keepsakes it contained. Intrinsically, the value of the articles
that she named was not very great, although nothing could replace
the diary or the miniature of his dead wife. But as he had
intimated to Janice over the telephone there was something else.
There was that lost with the so-called treasure-box that meant
more to him than the mementoes his daughter had known about.

During this lonely year that had passed since his wife's death,
Mr. Day's experiences with domestic help had been disheartening
as well as varied.

Olga Cedarstrom had been with them two months. She had come
rather better recommended than some of her predecessors. Instead
of obtaining her services through an agency, Mr. Day had found
her in "Pickletown," as the hamlet at the pickle works was
called.

There Olga, recently arrived in Greensboro, had been living with
friends. Mr. Day went over there first of all to search for the
girl.

But her whilom friends knew nothing about Olga since the previous
evening. They did not know that she contemplated leaving Mr.
Day. And she had not appeared at Pickletown after she had
departed from eight hundred and forty-five Knight Street that
morning.

Mr. Day did not wish to put the police on the trail of the absent
Olga. In the first place there was no real evidence that the
Swedish girl had stolen the box of mementoes.