"Girls!" Mary addressed all three, just before dinner on the evening of the day she had called at Crow's Nest, "we must have a real conference—the kind you have told me about in your scout talks. How shall we begin, and where can we go to make sure no one will overhear us?"
"In our play-room over the garage," suggested Cleo, "that's really our club room, you know."
"Yes, that is the safest place," Grace agreed, while Madaline wagged "yes" with her bobbed head. "Besides, we can leave Shep outside, and he will warn us if anyone should come around," finished Grace.
But in spite of their serious business, they were really human little girls after all, for even the prospect of Mary's secrets did not forestall a vigorous romp to the garage. Madaline fell in first on Michael's sponges, tools and accessories, for the Dunbar car, which had been laid up for repairs during the absence of the owner, Mr. Guy Dunbar, was now being overhauled—a sign the owner was expected soon to return.
"Oh, Michael!" Madaline apologized, gathering up her feet in their pretty pomps, and shaking herself free from the accessories, "I couldn't help tumbling in, and I hope I didn't scatter your nuts and bolts and things!"
"All right, little girls," Michael greeted them. "The room up-stairs is all aired, and Jennie was down to-day with some fixin's. Why don't you ask her and me to join your club?" he joked inquiringly.
"Yes, of course we should," assented Cleo, who was regarded as Captain."That will be lovely; you could be our—our——"
"Grand Marshal!" suggested Michael.
"Yes," and Grace clapped her hands joyfully.
"And Jennie could be our—our——" But Madaline, who attempted to assignJennie, was failing miserably in the attempt.
"Don't give Jennie too high an office," interposed Michael with a twinkle in his eye. "I wouldn't exactly care to have her for my boss."
"Come along to the meeting, girls!" called Cleo, "and we will vote on the new members. Michael, if you are black-balled you may blame Madaline, you know," and as a protest against such a contingency, Michael pegged his biggest sponge at Madaline, who ducked just in time to give the wet flap to Grace. The jolly interlude somewhat delayed the business session originally set out for, but it evidently acted as a stimulant to the proceedings when they finally got under way, for a livelier session could scarcely be imagined.
Cleo explained some of the routine of regular meetings to the new member, inscribed on the scout book simply as "Maid Mary," then all further formalities were wavered and business plunged into.
"I am so anxious to tell you at least some of our story, girls," began Mary, "and I know, as Grandie gets stronger, he will be able to remember some of the important missing details. You know, of course, he is not my grandfather, but a gentleman who rescued me," she said.
"Rescued you from what?" asked Madaline, impulsively.
"That's all in the story," replied Mary, "and honestly, girls, I don't know how to begin, but I think I ought to go backwards."
"Yes, do," urged Cleo. "It will be clearer to us if we can connect with the parts we have actually experienced."
"You wonder, of course," Mary began again, "what actually happened that first night I came here. Really someone did call me," Mary insisted with wide eyes. "I can hear the voice yet. I know it was someone who knew me, therefore it must have been Reda."
"We all thought someone was around," Cleo ventured, "and did you knowShep was shot in the leg that night?"
"No, really," exclaimed Mary in astonishment. "I am sure Reda did not do that. She is dreadfully afraid of a revolver. Once when Grandie had one, as he thought someone was prowling about, he left it under his pillow, and Reda wouldn't touch it, and you would never imagine what a silly thing she did. She scooped it up on a dust-pan and dumped it in the bureau drawer. Can you imagine anyone doing that with a loaded revolver?"
"Oh, how absurd!" exclaimed Grace.
"It was lucky it was not self-cocked," declared Cleo.
"Well, I know Reda wouldn't touch a revolver, so no one I knew could have injured lovely Shep," said Mary, somewhat dismayed.
"But you remember, Mary, the man you called Janos was out from New York that day," suggested Madaline.
"Yes, I know," said Mary, "but I hope it was in no way my fault poor Shep was injured."
"Of course it was not," Cleo said quickly, seeing a possible unpleasant trend in their review. "It must have been someone who was just prowling around. You know, girls, all Jennie's lettuce was pulled up by the roots the night before Shep was shot."
At the mention of lettuce Mary flushed. Then recovering her composure, she remarked:
"Reda would pull up garden things. She couldn't seem to understand that growing things were private property. You see, in her country every sort of stuff grows so luxuriously Reda never could understand why it is different here. She was always searching for greens to cook for Grandie, and I was often afraid she would give him something poisonous," Mary said. "Poor Reda," she sighed. "I wonder where she is?"
"But, Mary," urged Cleo, "do you know actually that you climbed out the window in your nightie, and sat on a limb of the tree exactly like Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens? I shall never forget how cute you looked, even in lantern lights, as you hugged the button ball tree!" and at the joyous memory all the girls fairly rolled in glee. Grace slid off the improvised couch; Madaline doubled up on the steamer rug which was serving as an Oriental on the floor, and Cleo put her perky little head through such a course of exercises as would have done credit to a beauty specialist in neck treatment. It was so very funny a thing to remember. Mary perched in a tree à la Peter Pan, in her white night robe, Cleo climbing out after her in her bluebird pajamas, then the spectators around the base of the tree in various improvised garbs, not really passed by the censor. Yes, it was howlingly—shriekingly funny, just now!
"But do let us get along with the mysteries," begged Grace, unwinding herself. "Mary, you were going backwards and you haven't got past the first tree."
"Well, I guess I will have to jump to the most interesting part," said Mary. "You see, girls, my mother's folks didn't want her to marry my daddy, because he wasn't rich. He was a scientist, and I am sure a wonderful man, but mother's folks were very wealthy, and when she went off exploring with daddy her folks sort of deserted her. Then, when she fell ill, and daddy fell ill, and I was going to be all alone——" She paused to choke back too determined a sigh, then continued. "When they feared they were going, one of the other explorers promised to look out for me. He is Grandie, but his name isn't Benson, but he doesn't know that I know that. He lost a very precious treasure, and on account of that he is sort of hiding, although he really never did a single thing wrong," declared Mary, loyally.
