“Now where in the name of fortune have I heard that voice before?” mused Patricia aloud. “Those thin high tones sound oddly familiar. I know! It was Mrs. Brock! But why should she telephone Rhoda?”
Patricia was still puzzling over the question when the door opened to admit Clarice in a dull rose dinner gown and a black fur jacket, followed by Mrs. Vincent, closely wrapped in a long, grey coat, her face drawn with pain.
“Clarice,” the chaperon was saying, as they paused to close the door, “tell Ivan when he comes that I’m sorry to break my engagement with him, but that I’m ill and have gone to bed.”
She hurried to her room, without even a glance at Patricia.
“How gay you are tonight,” observed Patricia, eyeing the rose-colored gown admiringly as the girl came over to the table.
“Isn’t the dress darling?” inquired Clarice, opening her jacket to display more fully the charms beneath it. “My father just sent it to me. You see,” perching on the corner of the table, and swinging her feet, “he’s just crazy for me to make good here, and graduate; and so long as I manage to stick, he’ll send me pretties every once in a while. On the other hand, if I’m flunked out,” with a careless laugh, “he threatens to send me off into the country to live with some old maid cousin whom I’ve never seen.”
While Patricia was searching for a suitable reply to this unusual confidence, the doorbell rang, and Clarice flew to answer it. A short, dark youth with bold black eyes, which were everywhere at once, stepped familiarly in as soon as the door was opened.
“Oh, Mr. Zahn,” said Clarice, without preamble, “Mrs. Vincent is sorry; but she has a bad tooth, and has gone to bed. Soshewon’t be able to go out with you.”
There was the faintest accent on the wordshe, as Clarice smiled mischievously upon the young man. Without a moment’s hesitation, he caught the suggestion and replied suavely:
“Then perhaps you would take her place?”
“Oh, I’ve got to work tonight,” laughed Clarice, “unless—” turning to glance inquiringly at Patricia, “are you going to be here all the evening?”
“Yes,” was the brief reply, as Patricia turned over the pages of a magazine, trying not to listen in on the conversation going on near the door.
“Then you wouldn’t mind taking my place, would you?” begged Clarice, clattering noisily across the polished floor on her high-heeled rose slippers to lean on the table and smile coaxingly at Patricia. “I’ll do the same for you some time.”
“All right,” replied Patricia, without enthusiasm, for she did not at all approve of Clarice’s going off with Mrs. Vincent’s friend; yet did not feel at liberty to try to dissuade the girl.
“Thanks, darling!” was Clarice’s grateful response. A hasty kiss on the tip of Patricia’s nose, a dash across the hall, the opening and closing of a door, and they were gone.
“I hope to goodness Mrs. Vincent doesn’t come out and ask for Clarice! I don’t know what I’d ever tell her,” said Patricia to herself, as she settled down to work.
An hour later when she went to her room for a note book, she paused to look out of the window at the big snowflakes which were floating lazily down from a partly clouded sky. To her intense surprise, she saw a man slinking along the path beside the dormitory, glancing up at its windows as he passed. A grey hat was pulled so far down on his head that she could not get a good look at his face; but his size, clothing, and general make-up led her to believe it was Norman Young. Since she had not turned on her light, it was safe to watch the man until he crossed the back yard and disappeared among the trees on Mrs. Brock’s lawn. That practically settled his identity.
Catching up the note book from her desk, she hurried back to the hall. What was Norman doing out there? Why did he look up at all the windows? Was there any connection between his actions and the mysterious telephone call earlier in the evening? No satisfactory answers presented themselves; so Patricia tried to force the troublesome problem out of her mind by settling to work in real earnest on the essay.
Half an hour later the sound of a door knob turning made her jump so violently that she knocked a big reference book onto the floor. Mrs. Vincent had opened her door and was crossing the hall.
“Now I’m in for it,” thought Patricia, stooping to pick up the heavy volume; but the chaperon seemed oblivious to the change of girls at the Black Book.
“My tooth is so bad,” murmured Mrs. Vincent, pressing her hand to her right cheek, “that I’m going over to my cousin’s,—he’s a dentist,—to see what he can do for it. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Without waiting for a reply, she hurried out.
