slowly with tears. They had a grotesque, pathetic look in the fat face.
"Tell me," said Milly. "Was the butler here then?"
"Batson? Yes, Batson was here. And Katie—she's the parlor-maid—he was here. And cook, Mrs. Batson, she was here—and me. And that's all."
Milly checked them rapidly in her mind. "Are there any new ones?"
"The scullery—he's new."
"And there are gardeners?" Milly glanced through the window toward the garden and the lawn that stretched away to the trees. A horse-driven lawn-mower was clicking busily across it.
"There's three of them—besides the head-gardener, Simpson. And there's the chauffeur—he's new. But they all live outside. They're never in the house."
"Could they slip in from the outside—perhaps at meal-time—without being seen?"
"It wouldn't be easy—not with me around!" said the woman proudly. "I'm always somewhere. I guess they all know that!"
She smiled a little grimly. She was sitting erect, a hand on either knee, and the hands were clinched a little. "I've always took care of Miss Annie and of Miss Annie's things!" she said. "No thief could get into this house, from the outside, without me knowing it!" She said the words slowly, and she paled a little under Milly's eye, as if she had been carried further than she meant.
"It was somebody inside, then," said Milly quietly.
"I didn't say it!" cried the woman.
"No. And we won't say it—yet." Milly was thinking swiftly. "How could I see the butler—in some natural way?"
"Batson?" Margaret considered it. "Well—he's around in the mornings—back and forth."
"He doesn't serve breakfast?"
"No—that's Katie."
"Suppose I wanted another table for sewing, would Batson be the one to bring it?"
"If his rheumatism wasn't too bad," conceded Margaret.
"How is his rheumatism to-day?" asked Milly, smiling.
"The last time I heard him complain was week before last," said Margaret. . . . "Weather like this, he's pretty comfortable, I guess."
The sound of the lawn-mower that had been clicking busily ceased suddenly, and Milly's glance following it saw that it had halted at the edge of the wide lawn. Mr. Mason was standing beside it, talking with the driver.
Margaret's eye rested on them a minute, and turned away. Something hostile in it caught Milly's glance.
"Mr. Mason is staying at home this morning," she said casually.
"It's no comfort to any one—if he stays—or he don't stay," muttered the woman.
Milly looked at her keenly. "What do you mean by that, Margaret?"
The woman turned sullenly. "If you'd seen my Miss Annie when we first come here—beautiful—and always laughing and happy!" Her tongue seemed suddenly loosened and her heavy face became alive. "There was never anybody like her, I tell you. . . . Just something about her made you feel as if you wanted to lie down and let her walk over you. . . . And he felt it!" She moved her hand contemptuously to the distant figure. "There wa'n't anything he wouldn't do for Miss Annie then—or buy for her— Jewels! You should see the things he bought her—like a queen!" She sat looking at it, a great rebellion smouldering in her eyes.
"And now?" said Milly softly.
The look broke. "And now," she blazed, "he treats her like a dog!"
"Do you mean he is unkind to her?"
"Not to speak to her—not to notice if she comes in or goes out. . . . Is that 'unkind'?" she mimicked. "He goes to his room—and locks the door on her. 'Unkind'!" she repeated scornfully.
"And yet he looks like a man who has suffered," said Milly thoughtfully.
"Oh—suffered! And haven't we all suffered!" she cried. "And no one to tell what the trouble is—or how to set it right!"
"That is what I am here for, you know. Perhaps before I go, Margaret, something will come back to this house—something of the old happiness and love."
"As it was when Miss Marian was home!" said the woman eagerly, as if she saw it again. "Always somebody coming and going, running through the hall out there or calling up the stairs—or maybe Miss Marian hurrying up to her room and calling: 'Come and help me, Margaret. We're going for a picnic!' And many's the time we've had the terrace here thick with people, and tables for tea—and Batson hurrying to serve them all. Or maybe hampers carried out to the tennis-court, there under the trees. . . . Everybody was happy then!"
"Yes. And everybody will be happy again!" said Milly cheeringly.
"Not Miss Marian!" A great tear rolled down her cheek, and she did not lift her hand to brush it aside. "She was the happiest!" she said softly. "She had a way like sunshine with her."
"No, we cannot bring her back to life. But we can make Mrs. Mason less lonely, perhaps."
The woman's face lighted and she lifted a hand swiftly, brushing away the tears.
"If you can do that for her, I'll bless you—till the longest day I live!' she said solemnly.
"And that will be a long while, I hope," responded Milly, laughing. "Now, can you find Batson for me? I think I'll have him move that secretary!" She eyed the heavy piece of mahogany furniture that stood by the side wall. "I want to put my sewing-table there—to get a better light on it."
Margaret looked at the massive piece of furniture. She shook her head. "Batson won't like it," she said. "He won't like doing it, and he won't like the idea—a heavy piece like that."
"Well, send him in. We will see." And as she waited for Batson she was conscious of a little feeling of thankfulness that Batson was a man—not only because he would probably be strong and could move the secretary for her, but because, whatever his defects, he was not likely to weep.
She had a refreshing sense of the stolidity of Batson's figure seen through the distant doorway. . . . She would not need to keep Batson long or question him closely. A few minutes would probably suffice.