"Did they go out on a regular exploring expedition?" asked Cleo very seriously, a new thought coming to her active brain.
"Yes, I suppose so. Why?" Mary inquired in turn.
"I was just thinking—but never mind. Don't let me interrupt you, Mary.Tell us about your daddy."
"Daddy was determined not to let the fever take him, so, sick as he was, he insisted on going out to sea, but he—didn't come back."
Quick to save Mary from the threatening tears, Grace asked, "What were they exploring for?"
"Why, for orchids. I thought you knew," replied Mary, rather surprised at the question.
"No, we didn't know," Cleo said very thoughtfully, "but we guessed those wonderful orchids must have come from a tropical clime."
"Yes, we brought the bulbs with us, and that's where I still have to say 'secret,' Cleo dear," Mary responded, smiling to assure her friends she would have told them more of the mystery if she had been free to do so.
"And what is your name, really?" ventured Madaline.
"You may think it very strange, but I am not sure. Daddy used a book name, out on his exploration trips, and mother's family name was never mentioned. Grandie had my papers but you see"—and she hesitated quite a long time, then in a subdued voice she continued—"you see Grandie became ill, and he forgot. That is one reason why I am so happy his memory is returning."
"Oh, wouldn't it be lovely if you turned out to be a great lady!"Madaline rhapsodized, true to form in a girl's love of excitement.
"I wouldn't want to be a great lady!" replied Mary, tossing back her head disdainfully. "I would rather just be a little girl scout like you!"
"Hurrah! Hurrah! for our new Tenderfoot. Let's put her through an initiation, girls!" suggested Cleo. "Mary, don't forget where you left off, and we'll take a recess. Come on. First you must slide down that pole. Look out for Michael; he has a pail of water he might like to see you slide into."
Romping and racketing took the place of serious reminiscences for the time, and if Mary felt inclined to be sorrowful at her revived memories the True Treds quickly vanquished the gloom foe, until tiring of the very vigorous exercise, they settled down again for a last word before closing the meeting.
"Was Reda with you all the time?" Cleo asked Mary when they were finally quieted to rational speech. Somehow Cleo seemed to sense a solution to the mystery Mary was so cautiously unfolding.
"She left the island with us. We must have been very near the equator off of Central America, and when the fever broke out all the English left. We came on a very miserable ship, but we were very glad to escape."
"And those men Reda knows," went on Cleo, like a little inquisitor, "did you meet them on the ship?"
"I don't really know, but I have heard Grandie declare to Reda that they followed us. I blame them for most of our trouble, of course."
"And I would, too," declared Grace. "Good thing you scared them off with your flare-up, Madaline. Will you ever forget that movie scene, with all the lights!"
"But, girls," insisted Mary, serious again, "you know I do not feel I should stay here, as I am staying, any longer than I actually have to. I know you are all perfectly lovely, and Mrs. Dunbar is like a—young woman who lives in a shoe, with so many children and so forth, but I also know something about propriety, and it seems an imposition for me to bother you so much."
"There, now," wailed Cleo, "just when everything is being so beautifully fixed. Mary-love, I have a real scheme, but it's a secret. Can't I have a secret same as you?" Cleo twisted her head characteristically. "At any rate," she continued, "we haven't any idea of letting out Peterina Panna (that's my feminine for Peter Pan); we haven't any idea of letting her escape. She must stay right here until all this delicious mystery is cleared up. You see, Peterina Panna, we are only beginning to know your fairyland story, and now I for one am determined to put all the pieces together and make a beautiful real dream out of it, only, of course, the dream must be true."
"Yes, and I just wrote home begging an extension of time, so I could be in the fairy play at the end," declared Madaline, "for I am going to have you worked into a princess or something beautiful like that," decided romantic little Madaline.
"I know you are all sincere," Mary said gently, "and of course it would be difficult to arrange about going away just now, with Grandie not strong. But he suggested that I ask Mrs. Dunbar's advice on a boarding school."
"Don't you dare!" cried Cleo. "She might just pack us all off, and of course we couldn't blame her, for we have turned Cragsnook into a regular institution for noisy girls. But, hark ye! Aunt Audrey loves it that way, and she is planning more noise for Uncle Guy's return. And wait until you see him! You will love him. But please to remember he is especiallymyuncle. And now, scouts, I am going to call this meeting adjourned. I can smell harvest apples all the way up here. Is there anything better than those juicy early apples!"
The girls made that opinion unanimous, and what was left of Michael's apples fifteen minutes later would not even make pickings for Jennie's pet gray hen.
"Cleo, come here," Grace beckoned her chum, as Mary and Madaline started for a fishing trip to the little brook that capered through the Cragsnook lands, at the foot of an ambitious group of hills. "I am just so anxious to talk to you," Grace almost implored.
"And I am just dying to talk to you," declared Cleo, "so we ought to have a lovely time. Come on for a walk down to the stone bridge. No one is going that way at this hour."
"Because lovers are scarce around here, I suppose," Grace guessed, "for twilight, lovers and stone bridges are always combined in the movies."
"Then we will be the lovers," proposed Cleo. "Come along, darling," and she twined her arm around the shoulders of her friend, in sincere affection, if in pretended affectation.
"I know what you are going to say," Grace began. "It's about Mary's secret."
"Of course," admitted Cleo. "I have been breathless with excitement since she told us. Grace, do you see what may have happened? Just whatmayhave, of course."
"You mean she may belong to people in America who would love to know about her?"
"Yes, that is an easy guess. But why should Professor Benson deny her identity?"
"He is also denying his own. Why does he do that?"
"And there is not the slightest possibility he could ever have committed a crime. No man with his personality is ever a criminal."
"No, indeed," vouched Grace, quite unconscious of posing as an expert on character.
"It's very mysterious," went on Cleo, "and when Mary mentioned the name Dunbar to him he seemed to recall it somehow. I asked him if he ever knew anyone named Dunbar, and he passed it off on his brain playing queer tricks on him. But all the same he did seem to have a memory of it."