“Well,” thought Patricia, “now I certainlyamalone here. The girls on the third floor are all up at Fine Arts making scenery for the play; and those from the second are ushering at the concert—all except Tiny.”
A little black-haired girl, whose size and delicate features suggested nothing so much as a lovely doll, had promptly been nicknamed by the girls of Arnold Hall. Nobody ever thought of calling her by her right name, Evelyn Stone.
“Seems to me I heard someone say she was ill. If I get this finished in time, I’ll run up and see her. No, I can’t either. I’ll have to stay with the Book and the telephone,” thought Patricia, writing rapidly.
Presently she stopped, sat up straight, and sniffed.
“I smell smoke!” she said aloud, getting up from the table and walking down the hall.
Patricia thrust her head into each room on her way down the corridor, but no trace of fire did she find until she reached the very end. There, in the room occupied by Frances and Katharine, flames were flickering around the window frames, apparently coming from outside. Quickly closing the door again to prevent a draft, she dashed to the telephone and called the Fire Department. Then she ran into her own room to look out of the window and see how much space the fire covered. The side of the house below Frances’ window was ablaze, and tongues of flame were creeping steadily up the frame building.
“Tiny’s room is directly over Frances’!” was the thought which flashed through Patricia’s brain.
Darting back into the hall and up the stairs, two steps at a time, Patricia burst into Evelyn’s room crying:
“Get up quickly!” She pulled the covers off of the astonished little girl. “There’s a fire.”
“I can’t get up; I’m too weak!” whimpered Evelyn.
“You’ve got to!” replied Patricia, snatching up a heavy bathrobe, pulling the girl up from her pillows, and forcing her arms into the sleeves. “Now come—quick.”
Still Evelyn hesitated; so Patricia literally dragged her out of bed, and, grasping her firmly from behind, pushed the reluctant girl out to the stairs. There, overcome by fright and weakness, Evelyn sat down on the top step. Without wasting any more words, Patricia grabbed her by the ankles, pulled her all the way down the long, straight flight of stairs, and landed her on the rug at the foot of them just as the fire apparatus clattered up to the house. Clutching Evelyn under the arms, Patricia dragged her into the parlor, rolled her onto some cushions before the fireplace, threw a rug over her, and ran out to consult with the Fire Chief who was already in the hall.
“Shall we have to get out?” inquired Patricia, somewhat breathlessly.
“Hardly think so. Seems to be confined to back corner. Keep all doors closed,” was the man’s curt reply, as he directed his assistants who were bringing in extinguishers and hose.
Immediately a huge crowd assembled and some policemen were trying to keep the excited people far enough away from the house; even the students who lived in the Hall were not allowed to enter it. Watching from the front windows of the parlor, Patricia could see the Alley Gang on the edge of one group; Jane, calm as usual; Frances crying and holding onto Katharine; Hazel gesticulating wildly as she talked to Anne; and the others dodging this way and that, trying to get closer to the house. Just as Mrs. Vincent worked her way through the crowd to speak to one of the firemen, she came face to face with Clarice and Ivan who had edged through from the opposite side of the street. Patricia held her breath for an instant, but after receiving the fireman’s reply Mrs. Vincent seemed to be chatting quite naturally with the couple. Probably she did not realize that they had been out together.
A grey coat and hat in the background caught Patricia’s eye, and as a sudden movement of their owner brought him fully into the light of a street lamp, she recognized Norman Young. Like lightning her mind raced from the skulking figure beside the dormitory earlier in the evening, to the subsequent outbreak of fire. Surely there could be no connection. No doubt an investigation of the fire would surely follow, to which, in all probability, she would be summoned. What should she say? “I should hate to tell a mere suspicion. I’m not really certain,” she stated to herself. “I wish I knew what to do about it.”
Evelyn, who had lain shivering and weeping just where Patricia had left her, now raised up and inquired plaintively: “Do you suppose my room will be burned? I just bought all my spring clothes; and if they’re lost—I—”
“I’m quite sure they must be getting the fire under control; otherwise, they would have ordered us out,” replied Patricia calmly. “I hardly think the flames reached your room at all.”
