“Well, then, after that,” Arden went on with her story of events, “a man, dark, tall, and somewhat like Dimitri, drove up one night and he, too, asked the way to theMerry Jane. He wouldn’t let us row him over. He was very polite about it, and he took our boat. Toward morning I saw him drive away in his car that he had left parked at Terry’s house, and—and—” Arden faltered as she realized another surprising fact—“that’s the last time we heard from Dimitri!”
This startling announcement held them all speechless. They had completely overlooked its significance. And yet it was so obvious. The dark stranger had evidently come over to the houseboat that night and—— Surely he was responsible for Dimitri’s disappearance.
Terry wandered over to the combination bed and couch and sank down upon it. She looked in a bewildered fashion at the floor and almost immediately was galvanized into action. At her feet lay a white paper; something they had not noticed before. She snatched it up and spread it out on her knee. It was part of an envelope torn partly across and lengthwise. Written on it in ordinary blue ink was this:
SerNinth SNew Y
Ser
Ninth S
New Y
“Look!” excitedly exclaimed Terry. “Here’s part of an address!”
They all crowded close to see, and Chief Reilly, as befitted one in his station, held out his hand for the paper. Terry meekly gave it to him.
“You’re right!” he exclaimed and turned the paper over. Then, as the surprised girls watched, he drew out from the inside of the envelope a second small piece of paper. “This seems to be some kind of a map,” he announced, turning it around in an effort to decide which was the top.
“Let’s see!” Arden asked. The chief gave it to her. “It is a map!” she agreed, “and it shows the road from the city and the branch one to the village. See, it has part of the word Oceanedge.”
“Perhaps we can find the rest of it,” Sim suggested. But a most careful search failed to reveal more of the paper.
“Olga dropped that!” Arden announced suddenly. “I remember seeing it fall from her bag, but I was too stupid to do anything about it.”
“Oh, no, Arden,” Terry said. “If you had noticed it and called it to her attention, she would have picked it up again. As it is now, we’re reasonably sure she knew the way to theMerry Janeall the while, though she tried to make us believe she didn’t.”
“And to think we let her go without even finding out her name or who she was,” Sim moaned.
“Now I’m sure there’s something queer about Dimitri being away,” Arden said convincingly. “Why should Olga pretend to be ignorant about the road? Why didn’t she worry about Dimitri? How did she know about the snuffbox? She went straight to the cupboard as if to get it.”
“You girls may have stumbled on something at that!” the chief exclaimed with a faint note of admiration in his voice. “Yes, indeed!”
They stood in the untidy living room wondering what might be the solution to all this mystery. Tania rubbed against Sim’s slim legs. The girl gently pulled the silky ears, something forming in her mind.
“I’ve got an idea!” Sim cried out. “Perhaps Tania could trace Dimitri if she had something of his to sniff at. After all, she’s a wolfhound, and the hound part of her name must mean that she can trace missing persons.”
“We can try,” Arden admitted. Somehow, despite the chief’s presence, the girls regarded the “case” as their own and did not dream of consulting him on matters such as this one.
Momentarily the discovery of the piece of letter and the map was forgotten in the excitement of the new suggestion. Sim found a battered old felt hat and held it before Tania’s nose.
The dog sniffed at it disdainfully and then sat back on her haunches looking at Sim.
“Go find him!” Sim urged. “Find Dimitri!”
The tone of her voice may have done it, or else it was a game of dog and played before, for she sprang up again and dashed toward the door. Standing on her hind legs and pushing with her forepaws, she opened it, for it was not fully latched.
Tania galloped down to the water edge and ran back and forth excitedly, her nose to the ground. The cat-tails in the marsh bent before the strong wind, which whistled eerily through the tall sedge grass. As is usual with nor’easters, the rain had temporarily ceased again, and the afternoon sky seemed a little brighter. Tania turned to look questioningly at the girls as she raced back and forth along the little strip of ground. At last she stopped and, sitting down, facing the storm-swept bay, she howled mournfully.
“Tania!” Arden called. The dog came slowly to her, tail between her legs, a picture of despair.