"Now, Cleo Harris, don't you dare go getting Mary in your family," ordered Grace, jokingly. "It would be just Cleoistic to have it turn out that way. No, Mary is going to be a princess, to suit Madaline this time. Let's sit down here on the bridge and try to figure it all out," she proposed.
The broad stone coping over the little stream offered an attractive resting place for the self-appointed delegates, and the twilight hour a most opportune time for their conference.
"I am going to do two things first——" began Cleo.
"Oh, I wouldn't," mocked Grace. "I would do one thing first, the other way would be woozy."
"Now you know what I mean, and this isn't a grammar test," pouted Cleo. "Well, then, first, I am going to write to Uncle Guy. He knows so much about detective work—all writers do, you know, and I feel he could help us solve the mystery. I am going to send him that picture we took the other day, so he can see what Mary looks like."
"I think that is really a brilliant idea, Cleo," said Grace, seriously. "There might be some reason for Professor Benson noticing the name Dunbar. Even if I do take the risk of you getting in a claim, still, I have to be fair," and she squeezed the arm that lay over her own. "I think the pictures are splendid. I sent one to Margaret. Somehow I feel a little lonely for Margaret, don't you?"
"Yes, it would have been lovely for her to share all this, but perhaps they may come to New York before the season is over. Let us hope so. Now, for my second big idea: I am going to make inquiries at the New York museum about exploring parties. They may have records of the scientific men who went to the tropics for orchids, and I may be able to solve some of the mystery that way."
"Say, Cleo," said Grace, dimpling and making pretty faces at the slanting rays dipping into the brook from the early nightfall, "I do believe you are related to your Uncle Guy, the writer, for you have such original ideas. However did you think of that?"
"Oh, it is not original, really, Grace. I saw an account of a report of such an expedition in one of Uncle Guy's magazines, and that gave me the idea."
"But it wouldn't give me such an idea in a thousand years," admittedGrace. "However would you go about it?"
"I'll try to get some dates and other facts from Mary, and then I'll just write a letter. Maybe I will ask you to do the writing, as your hand is much better than mine."
"Oh, I'll be glad to help out even as your secretary, but suppose we accidentally betray Mary's secret—then what would happen?"
"I have thought of that," Cleo reflected, "and I have decided, since Professor Benson and Mary are both so good, nothing but good can eventually be discovered about them. Even a lot of mistakes can't be really held against one, and I am hoping there won't even be mistakes, but glories to unfold. Isn't it exciting! Aunt Audrey is just fascinated with Mary, and is going to paint her as soon as things straighten out, and I for one can feel the tangles putting out into a straight line right now. Here they come, with their fish poles. Don't they both look like a picture? Mary is so quaint, and Madaline is such an adorable baby. Come on, and see the fish they didn't catch."
"We did, too, catch something," declared Madaline, when all four girls met on the bridge. "We caught a lovely big fat turtle. Just see!"
It was indeed a lovely turtle she set down on the rough country walk, and, perhaps scenting the damp grass near the brook, Mr. Turtle promptly crawled off to possible seclusion and hoped for safety. Even turtles have preferences, and do not always appreciate the personal attention of Girl Scouts. They seem to prefer the company of hop toads and toad stools.
"Oh, I'll lose him!" cried Madaline; "and I wanted him for Michael's garden. He would chase all the other little eating bugs and worms, wouldn't he, Mary?" and down the side of the bank, running to the brook, Madaline pursued the recalcitrant reptile. But the hill was very steep, the stones loose, and the sand slippery, and Madaline began to slide.
"Oh, look out, Madie!" yelled Grace. "You'll slide right in the brook!"
But it was too late. Madaline had no chance to "look out." All she could do was to slide, and that she kept at, rolling stones and tossing sand down in a perfect avalanche.
"Oh! oh! oh!" screamed Mary, digging her heels deep in the loose bank in an attempt to follow the sliding figure ahead. "You'll go right in the brook and it's deep. We're so near the dam!"
"And you'll be in with her," screamed Cleo—"Madaline, grab that bush, never mind the old turtle!"
But Madaline had now reached the bottom, and feet first she struck the water, just as Mary grabbed her skirt and held on tight enough to keep her from sliding in further.
"Oh, my!" cried Madaline, trying to back out. "I thought I was gone."
"You were!" insisted Grace, who had come to the edge by way of a safer track through bushes instead of on an avalanche. "You almost frightened us to death! Just see how swift the water is here."
"I don't want to see it. The earth is swift enough for me," declared Madaline, shaking the water out of her slippers, which fortunately had not fallen off in the water. "I have been both fishing and turtle hunting to-night, and all I got was—wet," she groaned. "And my nice clean gingham! Whatever will Jennie say!"
"Nothing, dearie, don't you mind," soothed Cleo. "We are so glad to see you safely landed we can even forgive the turtle. It was a perfectly foolish thing to do, to fall in the brook at this hour, with not even a boy scout to perform a daring, dashing rescue. Madie, I'm surprised at your lack of judgment. Think how Mally Mack would have loved to pull you out by the hair!"
"And carry you home in his manly arms!" chimed in Grace. "What a chance wasted!"
"And think of rolling our little fat girl on a big bumple barrel——"
But Madaline had recovered her poise and posture, not to mention proclivities, and, taking to the better foot-hold on the clumps of grass along the bank, a little farther from the bridge, she managed to scamper after both her tormentors. Mary was also in the race, and on reaching the road safely even the turtle was forgotten.
"Am I all mud?" asked Madaline, shaking her skirts.
"No, really you are not," Mary assured her. "It is only your slippers and stockings, and it is so dark they won't show. But I hope my pretty dress is not soiled. I was foolish to put it on for fishing, but I was so proud I wanted to try it."
"Oh, come on. It's getting dark and Aunt Audrey is having company," said Cleo. "Madaline, you will have to change your shoes, of course, then we can come out again, and go for a walk. It's all right to go toward the village, but we must turn our backs on the mountains with sundown. Mary-love, when may we go up to the studio to do some exploring?" she changed the subject. "You know you said you wanted to look over Reda's things and send them to her, if you knew where she might get them?"