“Thank goodness!” sighed Evelyn, collapsing again onto her pillows.
Not a word of gratitude to the girl who had rescued her. People are awfully queer, thought Patricia, gazing wonderingly at Tiny. Imagine, thinking of her new clothes when she, herself, might have been trapped up there, alone and sick! Turning again to the window, she was amused to see her Aunt Betsy dash determinedly through the crowd only to be stopped by a policeman. Patricia could imagine the things she was saying to the man who dared block her way. Nearby stood Ted and John, scanning the crowd anxiously. She wished she could in some way attract their attention so they might know she was safe. Presently the crowd shifted a little, bringing the two boys more directly in her range of vision. Ted’s restless eyes soon spied her; he said something to John, and they both made grotesque gestures, which she interpreted as offers of rescue. Gaily she shook her head, thereby causing Ted to shed imaginary tears into his handkerchief, while Jack patted him on the back.
Half an hour later sounded the welcome two gongs which indicated that the fire was out. Then the crowd made a dash for the front steps; but a couple of officers, with whom the Dean had been quietly conferring, took their stand on the bottom step and refused admittance to all but Arnold Hall students. Slowly the townspeople strolled away, while the excited girls hurried in to see how much damage had been done.
“Oh, Pat!” cried Anne, flinging both arms around her. “We were so worried about you!”
“Until we caught sight of you at the window, we were absolutely frantic,” added Jane.
A loud burst of laughter from Clarice, who had just entered with Betty and Hazel, made them all turn to see what had occasioned it.
“Just look at Tiny!” cried Clarice. “How did you get down here?”
“Patricia dragged me down!” retorted Evelyn in injured tones. “She burst into my room, scared the life out of me, and literally pulled me down the stairs—”
“Pat to the rescue!” interrupted Hazel admiringly.
“Our Pat’s a heroine!” cried Anne, while the rest of the Gang pressed closer.
“Who sent in the alarm?” inquired Mrs. Vincent.
“I did,” acknowledged Patricia modestly. “I smelled smoke and discovered the cause of it in Katharine’s and Frances’ room—”
“She’s a double heroine!” exulted Jane.
“Have you any idea what started it?” continued Mrs. Vincent sharply.
“I told you all Iknowabout it,” replied Patricia, with a faint accent on the wordknow, which was lost on the troubled chaperon. “I was on the Black Book all the evening, except once when I went to my room for a book and when I was looking for the fire—”
“And when you were dragging me around,” added Tiny, provoking a burst of laughter.
“At the Black Book?” repeated Mrs. Vincent. “It wasn’t your turn. You had it night before last. Whowassupposed to be on it?” looking accusingly around the room.
“I was,” admitted Clarice; “but I had a date, so Pat relieved me.”
“You’re altogether too fond of getting out of some of your obligations,” said Mrs. Vincent severely, while the girls stared in astonishment at her rebuking thus publicly the favored Clarice.
“Pat didn’t mind,” murmured Clarice.
“That doesn’t matter. Hereafter, if you wish to relieve one another, you’ll have to get my permission. I want that clearly understood.”
“Nice time we’ll have finding her sometimes, to get permission,” murmured Hazel to Betty.
“Must be dreadfully upset, or she’d never lay Clarice out like that,” was Anne’s comment to Patricia.
“There will be an investigation made,” continued Mrs. Vincent. “Dean Walters is very much disturbed. Morton College has recently had a regular epidemic of fires of late, all apparently incendiary; and she—”
“Mrs. Vincent,” interrupted Mary, “Norman Young is at the front door and wants to see you.”
The chaperon hurried out, and, quite shamelessly, the girls kept quiet enough to hear what was said in the hall.
“Mrs. Brock sent me over to inquire how much damage had been done, and especially if anyone was injured,” said Norman. “If necessary, she would accommodate three or four of the girls tonight.”
“Tell Mrs. Brock that I am very grateful for her offer,” replied Mrs. Vincent, “but no one was harmed; and since the damage was confined principally to one room, we shall be able to manage quite nicely without sending anyone out.”
“Ah—” exclaimed Hazel, disappointedly.