“What does that mean?” Terry asked of Reilly. She did not dare to interpret the performance for herself. “Do you think he may have—drowned?”
“Naw,” Rufus Reilly replied scornfully. “It probably don’t mean a thing. That dog couldn’t follow no scent in the wet weather. Just the same,” he continued wisely, “this here is a mysterious case, all right, all right! I’m glad you called me in. It’s the first time I’ve had any real work to do in years. Now, what in thunder did I do with that paper? I’ve got to study it a bit.” He began to search in his numerous pockets.
“Here it is, Mr. Reilly,” Arden said handing it to him. “You let me look at it.”
“Oh, yes, so I did! Well, I guess there’s not much we can do around here, is there?” he asked the girls. “Out of sight makes the mare go.” Another, of his silly, joking proverbs.
They shook their heads silently. Arden took Tania back to the houseboat again and shut her inside. Food and water had been left for her. Then, after a quick look around, they all left.
“I’ll work on the case,” Rufus Reilly announced as he climbed into his car, “and let you know about it sometime tomorrow. Don’t worry, though. It’ll all come out in the wash.” And chuckling at his poor joke he drove away in the early twilight.
“Great helpheis,” Sim remarked disdainfully as they watched the old car bump along.
“We don’t know any more now than we did before,” Terry said, agreeing with Sim.
“Yes, we do,” Arden contradicted. “You’re forgetting about that paper. While you two were watching Tania perform her little trick, I was memorizing the words on that torn piece.”
“Good for you, Sherlock!” Sim exclaimed. “And what do we do next? Go home and work out the cryptogram?”
“Something like that,” Arden answered. “I’ve got a plan. Let’s get going, and we’ll see how it works out. Terry, is it too late to go to town for just a few minutes? What I’m going to do won’t take long.”
“What are you going to do?” Terry questioned. “Tell us.”
“I thought of going to the drug store and trying to trace the writer of this note by getting information of the New York telephone company,” Arden told them.
“Good idea, Ard! Of course we have time for that. And, anyway, we’d better do it while you still remember the words,” Terry said.
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t forget them,” Arden replied with the first show of relief they had felt in some time. “A Blake never forgets!”
They piled into the car and rode along the deserted road to the village. The drug store was fortunately empty except for a rather stupid-looking boy clerk.
Arden entered the phone booth, and her chums crowded around her. They waited impatiently for the really short interval it took to make the connection with the New York office. As the clear sharp voice of the girl sang out “Information,” Arden explained the difficulty.
“We are trying to get the phone number of an address in New York,” she said, “but we’ve torn the paper. I’ll give you as much as I can. Do you think you can help us?”
“Sorry, madam,” came the voice, “but I can’t possibly trace the name.”
Arden hung up and turned sorrowfully toward her friends.
“I might have known it,” she said. “Of course we couldn’t do anything that way. It was a desperate chance at best.”
“Too bad, Arden,” Terry soothed. “I still think it was a good idea. But let’s get out of here; our young friend,” she indicated the curious clerk, “is awfully interested in us.”
“We’d better be starting for home, anyway,” Arden suggested. “Your mother might worry.”
So they left the little village, which was quite deserted now in the late afternoon, and wearily put the car away for the night in the garage of the little white house.
Mrs. Landry was interested to learn all that had happened, and urged them to keep up their spirits. Somewhat woefully, the girls smiled at her and agreed at least to try further.
After the evening meal, when they gathered in the living room, Arden and Sim decided to write letters home but thought it best not to mention the new “mystery.”
Arden sat at the small wicker desk, pen and paper before her, and got as far as “Dearest Mother.” But her mind was far away and after this auspicious beginning she looked up from the paper dreamily.
Poor Dimitri! Where could he be? And Olga—and the paper and the snuffbox. Then Arden, drawing a line through the beginning of her letter, wrote down the queer words from the envelope.
SerNinth SNew Y
Ser
Ninth S
New Y
What could that possibly be? What man’s name began with the letters S E R?