"Yes, I have been anxious about that," said Mary, falling in step with Cleo, while Grace went ahead with Madaline. "I would so like to know about Reda. I wonder where she is?"
"Wouldn't she go to friends?" Cleo asked.
"Oh, those men would frighten her, and you remember what that woman on the mountain road said about police the other day," and Mary shuddered as she recalled the maid's careless speech about the police looking for the gypsy woman. "I feel so helpless sometimes," the child sighed.
"But please don't, Mary," Cleo spoke up. "You have no idea how much we girls have done already in difficult matters. Why, I wouldn't be afraid to go to New York with Aunt Audrey and look for Reda, if you are worried about her," Cleo volunteered.
"Oh, I wouldn't have you think of such a thing," Mary quickly replied with something like fear in her voice. "I hope Mrs. Dunbar is not taking any trouble about her?"
"No, indeed. Aunt Audrey is so busy with her pictures I don't see what she does when Uncle Guy is home, and he wants any attention," Cleo remarked. "Mary, I wondered if we might not pack up Reda's things? She won't come back now, surely, and I think you might feel better to be sure her folks would not come around for anything. Have you any address we might send to?"
"No, but she kept papers. I could understand them if we could find them. Perhaps we better look to-morrow. Here we are home, and the girls have gone in already. I guess we must have crawled slower than Madaline's turtle."
"And it's quite dark," said Cleo. "Mary," she whispered, "isn't that a man over there behind that tree? See, he just stepped back from the light. Let us talk as if we saw the other girls so he won't think we're alone," she hastily muttered. Then in a clear voice she called—"Wait a minute, Benny, I want you to carry this" (it was the fishing rod). "Oh, all right," she kept on to the imaginary boy. "Here it is," and with that both girls ran into the driveway and up to the house like two frightened deer. At the porch they stopped breathless. Mrs. Dunbar and two friends were sitting there.
"Well, what's the trouble, girls?" she asked. "Running away from the new moon?"
"No, Auntie," Cleo replied, "but we thought we saw someone back of the tree—a man, and when he saw us he seemed to hide. Where's Michael?"
"I'll call him if you are timid, but we are going to have some gentlemen callers this evening. Maybe you are running away from one of them," she said with a light laugh. "But you girls set such store by Michael, I am afraid I shall have to have the garage moved up nearer the house. Never mind, our good watchman will be home soon. Uncle Guy will be in Chicago this week," she finished with an inflexion of pleasure anticipated.
Cleo was just deciding she must get her letter off to her Uncle Guy's hotel quickly, as she calculated wisely he would give more attention to a letter than he would be able to give to conversation for some days after his home-coming.
Leaving her guests for a few moments, Mrs. Dunbar touched the call button for Michael, and when he came up the path Cleo and Mary went to meet him. They told him the shadow story, of course, even offered to go down the walk and point out the tree, but he declined their assistance.
"Now, I'll tell you girls," he said, shaking his head as he always did when uttering an important fact, "we have a special watchman guarding this place and maybe it was him" (he might have said he, but grammar is not so important to a handy man as are good tools, and Michael always had these).
"Oh, a watchman!" exclaimed Cleo. "I'm so glad. Now, Mary dear, don't you go climbing any more trees," she warned with a pinch for Mary's elbow.
"No, you had better all behave," added Michael, "for our man is a regular hawk for night watching. I had to introduce him to Shep; knows his step clear down the road. Not that he makes a sound we can hear, but a dog, you know—a dog has ears in his paws, and they hear sounds for a long distance in the ground," he declared.
"I guess so," said Mary, simply, "for I have seen dogs listen to things so far off. But the watchman—would he shoot anyone who came around?" There was anxiety in her voice.
"Well, no," conceded Michael; "he wouldn't exactly shoot first shot; he might fire that over a prowler's head. Why?"
"Oh, nothing," fluttered Mary, "except that my old nurse is odd and doesn't know American ways very well. And if she should come around looking for me, a watchman would not understand her, I'm afraid."
"Tell me what she looks like and I'll post Jim. He's a careful enough chap, but you know, young ladies, we have had some trouble about here lately."
Mary described Reda as best she could, and being assured the man behind the tree was really some passerby and not a prowler, the girls went back to the house to find Grace and Madaline.
The two latter could hardly wait to come down the stairs by steps, so impatient were they to reach Cleo and Mary.
"Oh, look!" exclaimed Grace. "Here's a letter for Mary. We picked it up out by the gate. It must have been left there just as we came along. But we couldn't see that it was a letter until we got into the light. Here, Mary," and she handed over a square, common business envelope. "It is only addressed to 'Maid Mary,'" finished Grace.
"Come on up to our room, to my room," suggested Cleo, surmising the letter might be better read privately. "Aunt Audrey has guests on the porch."
"All right," agreed Mary, crushing the letter in her hands. "Come along, girls. Whatever it is we may all know it, I don't want anynewsecrets; theoldones are heavy enough burdens."
Up in Cleo's room, under the softly shaded light, Mary tore open the envelope. She knew the hand was laboriously penned by some foreigner. Then she read aloud:
"Reda is sick. She says you can't come here, but wants her things.Send the box by express. Reda will come out when she can walk.
"Carmia Frantez."
An address was carefully spelled out, and there followed this postscript.
"I go to school, and we don't want Janos to get our letters. Dominic is going to take this out on the train; he is a good honest boy. Answer to this house by the number I give here. Carmia."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mary, staring at her companions. "That must have been the man we saw behind the tree. And this Carmia is a little girl I have heard Reda speak of. Now what shall I do! Poor Reda!" she sighed. "I hope she is not very sick."
"Let's go the first thing in the morning to pack her box," suggested Cleo. "Then we can send it to her by express," and this plan was promptly decided upon.
A feeling akin to relief, if not that of actual safety, brightened the girls next day when, with keen anticipation for the promised excitement, they started off for a hike to the studio, there to box up Reda's belongings, and also to hunt for possible clews to the ever-deepening mystery of Mary's identity, and the professor's secret.