“What are you ah-ing for?” demanded Katharine. “We’d be the ones to go.”
“Did you lose much of your stuff?” asked Patricia, putting her arm around Frances, whose face still showed traces of tears.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Now, girls,” ordered Mrs. Vincent, coming briskly back to the parlor, “let’s get to bed. Some of you help Evelyn upstairs, and I’ll get bedding to put on the davenport. Katharine and Frances will have to sleep here until we can get cleared up a little.”
It was a long time before silence settled down in the Hall. Even after the lights were out, and she and Betty had stopped talking, Patricia lay in her bed as wide awake as if it were noon. What was she going to say at the investigation? Suppose Norman Youngwasthe man she had seen, what possible object could he have had in setting fire to the Hall? It was certainly bold of him, in that case, to come and inquire so coolly about the damages. Yet it didn’t seem as if a perfectly respectable secretary, however much one might be inclined to dislike him,couldbe a fire bug.
After another hour of restless tossing, she decided to tell the whole truth if questioned closely.
The official bulletin board was located near the head of the stairs which led down to the dining room in Horton Hall. Space in front of it was at a premium after meals; for everybody was anxious to keep in touch with campus news. On the day following the fire, an even larger group of students than usual crowded into the shallow ell where the board hung.
“Look, Pat!” cried Anne, pointing to the top notice. “The following students are requested to meet the Dean in her office at two o’clock:
Patricia RandallFrances QuinneKatharine Weldon”
Patricia Randall
Frances Quinne
Katharine Weldon”
Patricia read the notice slowly. Although she knew an investigation would surely be made, nevertheless her heart sank to her very shoes when she saw her fears realized quite so soon. Turning away abruptly, she pushed out of the crowd and started for the door.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Anne, who followed and caught up with her on the street.
“Nothing,” replied Patricia quickly; “or—that investigation.”
“But why get all ‘het up’ over that? Simply tell what you know.”
“But that’s just it; Idon’tknow.”
“Know what?” questioned Anne, linking her arm through that of her friend, and pressing close to her side. “Tell me all about it; you’ll feel better.”
“I’m not sure that I should,” began Patricia doubtfully.
“Oh, shucks! What’s a friend for? I’ll guess then. You know more about the fire than you told Dolly?” hazarded Anne, watching Patricia intently. “You don’t need to admit it; I can tell just by looking at you. We’ll walk over to the park so no one will interrupt us, and then you can unburden your mind. I’ll bet you didn’t sleep a wink last night. You look like nobody’s business.”
Up and down the deserted paths of the little park they paced briskly, for the wind was cold, while Patricia told her story.
“If I were you,” said Anne, when Patricia had finished, “I wouldn’t advance any information; just answer the Dean’s questions. If she doesn’t ask you whether you had any suspicions who the man was, you’ll be all right. In any case, don’t worry about it.”
In spite of the comfort derived from confiding in Anne, the morning seemed endless to Patricia, who alternately longed for and dreaded the arrival of two o’clock. Promptly on the stroke of the hour, the three girls from Arnold Hall were admitted to Dean Walters’ sunny, spacious office. Hardly were they seated in the chairs given them by Miss Jolly, the Dean’s secretary, when Mrs. Vincent walked in.
“The Dean will be in in a few minutes,” murmured Miss Jolly, placing another chair for the latest arrival. As she spoke, the door to an inner room opened, and a dignified, grey-haired woman crossed the room briskly to seat herself behind a large flat-topped desk, facing her callers.
“It is most distasteful to me,” began the Dean without preamble, “to be obliged to question you regarding last night’s catastrophe. Arson is a serious matter, and you will do much harm if you try to shield anyone, or by withholding any detail which might help discover the culprit. So I ask that you be perfectly frank with me, and regard what is said in here as strictly confidential. Mrs. Vincent, I’ll hear first whatever you can tell me.”
Nervously the chaperon of Arnold Hall told the events of her evening, passing rapidly over the fact that she had left Patricia practically alone in the house, and dwelling at some length on her own indisposition. The Dean’s face betrayed no indication of her thoughts, nor did she make any comment when Mrs. Vincent had finished her story.