“Terry,” Arden said suddenly, “have you a dictionary here? One that would have proper names in it?”
“I have one that I brought down with some books from Cedar Ridge. Will that help you?” Terry replied.
“Get it, will you, please,” Arden continued. “I’m going to try and work out this puzzle and send a telegram to an address. If it isn’t delivered, we’ll know it’s no good. I’d rather spend the last of my allowance that way than on candy.”
“Swell plan, Arden!” Sim exclaimed. “Get the trusty dictionary, Terry, and let’s start to work.”
Terry dashed up the stairs and rummaged hurriedly in the pile of almost forgotten college books in her room and at length returned carrying the volume.
Arden flicked back the flimsy pages and ran her hand down the line.
There were biblical first names as well as Greek and Latin ones, and Arden was somewhat at sea as she murmured:
SerahSeraphimSeredSeresSergiaSergiusSeriahSeronSerug
Serah
Seraphim
Sered
Seres
Sergia
Sergius
Seriah
Seron
Serug
“Do you like any of them, or does any one sound logical?” she asked her chums.
“Sergius!” exclaimed Sim. “That sounds Russian to me.”
“Sergia,” Terry voted. “That’s also Russian, but one may be a woman’s name. How can we get around that? There’s no way of finding out from this list. It’s very impartial.”
“We can get around it this way,” Arden declared. “Just use Serg. Then we’ll be safe if it’s a man or woman. You know a boy’s name could be Ted, and they call some girls Ted. I’m in favor of just Serg.”
“It sounds good,” admired Terry.
“I’m for it,” added Sim. “But what about a last name?”
“There’s going to be a rub,” said Terry. “We took the easiest part first.”
“It seems almost impossible, doesn’t it?” sighed Arden.
“Yes, it does. It might be Smith or Brown or Jones,” Sim remarked. “This is quite an undertaking, I’m afraid.”
“Well, there’s no harm in trying,” Arden protested. “Working with Dimitri in mind, it’s logical to suppose that, being Russian, he’d have Russian friends or relatives, isn’t it?”
Sim and Terry agreed silently.
“I guess relatives, Arden,” said Sim suddenly. “I think that man who came here looked like Dimitri.”
“Maybe you’re right, Sim. Shall we try Uzlov?” Arden looked to them for agreement.
“Yes!” exclaimed Terry. “Serg Uzlov! That’s a good start.”
“Of course, we may not gain anything by this, and besides, perhaps we should have told Rufus Reilly what we intend to do. Do you think so?” questioned Arden, chewing the little ring on the top of the fountain pen.
“Not at all!” Sim protested. “If Dimitri was a brother, or something, I think we’d do just this, and I think we’re perfectly justified in doing it.”
This outburst gave them new courage, and they puzzled for some time over the address. Then Terry finally called in her mother.
“What would be the Russian quarter in New York, Mother?” she asked, explaining what they were trying to do.
“Let me try to remember,” said Mrs. Landry. “Perhaps if I looked again at the address as you have it, something might suggest itself to me.”
They showed it to her, Arden writing it out from memory again.
“There seems to be no question but what this address is in New York,” Mrs. Landry went on, after several seconds of obvious concentration. “Now, as to the street. From the way the address is written it must be Ninth Street. It cannot be Nineteenth Street for there was no part of a word before the Ninth, was there?”
“No.” The girls were agreed on that point.
“And it cannot have been Twenty-ninth, or Thirty-ninth or any of the higher numbered streets in the pines. Because the word Ninth was too near the left side of the envelope. So I think it is safe to assume that Ninth Street was intended.”
“Splendid!” exclaimed Arden. “Terry, your mother should be in entire charge of this mystery investigation.”
“Oh, no, my dear. None of that for me, if you please,” Mrs. Landry laughed.
“But you’re helping us so!” murmured Sim.
“This may be no help at all, as it turns out. But I’ll go on to the end as far as I can. We’ll decide on Ninth Street. That, as you know, is at least partly in what is, or was, the Greenwich Village section of New York.
