“Well, blow me down!” Madge exclaimed, relapsing into comic-strip slang as she always did when greatly excited. “A spring panel!”
Cara had rushed to her side and was staring wide-eyed at the secret compartment revealed in the desk.
“There’s something inside!” she cried. “Oh, I hope it’s the pearls!”
Madge thrust her hand into the dark opening. Her face brightened as she felt something not unlike a leather jewel case. She brought it to light, holding it up.
“Oh!” Cara exclaimed in disappointment. “It’s nothing but an old book.”
“A diary,” Madge corrected. “Well, I guess it was too much to expect that we’d find the pearls. I suppose Miss Swenster knows about this compartment but let’s ask her.”
They stepped to the door and called. Miss Swenster answered from the kitchen, and later entered the study, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Look what we found in the desk,” Madge said, handing her the diary. “I must have touched a hidden spring when I was dusting. The panel fell down to reveal this.”
Miss Swenster moved quickly to the desk, her face showing that the information astonished her.
“I never dreamed there was a secret compartment,” she said. “This desk belonged to Florence Swenster, you know.”
“Then the diary may have been hers too,” Madge observed.
Miss Swenster opened the little book and quickly ran through the yellowed pages. The writing was cramped and difficult to read.
“Yes, this is Florence’s diary, I am sure of it. I have seen her writing on a number of old letters.”
“I wonder why she hid her diary in such a strange place?” Cara mused.
“Oh, I imagine it was just a girl’s desire for privacy,” Miss Swenster returned. “Florence was a queer one in a good many ways though. I’m sure she never told anyone about this secret compartment.”
She bent to examine it again. She closed the panel, hearing it click as it went firmly into place. But try as she would, she could not open it again.
“I think I can,” Madge offered. “I know about where my hand was when it touched the spring.”
Miss Swenster stepped aside and Madge moved her hand over the panel exploring its surface. At first she had no better success, then her fingers pressed the spring in just the right manner and the panel popped open.
“It takes a sideways pressure,” she explained.
Cara and Miss Swenster both experimented until they had learned the secret. In the meantime, Madge had picked up the diary and was studying it curiously.
“I wonder—could Florence have written anything in here about the pearls?”
Miss Swenster regarded Madge with frank admiration and approval. At first she had thought the search for the pearls only a useless, amusing whim of the girls. Now she recognized that a sound idea lay behind Madge’s investigation.
“Why not read the diary?” she asked. “If Florence had any secrets to hide, it’s time they were aired.”
This suggestion suited the girls admirably. Immediately forgetting their intention to return home early, they dropped down on the black plush settee and were soon lost to the world. Miss Swenster went quietly back to the kitchen.
It was almost impossible at first to make out the cramped, fine writing. The girls laboriously studied out several paragraphs which were disappointingly trite. Florence had recorded in detail her trips to the dressmakers, visits with relatives and parties attended.
Madge and Cara were becoming discouraged when they happened upon the first notation concerning the necklace. It read:
“I attracted unusual attention tonight when I wore the pearls to the Alstone’s ball. How Rose envied me!”
Cara gave a little squeal of delight and hugged her chum.
“There’s our proof that the pearls really did exist. The necklace wasn’t a myth as so many folks thought!”
“I hope she tells what became of it. Read on!”
For another half hour they delved into the diary, finding little of interest to reward their patience. Then they turned a page and read a brief item disclosing that Florence’s jealousy of her sister was growing more bitter.
“Rose is very sly,” she had written. “She is ingratiating herself with father, hoping that he will will her the pearls.”
“She must have had a distorted view of things,” Cara observed. “From all that we’ve heard, Rose wasn’t a bit designing.”
Madge had turned on ahead in the diary; She gazed at her chum with startled eyes.
“Why, that’s almost the last notation. See all these blank pages.”
“Just when it became interesting,” Cara wailed.
“We’re not quite through. There are a few more paragraphs scattered through the diary.”
She swiftly turned the pages. Cara leaned closer as they came to one brief sentence. It read:
“Father died today.”
For a full minute, the girls stared at the notation, trying to make more of it. Then Cara burst out:
“Wouldn’t you think she’d have written more about a thing like that? Not a word of his sickness or anything. While she’d fill page after page with drivel.”
“Perhaps she was too moved about his death.”
“Maybe,” Cara acknowledged doubtfully. “I’d quicker think she was worrying about the pearls.”
Before they could read on, Miss Swenster came into the study to say that luncheon was ready. The girls sprang guiltily to their feet, declaring that they could not stay.
“It’s all right,” their hostess assured them, smiling. “I’ve already telephoned to your homes. And everything is on the table.”
Miss Swenster was an excellent cook, and Madge and Cara who had healthy, growing appetites, did justice to her fine luncheon. However, they were so excited over the diary that had they eaten bread and milk, they would not have noticed. All during the meal they chattered gaily, telling Miss Swenster everything they had discovered.
“We scarcely can wait until we read the rest,” Cara laughed. “Oh, I’m just sure Florence will tell what she did with the pearls.”
Miss Swenster had tried hard not to allow the enthusiasm of her young friends to carry her away, but her cheeks were flushed and her eyes brighter than the girls had even seen them. She fairly beamed as she urged them to second helpings.
“I’ll not count on the pearls until I see them,” she said. “But, oh! What wouldn’t I do if they should turn up!”
Cara and Madge glanced at her with curious interest.
“Just what would you do?” Madge asked.
“First, I’d reward you girls for finding them! Then I’d call off that sale. I’d get a gardener again and have this place restored to its former condition. Oh, I would do so many things.”