Little chills began to run up and down Patricia’s spine as she awaited her turn next; but Dean Walters turned slightly in her chair in order to face Frances more directly, and began to question her rapidly as to her whereabouts the previous evening; in what condition she had left her room; whether she or Katharine ever smoked there; if her or her room mate’s clothing and belongings were insured, and so on. Patricia shivered still more as she realized that the Dean intended to question them rather than to listen to their stories. Frances was so frightened that she stumbled and stuttered through her replies, and finally burst into nervous tears.
“There is no reason for you to be so disturbed, Miss Quinne,” said the Dean calmly; “I do not accuse or suspect any one of you; but I must obtain all the information I possibly can, not only in order to apprehend the culprit, if possible, but to satisfy the insurance inspectors. Miss Weldon, can you add anything to the facts your room mate has just given me?”
“No, Dean Walters,” replied Katharine promptly, “except that early in the evening as we were dressing for dinner, our lights kept jumping, going out and then coming on again, you know.”
“Did you try the bulbs to see if they were screwed in tight?”
“No, we didn’t, because it was late and we were in a great hurry.”
“Have the lights ever acted that way before?” inquired the Dean thoughtfully, resting her chin in her hand, and fixing her keen blue eyes on the girl’s face.
“A couple of times within the last week.”
“Why did you not report them?” The question came a bit sharply.
“Just carelessness, I suppose,” admitted Katharine frankly. “We never bother about things until they are entirely out of commission. You see we’re always just getting back from somewhere, or going out to something; so we really don’t have much time.” Katharine grinned in a friendly manner at the stern woman behind the desk; nothing could disturb or subdue Katharine. Dean Walters made a few notes on a small pad, then turned to Patricia.
“Tell me exactly where you were last night, and every detail of your evening.”
Slowly and coherently Patricia furnished the desired information, and then paused, hoping with all her heart that she would not be questioned further. False hope.
“You say you were in your room for a short time before the fire broke out. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary then?”
Patricia flushed up to the roots of her hair, opened her lips, and then closed them again.
“I see that you did,” commented the Dean quickly. “Let me have all the facts, please.”
Reluctantly Patricia told about the man she had seen, and his odd actions.
“Describe him,” ordered Dean Walters, making notes rapidly.
“I—I didn’t see his face,” began Patricia.
“Do as well as you can, then, with his general appearance, clothing, etc.”
As Patricia proceeded, hesitatingly, with the description, Frances gave a little gasp which, though immediately suppressed, did not escape the quick ear of the attentive woman.
“Had you then, or have you now, any ideas as to the identity of that man?” inquired the Dean.
“I’d—really—rather not say,” faltered the girl.
“Neither the information nor your part in it will be made public. I am waiting, Miss Randall,” as poor Patricia still hesitated.
“He looked to me like Mr. Young, Mrs. Brock’s secretary; but it doesn’t seem possible for him to be mixed up in such an affair.”
A dead silence followed; then Dean Walters picked up her telephone. “Assistant Registrar, please,” she requested curtly, tapping nervously with her pencil as she waited for the connection. “Mr. Billings? This is Dean Walters. Please get in touch with Norman Young at once and send him to my office.”
No one spoke or moved as all tensely awaited the arrival of the new participant in the inquiry. In ten minutes Miss Jolly admitted the blond youth, clad in his customary grey clothes, and carrying a soft grey hat.
“Sit down, Mr. Young,” directed the Dean, indicating a chair. “We are trying to get some information regarding last night’s fire at Arnold Hall; and I wondered, since you live so near to it, if you could add anything to the facts I already have. I understand you sometimes cut through the yard to get to Mrs. Brock’s house. Did you happen to do so last evening?”
“Yes, I did,” replied the boy frankly, “about half past eight, or maybe nine o’clock.”
Patricia trembled. So ithadbeen he. Quietly she wrapped her coat more closely about her so no one would notice that she was shaking violently.
“Where were you going?” inquired the Dean.
“Home, to work on my assignments for today,” answered Norman, letting his glance travel along the row of girls at his left. No one of them, however, met his eyes.
“Did you notice anything unusual about the dormitory?”
“Only that it was dark.”