“I think it safe to say there are Russians there. You know there are artists and writers living there and all sorts of odd tearooms, some undoubtedly of Russian character.”
“Oh, we are coming on!” cried Arden. “What next, Mrs. Landry?”
“Well, I should say, from looking at this, that no house number was ever put in front of the street. Whoever wrote this must have known that the letter would go to its destination without a house number on it. The writer must have sent other letters in the same way, trusting to the mail man knowing where to leave it.”
“Some mail man!” commented Terry admiringly.
“But then Ninth Street may be a short one,” said Mrs. Landry. “I can’t just recollect about that, though I have been on it. At any rate, I think, in such a desperate case as this,” and here she smiled slightly, “you would be justified in sending the telegram to the name you have selected, with just Ninth Street, New York, as its destination. Those telegraph messenger boys are clever. One may know just where to take it or he may inquire of some Russian in the Village. The Russians are clannish, like all foreigners, and this person may be well known.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s going to succeed now!” declared Arden.
“Of course!” murmured her chums, Sim adding:
“You write the telegram out now, Ard.”
Arden wrote and read:
“‘Serg Uzlov. Ninth Street, New York City. Can you give us any information concerning Dimitri Uzlov? Very important. Anxious to get in touch with him. Telegraph my expense.’”
“‘Serg Uzlov. Ninth Street, New York City. Can you give us any information concerning Dimitri Uzlov? Very important. Anxious to get in touch with him. Telegraph my expense.’”
“That’s a lot more than ten words,” remarked Sim.
“Who cares?” laughed Terry. “This may mean a lot. But you’ll have to sign some name to it, won’t you?”
“Could we use yours, Mrs. Landry?” asked Arden.
“Yes, I think so,” Terry’s mother answered after a moment of thought. “It will do no harm.”
“Then we’ll do it,” decided Arden.
“I can hardly wait!” Sim cried excitedly. “Of course we couldn’t go to town tonight?” she looked beseechingly at Mrs. Landry.
“Of course not, my dear young Watson,” Terry’s mother smiled as she replied. “You sleuths have done quite enough for one day. Besides, think how silly you’ll feel if you find out nothing has happened at all.”
“I suppose so,” Terry reluctantly admitted. “But somehow, Mother, I think there’s something in this.”
“You may be right,” her mother agreed. “Nevertheless, your commanding officer orders you all to bed.”
Somewhat petulantly they kissed the jovial lady good-night and went upstairs, but not to sleep till some time later, when, unable to stay awake any longer, they at last succumbed to the call of Morpheus.
But sleeping though they were, it was a fitful rest. Filled with dreams of gold boxes, strange dark women, and telegrams. Once Arden cried out, “Tania! Tania!” and Sim gave her a sleepy nudge to wake her from her dream.
Arden sighed and rolled over. Morning was so long in coming. At length the smiling sun climbed up over the edge of the ocean and announced the beginning of a new day.
As soon as they possibly could after breakfast the next day, the three girls rowed over to the houseboat and fed Tania. They let her romp for a while and reluctantly locked her up again. They feared the townspeople, ever on the watch for something to talk about, would find some choice gossip if they were seen in the village with the “Russian’s” dog.
The storm was over, and the sun, almost a stranger, broke through the clouds, blinding in its brightness. The day promised to be hot, so dressed in cool “semi-back” dresses the girls left the houseboat and went home first to report to Mrs. Landry that there was no news.
Then they got the car out and went to the village to send the telegram, which they all hoped would bring good results.
“You’d better shut the door of the phone booth,” Terry suggested to Arden as they entered the drug store. “You never can tell who’ll be listening, and the whole town would be excited if they heard the message.”
“Yes, I think that would be best,” Arden agreed.
Trying to appear nonchalant, as though this was an ordinary call, Arden sent off the message. She requested an immediate answer. To make doubly sure, she informed the operator who took the telegram that she must know as soon as possible if it was delivered and left the number of the drug-store phone.
The telegraph company had an arrangement with the drug store so that messages could be telephoned in and payment made to the clerk. When Arden had completed the dictation, at the request of the operator, she got the drug clerk into the booth, and he was informed as to the toll, which Arden paid him.