Having assured Mrs. Dunbar that the next door neighbors to the studio were easily within call, as well as convincing her that gardeners and workmen were constantly in the fields and estates adjoining the studio, she consented to their going in charge of Shep, who was now fully recovered from his wound and lame leg.
It was early, and the dew still lay in a liquid veil over the grass and wild flowers along the way, but the Girl Scouts, Mary being a novice and on probation, were too much interested and excited to observe the beauties of nature this day.
"I suppose Reda has lots of queer things," ventured Madaline when they had passed the mountain house and started on the down-grade the other side.
"Yes," replied Mary. "She was always bringing things from New York. Her sort of people never seem to have enough. They keep storing and piling up every sort of trash. Grandie would get out of patience at times and threaten to throw it all out of doors."
Tangles of wild morning glories crept cautiously over the steps at the studio, where now the absence of human traffic was beginning to show in that vague, venturesome way vegetation has of creeping in where mortals have deserted. The grass grew so much higher on the lawn, the flowers were having such a joyous time spreading all over and blooming as they chose, while the trumpet vine had actually climbed down from its arch with the ramblers, and was shamelessly romping all over the fern patch, fairly strangling the wild maidenhairs in its reckless ramblings.
"Where shall we begin?" Cleo asked as the girls tramped into the long, quiet hall. "Isn't it cave-like to come into an empty house? Oh, I know; see the hall clock has stopped ticking, and when a tick goes out it seems to leave a smoke of silence," she finished. "There, don't you think I have an imaginative brain?"
"I'd call it a loony brain," replied Grace. "Talking about the smoke of silence! Sounds like a new name for a cigarette!" and they all enjoyed a good laugh at the comparison.
"At any rate," decided Cleo, "it is always more quiet after a clock stops than it is in any other room where no clock ever ticked. So there!"
"Let's wind the clock, start it up, and stop the argument," proposed practical Grace. "Tell me how many winds, Mary!" She had climbed on a wooden chair, had the door of the big clock open, and was examining the queer mechanism.
"I don't know a thing about the clock," Mary admitted. "Grandie always attended to it, but I suppose you just turn the key until it feels hard to turn. I have always heard a clock must not be wound too tight——"
At the side of the grandfather's antique time-piece a long door opened, Grace discovered, and being interested in the odd piece of furniture, she swung this out. As she did so a package rolled out on the floor.
"Something stored away here, I suppose," said Grace. "Shall I replace it, Mary?" picking up the newspaper package and holding it out to Mary.
"Let me see it?" Mary asked.
It was a long, slim package, wrapped in a faded and yellow newspaper. Unfolding the wrappings, nothing but a piece of bamboo-like cane, about as large as a flute, was revealed.
"That's queer," Mary commented. "I wonder what good that old piece of stick is?" She held it up and saw that the ends were sealed.
"Something is bottled up in that," declared Cleo. "Bamboo is always open and hollow between joints."
"Let's get something and press the ends in," suggested Grace. "It might be something breakable."
"Or explosive," ventured Madaline, who had not forgotten her first night's experience at the studio.
Mary was turning the piece of cane upside down, shaking it, listening for any rattle within, and otherwise examining it most carefully. Meanwhile Cleo had rescued the wrappings, and was trying to connect the line of print. She smoothed out the torn, yellow pieces, and presently her eye fell upon a ringed line paragraph, the ring being a penciled circle, usually made to attract the eye to a special item.
"Let's see what's marked here," she suggested, going closer to the window for better light. "Oh, look, Mary," she exclaimed again, "this tells of an exploring expedition leaving New York. Maybe that is a report of your folks and the professor! See, it reads," and she pressed the very much crinkled pieces to something of smoothness.
"'Left for the tropics to hunt orchids. Professor Blake and party——' Now, that's torn out into a real hole, and we can't get the names of the party. Did you ever see anything so aggravating?"
"But Professor Blake," repeated Mary. "That isn't our professor!"
"Didn't you say his name was not Benson?" Cleo reminded her.
"Yes, I knew it was not Benson, but I thought it was," she hesitated. Her grandie had not given his permission to the publication of his real name. "At least," continued Mary, "I didn't know it was Blake."
"How foolish we are!" exclaimed Cleo. "Surely there would have been more than one professor on that trip. And this may only, after all, be an item of general interest. But don't you think, Mary, we had better take it along and read it carefully when we have time?"
"That's a good idea," agreed Mary, "and I think I had better do the same thing with this shiny stick. It may be some kind of flute, but I would not like to try to blow on it. So many things from the tropics are poisonous. Let's wrap it up again," she suggested.
"But not in this paper," objected Cleo. "I want to read all of this again, and it must not be further damaged. Here, Shep," to the faithful dog, who lay nose deep in a big soft rug, "come along and I'll get you a nice cool drink. You are cooled off now, and I know you want a drink after that tramp over the mountain."
The shaggy shepherd dog followed Cleo to the faucet that dripped on a stone flagging near the back door. He drank the pan of water Cleo drew for him, shook himself vigorously, then started in for a "sniffing tour," as Madaline described the canine method of investigation. He was left quite alone and to his own resources while the girls continued in their attempt to gather up Reda's things.
"I feel queer to go among her trinkets," said Mary. "She was always so careful no one should see her belongings."
"All old people are that way," said Madaline, who was having the time of her life pulling trash out of the big rattan trunk. "You don't intend to send all this stuff, do you, Mary?" she asked.
"Oh, no, certainly not," Mary replied, "but it is rather hard to tell the hay from grass in Reda's wardrobe."
"And I must say," put in Grace, "she had a queer idea of the uses of a bureau. Just look at all the moldy roots and growing things!" Grace was gingerly touching the "moldy things" in a rather vain attempt at exploring the depths of the old mahogany bureau drawers.
"Don't throw any of those away," warned Mary, "because—well, because they might grow into pretty orchids, you know," she finished, with such a poor attempt at disguising her real meaning that it almost shouted out past her actual words.
"Of course they must be flower bulbs," assented Grace, "but fancy keeping them in a bureau drawer!"