“How did you happen to notice that?”
“The path which is always well lighted from the windows on that side was so dark that I involuntarily looked up to see what was the matter,” responded the youth glibly, gazing directly, and Patricia thought somewhat defiantly, into the Dean’s eyes.
“Were you out again that night?”
“Yes, Dean; I went over on an errand—for Mrs. Brock.”
“Through the dormitory yard?”
“Yes.”
“And when did you return?”
“I don’t really know the exact time, but it was after the Fire Department had reached the Hall; I could not get through the crowd to go home.”
“How, then, did Mrs. Brock get in touch with you to deliver her message to Mrs. Vincent?”
“After watching the firemen for a while, I went around the block and entered Mrs. Brock’s house just in time to prevent her going over to the Hall herself.”
“Why didn’t you want her to go?” demanded Dean Walters sharply.
“Well, she is an old lady, and it was a cold night for her to be out, and late for her to be out alone.”
“What was your ‘errand’ for Mrs. Brock, and where did it take you?”
“That I am not at liberty to disclose; it is my employer’s business,” was the decided response.
Dean Walters opened her lips to speak, then abruptly closed them again. A moment’s silence followed; then, turning toward Mrs. Vincent and the girls, she said curtly: “You may go. Your testimony was quite satisfactory. Mr. Young will remain.”
Single file, like Indians, the four women left the office, descended a short flight of stairs, passed through a doorway at the foot, and were out upon the street. Then everybody drew a long breath of the frosty air and began to speak.
“Wasn’t it terrible?” demanded Frances. “I acted like a fool.”
“Oh, forget it!” advised Katharine. “You were nervous; we all were.”
“Not you,” contradicted Patricia. “I envy you your poise upon all occasions.”
“What do you suppose the Dean will do about Norman Young, Mrs. Vincent?” asked Frances.
“I imagine she may get in touch with Mrs. Brock,” replied the chaperon somewhat irritably; for she felt she had not made the best of impressions upon the Dean. It was advisable for her to have that lady’s goodwill; for the appointments as chaperon in the various dormitories were made yearly, and Mrs. Vincent had reasons of her own for wishing to remain at Arnold Hall at least two years longer.
Several days passed, and the girls still gossiped among themselves about the investigation; for the officials were strangely silent upon the subject. No statement had been made public, and the students were consumed with curiosity.
“Mrs. Vincent,” said Katharine one night when the chaperon came to her room to borrow a hat, “what did the Dean find out about the fire? We’re dying to know.”
“I believe that upon the advice of Mrs. Brock, the whole affair has been dropped,” answered Mrs. Vincent, trying on Katharine’s hat before the mirror, her mind more upon what she was doing than upon what she was saying.
“What on earth—” began Katharine.
“I don’t know any more,” interrupted the chaperon quickly. “I’m not sure I should have told you that much. Don’t quote me, please.”
“I won’t,” promised Katharine good-naturedly, “but may I tell the girls without saying where I got the information? They’re all wondering.”
“Perhaps it would be well to do so; then maybe they’ll drop the subject.”
A couple of weeks later, the Dean announced in chapel one day that defective wiring had evidently caused the fire in Arnold Hall, and asked the girls in all dormitories to be very careful in their use of electrical appliances.
Spring came early that year, and the hills around Granard were a lovely haze of pale green. The woods were filled with delicate wild flowers, and streams which would be mere threads later in the season, now swollen by rapid thaws, were tumbling riotously along their rocky beds. Birds were darting madly back and forth across the landscape, seeking mates and places for cozy nests.
“Pat,” suggested Jack, on one of the warm, bright days, “the spring has gotten into my blood. Let’s cut Shakespeare this afternoon, and go for a hike in the woods.”
“Jack, you shouldn’t tempt me like that!” she cried reprovingly, stopping beside the bench where they had had their first talk. “I wonder if he’ll say anything important in class.”
The boy laughed at her sudden change of tone and attitude. “I don’t believe so. He’ll talk on the last act. We know that pretty well, don’t we?” grinning mischievously down into the girl’s brown eyes.
“We’ll take a chance anyhow! When shall we start?”