“It will take a while, even if it is delivered,” Arden told her friends. “So we might as well do the shopping and come back.”
“Oh, I do hope we get a reply,” Sim said earnestly. “I couldn’t sleep last night thinking about Dimitri.”
“For a person who couldn’t sleep, you gave a marvelous imitation,” Arden answered sarcastically. “Three or four times I could have sworn you were dead to the world.”
“Me-ouw—me-ouw,” Terry squeaked. “Don’t be catty! The time will go quicker if we keep busy.”
They did all the shopping they had to for Terry’s mother and walked once around the block to kill more time before returning to the drug store.
Arden could no longer be diplomatic. She marched up to the dull-looking soda boy and asked in clear tones: “Did a message come for me?”
“Haven’t had a call today,” replied the youth behind the counter. “Were you expect——”
The phone bell rang sharply. Arden almost ran to answer it, slamming the door shut behind her.
Terry and Sim could see her face, bright with anticipation for a few seconds, then with dismay saw her expression change. They couldn’t hear what she was saying, but in a short while she was out again and beckoned them to follow her outside.
“That was one of the managers of the telegraph company in New York,” Arden reported. “He’s in the office nearest Ninth Street. He said they couldn’t send a boy out to deliver a message without a street address—it would lose too much time. But if we are willing to pay extra for messenger service, he says he’ll have a boy sort of scout around and try to locate the party.”
“What did you tell him?” asked Terry.
“Told him to go ahead and we’d pay anything in reason. He said it probably would not be much more than a dollar.”
“We’ll chip in,” declared Terry.
“I thought you would; that’s why I authorized him to go on. So now we’ll have some more waiting. They’re going to try again.”
“Oh, I hope we have some luck this time,” Terry remarked. “But whatever shall we do with ourselves while we’re waiting?”
“That’s a problem,” Arden said thoughtfully. “Let’s get our hair washed and waved. Mine could stand it. It’s full of salt water.”
“Great!” Sim exclaimed. “Of course, we know the beauty parlor here is nothing to write home about, but it will serve.”
“It will serve us, little one,” Terry declared, and they walked three abreast down the sunny street.
The girl operators were glad to have some new customers, and city folks at that, so they asked innumerable questions. The three girls were guarded in their answers, afraid they would give away their secret.
A none too gentle girl rubbed Arden’s scalp with stubby fingers, keeping up her barrage of questions the while. What was the latest coiffure in the city? Was the long bob going out? What kind of a permanent did she have? Wearily Arden answered, wishing the girl would keep quiet.
But at last it was over and they went back to haunt the drug store again.
No, the clerk told them, no message had yet come.
The girls sat down on the steps outside. This was not an unusual thing to do. In a small village one could sit for hours by the gas station, post office, or drug store without being thought queer.
In an agony of suspense, they waited fifteen minutes—twenty minutes. They reached a point where they were sitting silently, each busy with her own worrying and wondering thoughts.
An answer was almost too much to expect of the most kindly fate. But it was true there was no harm in trying. Dimitri was gone, and the snuffbox too. The situation, despite Chief Reilly’s jovial acceptance of it, was taking on a serious character.
Sim was just about to ask if the state police should not be notified, when the phone in the store rang shrilly. They could hear it, for the booth door had been left open.
Arden jumped up. For a fleeting second she looked at her companions as though to plead with some unseen force that this call should bring results. Then she dashed inside with no thought of appearance. When she emerged from the booth this time her chums knew she had met with some success. Her face wreathed in smiles she burst out:
“We’ve got an answer!”
“Oh, what?”
“Tell us!”
“It was the telegraph manager again,” Arden reported. “The boy finally located our man, and we owe a dollar and a quarter. It took a little longer than was expected.”
“Pooh! Only an extra quarter!” exclaimed Sim.
“But did they deliver the telegram?” asked Terry.
“Yes, of course. To Serge Uzlov, and he wired an answer.”
