For, with times hard and only two or three roomers all winter, I had
not had a servant, except Terry to do odd jobs, for some months.
There stood a fresh-faced young girl, with a covered basket in her
hand.
"Are you Mrs. Pitman?" she asked.
"I don't need anything to-day," I said, trying to shut the door. And
at that minute something in the basket cheeped. Young women selling
poultry are not common in our neighborhood. "What have you there?" I
asked more agreeably.
"Chicks, day-old chicks, but I'm not trying to sell you any. I--may I
come in?"
It was dawning on me then that perhaps this was Eliza Shaeffer. I led
her back to the dining-room, with Peter sniffing at the basket.
"My name is Shaeffer," she said. "I've seen your name in the papers,
and I believe I know something about Jennie Brice."
Eliza Shaeffer's story was curious. She said that she was postmistress
at Horner, and lived with her mother on a farm a mile out of the town,
driving in and out each day in a buggy.
On Monday afternoon, March the fifth, a woman had alighted at the
station from a train, and had taken luncheon at the hotel.
Pages:
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127