“Right now. Shall you be warm enough in that thing?”
“‘That thing!’ I’d have you know this is a perfectly good leather jacket which my father gave me for Christmas.”
“My error! It’s good looking, anyhow.”
“You can’t fix it up now.”
Laughing and joking, as gay as the spring all around them, they swung briskly along the state road until they reached Tretton Woods; then they plunged in among the feathered trees.
“Oh!” cried Patricia. “Arbutus! The darlings!” Sinking down upon a bed of last year’s leaves, she tenderly plucked a couple of sprays. “It always seems a pity to tear up a whole lot of it,” she observed, handing one piece to Jack, and fastening the other in her own buttonhole.
A little deeper in the woods they came upon a merry little stream.
“Look, Pat,” exulted Jack, “at that brook. Let’s make a dam—”
“And a lake?” concluded Patricia, eagerly.
Like two children they worked happily until a wide pond spread out in a fern bordered hollow.
“Isn’t that lovely?” rejoiced Patricia, gazing proudly at the result of their labor.
“It sure is! Gosh, Pat, look!” holding out his watch.
“Half past five? Itcan’tbe. How I wish now I’d brought the car.”
“No, you don’t, young lady!” contradicted Jack masterfully. “A hike’s made on two feet, not on four wheels.”
“We’ll be late for dinner—”
“Never mind. I’ll take you somewhere to eat.”
“Like this?” looking down at her soiled hands and muddy skirt.
“Sure.”
On the way out of the woods, Patricia’s attention was caught by a cluster of cup-like white flowers. “Aren’t those pretty, Jack? Let’s take them home as a souvenir. We’ve lost our arbutus.”
Both stooped to gather a handful as quickly as possible.
“Oh, the nasty things!” cried Patricia. “Their stems are just full of red juice.”
“Looks for all the world like blood,” commented the boy, dropping his flowers into the stream, which quickly whirled them away, and wiping his hands on his handkerchief. Patricia followed his example.
“It’s awful stuff to get off,” complained Patricia, still rubbing her hands vigorously, as they stepped out upon the state road almost under the wheels of a motorcycle.
“Good Heavens, girl! Watch your step. That was a narrow shave.”
“I’ll say it was. Why, it’s coming back,” added Patricia, as the car wheeled about and approached them again.
“They’re troopers,” breathed Jack, as the car stopped beside them.
Two young men gazed searchingly at the two disheveled figures before them.
“What have you been doing?” demanded the man in the side car.
“Gathering wild flowers in the woods,” replied the girl promptly.
“Then where are they?” asked the other trooper, fixing his eyes on the red-stained handkerchiefs.
“Some we lost, and some we threw away,” said Jack.
“Give me those handkerchiefs,” ordered the red-haired trooper, hopping nimbly out of the side car.
In speechless astonishment the hikers handed the crumpled rags to the man, who took them to the driver of the motorcycle, and both troopers examined them carefully.
“Blood, without a doubt,” stated the auburn-haired man. “Guess we’ve made our catch. They certainly answer to the description of Crack Mayne and his pal, Angel. You’re under arrest,” he continued, turning toward the couple.
“What utter nonsense!” exploded Jack angrily, but Patricia laid her hand on his arm.
“We got those stains from flower stems,” she stated calmly.
“You’ll have to show us.”
“We can’t, now.”
“Why not?”
“Because we picked them all, and when we found that our hands were stained we threw the flowers away.”
“Oh, yeah? Where did you throw them?” asked the driver, getting off and starting towards the woods.
“They’ve gone down the stream,” giggled Patricia, her sense of humor unwisely getting the upper hand.
In later days, when Jack wanted to tease her, he always said that Patricia’s giggle sealed their fate.
“Quite clear they’ve been up to something,” muttered the red-haired trooper; “maybe a murder. You take ’em in, and I’ll poke about in there to see what I can find. Send Murphy out for me as soon as you get in.”
Patricia and Jack were hustled into the side car, and rushed off toward town. Soon Jack took from his pocket a pencil and an envelope.
“Better give middle names at the station,” he scribbled rather illegibly, due to the motion of the car. “Keep college out of it.”