“Oh!” Sim and Terry exclaimed in unison. “What did he say?”
“‘Leaving at once for Oceanedge,’” quoted Arden.
“How wonderful!” Terry almost shouted. “Then he was some relative of poor Dimitri?”
“It looks that way,” admitted Arden. “Wait, we must pay that dollar and a quarter,” she said quickly, for Sim and Terry evinced a desire to hasten away. They made up the money, though it rather taxed their purses after the beauty parlor treatment. But they didn’t mind in the least.
“Now let’s go and tell your mother, Terry,” suggested Sim.
They started out of the drug store and almost bowled over Melissa Clayton, who was on the point of entering.
“Oh, Melissa, how are you?” Sim asked. “We haven’t seen you for a long time.”
“I’m all right,” the girl replied noncommittally.
“Weren’t sick, were you?” Arden asked.
“No, just a cold,” Melissa replied.
“All better?” Terry inquired. They were anxious to be on their way, yet they could not pass by the poor child for whom they had so much sympathy.
“What a pretty pin,” Arden remarked next, looking at a stick pin with a deep red stone which Melissa had thrust through the collar of an old middy blouse. “Where did you get it?”
Sim and Terry pressed closer; they could tell from Arden’s tone that this was no idle question, and as they looked they started, for the pin, a man’s, they had all seen Dimitri wearing the day of the little tea party.
“I found it,” Melissa replied without hesitating.
“How lucky! Where?” Arden continued.
“On the beach,” Melissa went on. Then she pushed past the girls and entered the store.
Arden did not question her further, fearing to make the girl suspicious. But on the way home the three discussed the remarkable coincidence.
“Now, where on earth could Melissa have found that pin?” Sim asked. “Of course, it belonged to Dimitri, and I don’t for a minute believe she found it on the beach.”
“Nor I,” Arden agreed. “My guess is that, if she found it at all, she found it on the houseboat. And that means she was there before we were, because we went over it pretty thoroughly by ourselves, and the chief didn’t miss anything when he came with us.”
“I suppose we ought to ask if he found out anything, just to keep up appearances,” Terry suggested. “What do you think, girls?”
“Oh, of course, it would never do to let him think we had forgotten about him. We can stop in now and ask how the case is coming,” Arden replied. “But we don’t need to mention the telegram.”
The chief, when they pulled up by the garage, crawled out from under a car. With a comical show of secrecy he came toward them, glancing over his shoulder as he came.
“I ain’t had a chance to do nothing yet,” he said, wiping some grease off his hands. “My car broke down. But I’m a-studyin’ it, and I’ll let you know this afternoon. You heard anything?”
Arden hesitated before replying. After all, she hadheardnothing. That they had an answer to their telegram was just a bit of luck, and she thought it just as well if the chief did not know of it.
“No,” she answered. “We haven’t heard a thing.”
“Well, don’t worry,” Reilly said, smiling. “Remember, a murderer always returns to the scene of his crime.”
“And you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,” Sim flung back at him. He did so annoy her! Imagine “studyin’ it.” What good would that do, and what nonsense was that about a murderer?
“That’s right!” chuckled Reilly. “You know, young ladies, the whole trouble with cases of this kind is haste. Haste is what gums things up. Go slowly, and you have much better results. You ain’t told anyone in town, have you? These here people are powerful talkers.”
“Not a soul, Mr. Reilly,” Arden assured him.
“You keep on studying it and let us know when you learn something, will you?” suggested Sim.
“’Deed I will, and I’ll have some news soon, sure. In the meantime don’t forget. Look before you leap,” the chief said, smiling.
“Yes,” Sim said as the car pulled away, “that’s good advice, and ‘he who hesitates is lost’ is good, too.”
Reilly looked after them with a puzzled expression on his face. Was that little snip making fun of him? Then he shrugged and crawled back under the car he was trying to fix.
“Sim, you cheerful idiot, were you trying to make him mad?” Terry asked as they drove home.
“No, but he annoyed me so I couldn’t help it. I don’t believe he’ll be a bit of good. I know more about mysteries than he does.”