Bits of bright ribbons, odds and ends of lace, so much lace of all kinds, and such a tangle of threads, strings, tapes and almost everything that could snarl up, was dragged out by Madaline from a work box, that she jammed the whole mass back in despair. "She won't need any of that," Cleo decided, "and I guess some new sewing stuff will be welcome whenever Reda gets a chance to use it."
"But she must have her thimble," insisted Mary. "Just wait until I get this dress and shawl in the box, and I'll try to find it—I think she kept it there."
"Oh, look here," called Madaline. "Here is a cute little secret place in the work box. See, the top comes out when you press here." As she pressed the indicated spot in the finely inlaid box a secret drawer shot out. This was literaly crammed with papers, printed and written, and even here were the remains of the dried roots, the dust of bulbs, and the powder of dried leaves.
"Should we look over her papers?" asked Madaline, again referring toMary.
"Well, I don't believe we should," decided the girl, whose face was flushed with the excitement of the hunt. "Yet they might be important to Grandie. Suppose we tie them up in something and save them until he is strong enough to look over them? He brought Reda here penniless, and without any belongings, and whatever she has he would have a perfect right to look over," finished Mary.
"I think so, too," agreed Madaline, evidently disappointed her find had not yielded some exciting clew.
Gathering up the papers, a picture fell to the floor. Madaline quickly recovered it, and presently all the girls were scrutinizing the photograph.
"It is you and your mamma," declared Cleo. "Look at both your eyes, and her wonderful mound of hair."
"Yes, that is truly Loved One," said Mary, tenderly brushing the bits of leaves from the picture. "I have never seen this before. I wonder why Reda hid it away from me?"
"And here's another," called Grace. "This is some man dressed as a—tourist—I guess. See his big hat and the short trousers."
"Oh, that's daddy!" cried Mary. "Let me see it. Darling daddy," she exclaimed, grasping the new found treasure and holding it in close scrutiny. "Wasn't he handsome!"
All the girls pored over the picture of the tall, good-looking man, dressed in the light clothing usually worn in warm countries, the big helmet hat pushed back from his face, and his hand resting on a stout bamboo stick.
"See, he has that sort of cane," corrected Cleo. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if it were really a piece of his own walking cane?"
"It really might be," Mary reflected. "Dear me, I do wonder why Reda hid those things? And she must have taken them from Grandie or from my things. They certainly could not have been hers."
On the reverse side of the picture was the name of some photographer in Panama, and having made careful examination without success for possible notes or written names, as might give further information, Mary folded her two pictures carefully, and laid them aside with the bamboo stick.
All this time the girls kept wondering why Mary could not tell them what was the nature of the loss that had so affected the professor. Hiding himself and hiding Mary seemed a strange thing to do, except for some reason that might entail danger in discovery, and what possible danger could there be in two perfectly honest persons using their own names?
"I was to look for Reda's thimble," said Mary, jamming in the trunk some heavy coats and woolens that seemed necessary to take off the clothes hooks. "I guess I had best put all the little things in this flat basket," she decided, opening up a small hand-woven affair, such as girls use for embroidery cases.
Attacking the Philippine work box once more, Mary took all the movable compartments that she could locate by shaking and rattling, and at last found one in the very bottom of the box; released by such a snap spring, it surely must have originally been a trick box.
"Oh, my!" she exclaimed. "Just look here!" and, holding the small tray up to the astonished gaze of the girls, they beheld a glittering array of jewels.
"Oh, how beautiful," called out a voice in which all three were blended.
"These must have been Loved One's!" said Mary, in an awed voice, and her companions, too astonished to speak, simply stared at the glittering treasures.
There were several pins with beautiful sparkling stones, a number of rings, lockets; in fact the collection seemed to include a supply of fine jewelry, such as a woman of means and social prominence might covet.
"However will you carry them?" asked Madaline, first to recover from the surprise.
"I don't know," Mary replied, still dazed and overcome. To her the discovery meant more than a collection of jewelry; it meant that her mother must have been a wealthy and prominent woman. This fact, however, Mary always understood, but in her hands now were seemingly new proofs.
"Let us attend to the orchids to-day, Mary," suggested Grace, "while you finish your packing. Come on, Madie, get the small cans."
"All right," Cleo agreed. "I'll help Mary find something to carry her treasures in, and also help her finish packing. We will then likely all be finished about the same time. What a lot of things we have to look over when we get home! Mary, I am sure some of those lockets will have pictures in them," and all the while she was talking Cleo was running here and there, or hither and thither, as Jennie would have said, in a hurry to finish the tasks.
"I know where I can get a good strong bag," Mary said, "but I haven't been upstairs since we went away. This big bungalow, having the sleeping rooms on the first floor, always seemed complete without upstairs."
"I'm not afraid to go up," Cleo volunteered. "I'll take Shep. Where is he?"
At the sound of his name Shep sprang forward, carrying in his teeth the remnants of a yellow handkerchief he had torn almost to shreds.
"Why, Shep, what are you doing? You never tear things." Cleo charged, attempting to rescue the remains of the yellow silk handkerchief.
But Shep would not release his hold on the rags—instead he growled. Could Cleo have known why, she would have complimented him on being go clever a detective, for the handkerchief was one of Reda's and mate to the one Shep brought in with him the night he received the bullet in his leg. But the girls knew nothing of this.
"Shall we go up for the bag?" Cleo asked Mary, desisting in her efforts to unmask Shep.
"I suppose we better," Mary replied, as they made their way to the end of the hall from which point the hidden stairs were built. "It is so long since I have been up here I shall hardly know what it looks like."
Mary went first and Cleo followed close to her heels. At the top Mary stood still and drew back a little. Then she turned and motioned to Cleo.
"What's the matter?" whispered Cleo, seeing Mary make haste to collect the most important things.
"There are a lot of strange boxes and things up there," Mary said in a hushed voice. "Hark! What was that!"
Both girls stood breathless, afraid to move. Over in a far corner of the long, dark room, something chattered and squeaked, then squealed!
"What ever can it be?" asked Cleo. "It is surely something alive, butI don't know what could make that sort of noise."