Patricia nodded; then Jack tore the envelope into little pieces, which the wind eagerly snatched from his hand and bore away.
At the station, they registered as Peter Dunn and Alice Randall. The stained handkerchiefs were laid aside for expert examination, and the charges recorded.
“Now may we go?” asked Jack, with elaborate innocence.
“Why, sure,” replied the sergeant sarcastically. “Just walk right out.”
“Hullo, Mac,” drawled an exceedingly tall, solemn-looking youth, letting the street door close with a bang. “What have you for me tonight?”
“Only a couple of—” he began.
The newcomer took one look at the pair; then announced without a trace of surprise: “You’re Jack Dunn, the football player.”
“Twin cousin,” corrected Jack gravely.
“Oh, yeah!”
“Haven’t you ever seen cousins who looked just alike?” inquired Jack, raising his eyebrows in astonishment. “I have.”
“That may be, but I didn’t see you on the field and off of it last fall for nothing. What’s the racket?”
Before Jack could reply, the sergeant irritably gave the desired information, the last of which was drowned by a bark of laughter from the human bean pole.
“This is rich! This is just too rich!” he chortled. “Brave troopers arrest couple of college students for gathering bloodroot. Oh! Oh!”
“So that’s what it was!” exclaimed Patricia. “I should have known.”
“You’re a reporter,” said Jack accusingly. “For the love of Pete don’t put us in the paper. We—”
“Now listen, Bozo,” interrupted Craig Denton, “don’t kid yourself that nobody will know this story unless he reads it in the paper. One of your own fellows stopped in at the office before I came over here to say that a couple of college students had just been taken into the police station. That’s how I happened to breeze in so early, Mac.”
“What did he look like?” demanded Jack.
“Big blond; jaw sticks out like this; little bits of eyes.”
“Tut!” breathed Patricia.
“How the devil did he get hold of it?” exploded Jack.
“Saw you brought in,” replied Craig, as he held the door open for them. “I’m taking these birds home, Mac,” he called to the sergeant. “So you see,” he continued, as they were out on the street, “you’d better let us present the story truthfully. It’s the best way.”
“Of course,” replied Jack, ruefully, “you have us at your mercy.”
“What did the troopers look like?” asked Craig.
“I couldn’t describe them,” declared Jack emphatically.
“Nor I,” agreed Patricia. “We were too much upset to notice details.”
“I wonder,” mused the newspaper man, glancing from one to the other suspiciously; but both met his eyes with well simulated innocence.
“We’re going somewhere to eat,” announced Jack; “better come along.”
“Yes, we surely owe you something for your kind rescue,” laughed Patricia.
“There’s an old saying about two being company,” began Craig.
“Nonsense! Come along!” cried Jack, who had taken a liking to the grave youth with his keen sense of humor. “Where shall we go, Pat?”
“Wherever we won’t meet anybody we know. We’re both sketches.”
“No wonder we were regarded as suspicious characters,” agreed Jack. “Guess we’d better go downtown. Where’s a good place?” turning to the reporter. “We usually eat up on the hill.”
“The Exeter, on Field Street, is good. Got stalls; you wouldn’t be conspicuous.”
“Exeter for us,” decided Patricia; “and let’s hurry. I’m starved.”
After a good dinner, accompanied by much joking and laughter, Jack escorted Patricia up toward College Hill, while Craig hurried back to the office of theGranard Herald, after promising to spare the principals as much as possible in his story.
“Little did we think this noon what we were in for,” said Jack, as he was about to leave Patricia at the entrance of Arnold Hall. “I’m sorry to have gotten you into such a jam.”
“You!” protested the girl. “Why, it was all my fault. If I hadn’t picked those flowers—bloodroot’s certainly the right name for them.”
“But if I hadn’t urged you to cut—”
“Oh, Jack, we had a good time; and, as for the unpleasant part, well, it didn’t last long. And it was an unusual experience.”
“But it’s not over yet; all the publicity, and talk. Of course, I could stand it; but—”
“You think I couldn’t!” finished Patricia with a flash of anger in eyes and voice. “I always try to be a good sport.”
“You are; and I didn’t mean—” faltered Jack, distressed.