“But it wouldn’t do to antagonize him. After all, he’s the strong arm of the law down here,” Arden reminded her.
“Not such a very strong arm, in my opinion,” Sim answered, and she slipped deeper down in the car seat.
“Oh, well, don’t let’s argue,” Terry soothed. “We’ve got too much to think about now.”
Sim was instantly alert again. “I remember distinctly seeing that pin in Dimitri’s tie the day he showed us the snuffbox. Melissa knows more than we think,” she said.
“We don’t know very much when you come right down to it,” Arden reminded her. “If a real detective questioned us, there’s very little we could tell him.”
“How long will it take that Serge Uzlov to get down?” Sim asked of no one in particular. “I wish he’d take a plane.”
“There’s no place here at Marshlands for a plane to alight,” Terry answered. “Unless he took a seaplane and landed on the bay. Think what excitement that would cause!”
“I suppose so,” Sim admitted as they turned in the driveway. “We’ll just have to wait. I won’t have a fingernail left by evening. I chewed them nearly all off waiting for that phone call.”
Terry whistled for her mother. At the sound of that shrill call, Mrs. Landry, try as she did to appear rather uninterested in the whole baffling case, came out of the house quickly and listened with great interest to the story of the message.
“And, Mother,” Terry finished, “as we left the store we met Melissa coming in, and she was wearing a tie pin of Dimitri’s. What do you think of that?”
“Did you say anything about it?” Mrs. Landry asked.
“We didn’t let her know we recognized it, and she said she found it on the beach,” Terry answered.
“Perhaps she did. Surely you don’t think Melissa had anything to do with all this?” Mrs. Landry questioned.
“That’s just it. We don’t knowwhohad anything to do with it,” Terry moaned.
“Well,” Sim stated firmly, “I’ll feel better when that man from New York gets here. I’ll bet he knows something.”
The others had nothing to say to that, and they all went indoors for luncheon.
The meal was nearly finished when there was a knock at the front door. Bells in seashore cottages never seem to ring. They may at the beginning of the season, but almost always, before it ends, there appears over the push button a little note stating: “Please knock.”
Now, in answer to that invitation, a knock sounded.
“I’ll go,” said Ida, who had just brought in the dessert.
The three girls glanced eagerly at one another.
Was it Serge?
But in another moment they knew it was not, for they heard the murmuring of a woman’s voice talking to the maid. Presently Ida came back, a frightened look on her face, to announce:
“It’s a policewoman.”
“A policewoman!” exclaimed Mrs. Landry. “Are you sure, Ida?”
“Oh, yes’m. I’ve seen ’em in New York. They all dress the same, and they have a queer look on their face, and they wear heavy shoes. It’s a policewoman all right.”
“But what does she want?” Terry asked.
“Melissa Clayton,” said Ida.
“Oh!” murmured Arden. “If they arrest that poor child——”
“Perhaps we’d better have this policewoman in,” suggested Mrs. Landry.
“Oh, yes!” said Sim. “We’ve got to find out about this. Perhaps she may know something about Dimitri.”
Mrs. Landry told Ida to invite the visitor to sit on the front porch while the dessert was being eaten.
“If I asked her into the front room she would probably hear what you girls talk about,” said Terry’s mother, “and you are sure to talk, I know.”
“You can’t blame us in these circumstances,” said Sim.
“No, I can’t.” Mrs. Landry smiled understandingly. “But why should a policewoman come here for this child?”
“We’re going to find out very soon,” declared Arden.
The dessert was eaten in record time, and then, after a whispered conference, it was decided that Mrs. Landry should first interview the caller alone and, if necessary, call in the girls.
“Though, if she wants us to help her catch poor Melissa, what shall we do?” whispered Terry.
“We won’t tell her a thing,” decided Sim. “Why should we make more trouble for the poor child?”
“Even if she took Dimitri’s pin?” suggested Arden.
“We don’t know that she took it—we don’t even know, for sure, that it is his pin,” said Terry while her mother went out on the porch. “We couldn’t prove it in court.”