"I do," said Mary. "That's a monkey. How do you suppose it got in here?"
"You go over and look, if you are not afraid," suggested Cleo, "and I will stay here to guard Shep. Hear him! He would go wild for a monkey."
A clear line over the boxes, and through the long room showed nothing more sinister than that some small animal could be hidden there, so Mary stepped over the litter, and soon discovered the origin of the queer noise.
"Oh, the dearest little thing!" exclaimed Mary, putting out her arms to the frightened monkey, that immediately crawled into her safekeeping. "How did it get in here?"
"Come on," implored Cleo, fearful someone might be in bidding. "Let us get away. You are not afraid of him?"
"No, indeed. Just see how glad he is that we found him. I wonder how long he has been up here!"
But even a starving monkey would not be sufficient cause for longer delay, so, urging Mary down, Cleo held Shep fast while Grace hurriedly locked the door that led to the second floor of the studio.
Now surely they must make haste to get away.
"Oh, the poor little thing! See how he cuddles up! Wasn't he frightened to death!" and Mary hugged the chattering little animal under her arm, like a short haired terrier, or even an abused and exhausted little kitten. To the other girls it seemed quite impossible to realize this was really a monkey, and the domestic puppy or kitten naturally furnished a comparison.
"Oh, do let's hurry!" begged Madaline. "How do we know someone will not burst in upon us?"
"We don't," replied Cleo, without the hope of reassurance. "But we have to depend on Shep. I think he is behaving beautifully with a real monkey on the premises; no jealousy in good old Shep." She was making all possible haste with picking up the most important articles they had gathered to bring back with them to Cragsnook. "I have your treasures, Mary," she said, making a final hard knot in the shawl that held the jewelry. "The other girls are all ready. Come on, don't let us wait a moment longer," she cautioned.
"Can you carry the cane, and these pictures?" Mary asked. "I guess I can manage them if you cannot."
"Oh, no, you must take care of Chatterbox. He is lively enough to keep you busy. Here, Grace, you shoot the bolts on the doors as we pass out. Come on, Shep. Keep near the ladies, but let them pass out first," finished Cleo, determined to make the exit something of an imitation fire drill, if not in point of the numbers in line, at least in point of the caution applied.
The fright experienced when something "alive" had actually been discovered upstairs supplied enough excitement to make the whole situation extremely alarming. What could have brought a monkey there but humans, and what purpose had anyone in such an exploit? Between the finding of the monkey and the discovery of the jewels, the girls felt their day had thus far been one of unusual thrills, but a sense of actual danger seemed threatening to explode at their very heels now, and, making tracks over the mountain, away from the uncanny studio, they put into execution the Girl Scouts' danger drill, if not the school girls' fire drill. Once away from the house, Mary "collapsed into a dead silence," as Madaline expressed it in a whisper to Grace. Even the monkey's chattering was not answered.
Indeed, Mary was silent, almost to the point of a threatening "mood," since seeing the collection of empty boxes, and her friends were determined she would not relapse into anything so unpleasant. Plainly the boxes were ready to be packed; then the finding of the monkey convinced Mary that strangers had come into the studio, and were making preparations to loot it. Who they were, and just what they "were after, she could only surmise. But it was a most unpleasant surprise, amounting to a shock, and that to come just when things seemed to be shaping so favorably for everyone.
"Certainly I should not think of taking you up there again," said Mary finally, "but what can I do about the orchids?"
"They must be cared for," Madaline said sagely, "but we could never go up there, and perhaps—perhaps——"
"Get packed in one of the boxes, Madie?" teased Grace. "That surely would be dreadful. But don't you worry, Mary-love. We will find a way to take care of the studio until Professor is able to come back. Of course, I don't see how we are ever going to let you go there again, but since we don't have to decide that to-day let us postpone the evil. Too bad we didn't have a chance to look into the boxes; we might have been able to tell where they came from," she reasoned.
"Don't you dare go blaming Mally Mack for furnishing the boxes," objected Cleo. "I am sure no one in Bellaire would give away boxes to steal stuff from the studio," she declared. "At any rate someone has surely been busy up there, and I am glad our wires didn't cross again. Fancy us going up those stairs and seeing a couple of burglars squat among the boxes!"
This calamitous consideration acted as a spur to the romping girls, who were once more discovering short-cuts home from Second Mountain, and joining hands, they raced pell-mell through the daisy field, down to the path that edged the brook.
"I think it is too mean," grumbled Madaline. "We hadn't entirely searched all the places, nooks and boxes and things. We may have left a lot of valuables behind us for the robbers to pack in their boxes."
Everyone laughed at Madaline's literal and explicit surmise. It was characteristic of Madaline that she should stamp a mere guess with a most definite label, but the excitement of the flight with the treasures was too absorbing to admit of this trifle being noticed.
"I hope Aunt Audrey is in," said Cleo. "We must, of course, bring these things to her at once. She will know best what to do with them."
"And we better not mention them to anyone," cautioned Grace, "else we might again be visited with night prowlers."
That the strange child should fall back into a condition such as the scouts first found her in was additional cause for alarm. She scarcely spoke in answer to the questions piled upon her. Who might have been in the studio? What would they ever intend to do with so tiny a little baby monkey? What had they expected to put in all those boxes? Such questions came thicker than the stones they skipped over, but in reply the girls received nothing but skeleton answers from Mary, and these were built of simple, meager words.
"But the orchids? What can we do about them?" Grace insisted. This roused Mary. She was seen to shudder, and heard to sigh before replying:
"Girls, please forgive me for being so rude. But so much is rushing all about me, I can hardly think. I shall never let you go with me to the studio again——"
"Then you shan't go either!" promptly interrupted Cleo. "Your danger would be as great as ours, and we will never leave you until every thread of this mystery is untangled."
"Indeed, we will not," echoed Grace, while Madaline too offered her pledge of loyalty to their new member.
"You are sure the monkey will not bite you?" questioned Cleo, glad to change the subject.
"Oh, no indeed," Mary replied, patting the animal, that now seemed much at home, and quite content, in the hollow of her arm. "They are wise little creatures; we have many of them in South America, and this one seems to be trained."