“I suppose not,” agreed Arden. “Though I, myself, believe it is his. Now, be careful,” she warned. “Don’t let on that we know anything about Melissa, or have just seen her, unless we have to.”
The others agreed to this. They could hear the murmuring talk between Mrs. Landry and the caller. Presently Terry’s mother came into the dining room, where the girls were still sitting, to say:
“It isn’t anything to worry about. Good news, rather than bad.”
“About Dimitri?” asked Arden eagerly.
“No. It’s all Melissa. You had better hear this woman’s story. She doesn’t want to arrest the poor child, so you can talk freely to her. And she isn’t a policewoman. She is from a private detective agency, though.”
“It’s almost as bad,” said Terry. “Why is a detective agency interested in Melissa?”
“You had better hear the whole story,” suggested Mrs. Landry. “Come, and I will introduce you.”
The three girls trailed after her out to the porch. The woman was as Ida had described her. She looked determined and efficient but not unkind, nor like one who would, as Arden remarked later, “hound a poor girl to death.”
“This is my daughter,” said Mrs. Landry, presenting Terry, “and her two college chums who are spending the summer with her. Miss Blake and Miss Westover.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Emma Tash, and I’m from the Torrance Private Detective Agency in New York. I was sent down here by my chief to find out something about a girl named Melissa Clayton. As we always do in these cases, we make some inquiries of friends and neighbors before going directly to the parties themselves.
“I stopped in the village, and I found out that you people are friendly with this girl. Do you mind telling me something about her?”
“With the understanding,” put in Mrs. Landry, “that there is no harm intended to Melissa.”
“Oh, now,” Emma Tash was quick to say, “I told you that at the start.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind repeating it for the benefit of my daughter and her friends,” suggested Terry’s mother.
“Not at all. I’ll put my cards on the table, so to speak, and you can judge how much you want to tell me. This Melissa Clayton, according to the case as it comes to me, has an elderly aunt, her mother’s sister, who is quite wealthy. This aunt, a widow named Mrs. Lulu Benlon, has for a long time wanted to befriend this girl, but Melissa’s father refuses to let anything be done for her.”
“Just like him!” murmured Arden.
“I heard something like that in the village,” went on Emma Tash. “But we’ll come to him later. Anyhow, the firm I am with has been hired to see if something can’t be done now. It seems that several times, in years past, Mrs. Benlon tried to do something for Melissa but was prevented. After being turned down more than once, she gave up. Now Mrs. Benlon is ailing. She’s afraid she is going to die soon, but before that she wants to make another effort to help Melissa.”
“Couldn’t she leave her money in a will?” asked Sim.
“Yes, that was talked of, but Mrs. Benlon is queer,” said Emma Tash. “She wants to be sure Melissa will get the benefit of her help, and if she left her money there is no telling that Melissa would ever get it. Mrs. Benlon, it seems, wants the satisfaction of knowing, herself, that what she does will really benefit the girl.”
“She’s probably wise there,” said Mrs. Landry.
“Yes, I guess so,” the detective investigator admitted. “So that’s why I’m here. Mrs. Benlon has offered to take Melissa out of what, from all accounts, is a poor sort of a home and give her a good one—even send her to school to be educated. But Mrs. Benlon doesn’t want George Clayton to have anything of her bounty. It seems that he wasn’t kind to his wife, who was Mrs. Benlon’s younger sister.
“As I get the story, it was a sort of runaway match; marry in haste and repent all the rest of your life. Anyhow, Melissa’s mother died soon after the girl’s birth, and she had been brought up in a hand-to-mouth sort of way ever since, according to Mrs. Benlon. But if it can be brought about there is a happier time ahead for Melissa. Now that you know what I want, will you help me?”
“Yes!” exclaimed Arden, and her chums nodded in agreement.
“What do you want us to do?” asked Terry.
“Tell me all you can about this girl and her father and, if you can, suggest how I can best get in communication with them,” said Emma Tash.
“That last part isn’t going to be easy,” said Terry. “George Clayton is a queer man; ugly too, I’m afraid.”