"Whatever will your aunt say, Cleo?" Grace exclaimed. "Just think of fetching another surprise. We thought the fly catcher plant quite wonderful; but just imagine a real little monkey!"
"Oh, Aunt Audrey loves pets," declared Cleo, "and you see how well she has treated us!"
"I should say so," affirmed Madaline, "and we are pretty noisy pets at that."
"Uncle Guy will be delighted with this monkey, I am sure," continued Cleo, qualifying which monkey she referred to, "that is if he gets home in time, and if we are allowed to keep our chatterbox. Suppose someone takes him from us?"
"Can't have him," objected Grace, attempting to pat the dark spot of fur in Mary's arm. "He's going to be our mascot, aren't you—Peetootie? Wonder what we'll name him?"
"Let's have a real party for him——" But Grace had no time to finish out her party plans, for the roof of Cragsnook now loomed up through the trees.
"Mary," interrupted Cleo, "what do you think will be best to do about the orchids? We are almost home, and I think it would be better to have some suggestion to offer Aunt Audrey."
"Oh, it all seems so hopeless now," sighed Mary, "and just when Grandie is getting better and I felt so—so—happy!"
"Now don't you go worrying like that," Grace put in quickly. "These things are just new—new adventures," she declared, "and you will see how they all help to clear up the big mystery which is back of the whole thing," offered Grace. "Don't you think, Mary, we might get someone to go live in the studio, and take care of it? Someone whom you could trust, of course."
"If we only could—but then, you see, Grandie feels he is guarding something——"
As Mary faltered Cleo filled in the hesitation with a suggestion that they lay the whole story before Mrs. Dunbar and see what she might propose. It struck the girls as queer that the Professor should be "guarding" something in the deserted studio, but they were too considerate of Mary's feelings to press that point.
Cleo was carrying the hand-made basket, and in it the bundle of jewelry, tied up in Reda's black silk shawl, while each of the other girls was burdened with the most important of the articles unearthed in the search at the studio.
"I am so afraid someone may suspect we are carrying valuables," said Grace. "Cleo, do be careful, don't tip your basket, some jewel might slide out."
"No danger. They are all secure in the shawl," replied Cleo.
"Of course it is lovely to have these things if they all prove to be Loved One's," Mary said gently, "but do you know I really believe I care more about the pictures than anything else. They make me feel as if—as if—I just visited with daddy and mother again."
"There's Michael out in the back lots. Let's go through that way and we won't be apt to meet people on the road," suggested Grace, plainly anxious to get the jewels into Cragsnook without any possibility of molestation.
Greeting Michael pleasantly, they were attempting to hurry along, past the garage, when he called them to wait a moment.
"If you are going up to the house," he said, "would you mind telling Jennie that my cousin got in from Long Island to-day—a woman looking for a place out here? And ask Jennie if she can make room for her until I get a chance to look around for a place. I am sorry she came without giving me more time, but I just got the card on this mail."
"Certainly, Michael," offered Cleo. Then a thought struck her that seemed to offer some solution of the difficulties at the studio. Maybe Michael's cousin could keep house for Mary and her grandfather?
"Mary," she whispered, "do you mind if I ask Michael about his cousin?She might go to the studio for us."
"Oh, wouldn't that be splendid!" and something like joy shot acrossMary's pale face. "I know any friend of Michael's would be faithful."
But Michael was just spying the little animal in Mary's arm. And the animal seemed to be just spying Michael!
"What on earth—have you got—there!" gasped the caretaker.
"Oh, the dearest little monkey——" Cleo attempted to explain, but was interrupted with a protest.
"A monkey!" cried Michael. "Of all the hated animals of the earth a monkey is the worst. Where ever did you pick the creature up?" He stepped nearer to examine the mascot, in spite of his denunciation.
"Now you couldn't hate a little thing like that," insisted Grace."Just see, he wants to shake hands with you."
Rather awkwardly the man extended one big brown finger. The queer little creature made a comical effort to grasp it, and at the same time shake his wizened head with a show of monkey intelligence.
"I don't exactly know why it is, but the Irish hate monkeys!" admittedMichael, with a hearty laugh that interpreted the joke.
"But you will love this one," insisted Mary. "He is as tame as a kitten."
"And even Shep was kind to him," went on Grace. "Say, Michael," coaxingly, "couldn't we take him in your rooms for something to eat? He must be starved. We found him—in an empty house," explained Grace.
"And he needs it—I mean an empty house," declared Michael. "Can't you see him making himself at home in my little sitting room? I'll bet he would want to sleep in my best tea pot, or maybe he would prefer my new hat. They always like hats when they go around with the organ grinders. But tell me, girls, where did you get him? I don't want a couple of hurdy-gurdy pushers coming down on me for their monka," he finished, with a very weak imitation of the Italian accent.
"Someone left him in Mary's house, or else he came in by the chimney," said Madaline. "But at any rate he is ours, and we are going to have him for a pet. Now, Michael, please give him something to eat. See how pale he is."
Whether willingly or reluctantly, Michael now led the way to his quarters in the garage, and as quickly as the monkey smelled food Mary had her own troubles in restraining his appreciation. He wanted to walk all over everything and sample every article in sight that even looked like food.
"He surely was hungry," admitted Michael, showing an interest in the animal in spite of his voiced dislike for it. "They are kinda cute, ain't they now?" he ventured.
"And say, Michael," began Cleo at this favorable opening, "do you think your cousin would like to take a place up at Second Mountain? You see, Mary's folks are all away. You know her grandfather is in Crow's Nest, and they have some beautiful things at the studio that should be cared for."
"We can give her good wages," assured Mary, "and Grandie would so appreciate a real housekeeper."
"Say, listen!" said Michael. "I'll forgive the monkey now. That's the very place for Katie Bergen. Just you run along and fix it up with Jennie for to-night, and I'll take care of the monkey."
"There!" said Cleo, when they left the garage, "isn't that just like a good natured old Michael? He's petting our mascot already." And they all agreed it was just like Michael to pet a monkey.