It was the tone of Miss Swenster’s voice that told Madge and Cara exactly how deep was her feeling for the old mansion. She had arranged her sale with business-like indifference to sentiment, but underneath, it hurt.
Madge made a silent resolution that she would never give up until the pearls were found. Surely, the old diary would furnish the clue she needed!
The girls helped with the dishes. The instant they had stacked them away, they hurried back to the study, burying themselves again in the diary.
“We’re nearly at the end,” Madge warned. “Hold your breath and hope.”
She turned several blank pages, and then in an awed voice read aloud:
“‘It was unfair of my father to will the pearls to Rose, though the action did not surprise me greatly. I am determined she never shall wear them! If I cannot have them myself, then I shall hide them where they never will be found.’”
“Oh!” Cara breathed. “How mean!”
“Listen!” Madge commanded, reading on: “‘I have taken only old Uncle George into my confidence and he has sworn that he will never tell. Last night, when everyone was abed we hid the pearls in the—’”
“Go on! Go on!”
“That’s the end of the page.”
In her eagerness, Madge fumbled the sheets. At last she managed to get the page turned over, but as she stared down, she uttered a startled gasp.
“It’s missing! The page that told about the pearls has been torn out!”
“If that isn’t the last straw!” Cara exclaimed indignantly. She permitted herself one glance at the place where the page had been torn from the diary and sank limply back against the settee. “After keying myself up to hear the grand solution, the whole thing falls flat!”
“I feel like wilted spinach myself,” Madge admitted. She closed the diary with an impatient snap, placing it on the table. “Well, we’re at the end. The page that was torn out, was the last one.”
“It would be,” Cara groaned. “Our chance of helping Miss Swenster has gone glimmering.”
“What do you guess became of the missing page?”
“Probably Florence tore it out herself and burned it up.”
Madge agreed that the theory was a likely one. However, she suggested that some other person might have taken the page. The thought left her even more depressed, for in that case, it was likely that whoever had learned the hiding place, had long ago taken the pearls.
The girls were so thoroughly disheartened that it was some time before they summoned courage to report their failure to Miss Swenster. Her face fell at the news but she tried not to show how keen was her disappointment.
“At any rate, I owe you both a great deal for your interest in the matter.”
Before leaving the mansion, Madge asked permission to take the diary home for a few days. In their haste to reach the end, the girls had not read every paragraph but had skipped those that looked uninteresting. Madge had little hope that she would find any new material, but at least thought it would do no harm to reread the diary at her leisure.
“You never admit defeat, do you?” Cara asked as they walked home together. “As far as I’m concerned, I consider the adventure washed-up.”
“I haven’t completely given up,” Madge returned. “But I must confess I haven’t a tangible clue.”
She did not have time to reread the diary that night, and in truth, she rather dreaded the ordeal. It was a long tedious task, one that offered slight hope of success. Nevertheless, Madge continued to think of the Swenster pearls and to wonder if she had not overlooked some hitherto unimportant clue.
“In the diary Florence said that she had taken old Uncle George Jackson into her confidence. Why didn’t I think to ask Miss Swenster who she meant?”
This seemed such an oversight that Sunday afternoon she dropped around at the mansion.
“Uncle George?” Miss Swenster repeated, in response to her question. “Why, he was the old Negro caretaker I told you about. You can’t hope to learn anything from him for he has been dead years and years. In fact, his son is an old man now. Or was the last time I heard. He too may be dead by this time.”
Madge came to life at this scrap of information. Instantly it flashed through her mind that possibly Uncle George Jackson’s son might know something of the pearls.
“Can you tell me his name?” she questioned eagerly.
“Uncle George’s son? Why, it must have been Ross. Yes, that was it. Ross Jackson.”
Miss Swenster knew very little concerning either the old caretaker or his son. When she had left Claymore eight years before, Ross Jackson had been living in a shack down by the railroad tracks but she did not know what had become of him.
“I should have looked after him,” she said regretfully. “I always intended to, but I have had very little ready money. Now that he is an old man it must be difficult for him to find work. I wish I could afford to employ him.”
Madge went away with the avowed intention of discovering what had become of old Uncle Ross Jackson. His name was not in the telephone or city directories. She inquired of any number of persons without success.
Then Jane Allen came to the rescue. Among others, Madge had asked her if she had ever heard of the old Negro. At the time, Jane could not help her, but she had inquired of their negress wash woman and had learned the location of Uncle Ross’ cabin.
“You’re welcome to the information, but I’d not advise you to be going down there by the tracks alone,” Jane warned. “I can’t imagine what’s gotten into you lately. You’re so quiet and secretive. Always wanting to know such odd things too!”
Madge did not enlighten her as to what had caused the change, though she was tempted to disclose everything. She knew that Jane and Enid both were somewhat hurt because they felt they were being excluded from something. She must make it up to them later.
Madge had no intention of venturing alone down into the slum district of Claymore. She broached the subject of the trip with Cara who was willing to accompany her when she comprehended that the visit might have an important bearing on the missing pearls.
Monday night after school, Madge borrowed her uncle’s car and they set forth upon their quest. The house they sought was set well back from the road. They parked the car and walked toward a dilapidated shack with a caved-in roof. The place seemed deserted save for a Plymouth Rock hen which fussed busily over her downy brood and a lank, hungry-looking hound that lay on the door-step with eyes half closed as if he were dreaming of some exciting coon hunt of a long departed day when both he and his master were younger.
Cara was afraid of the hound and though he scarcely looked in her direction, held timidly back. Madge went boldly to the door and knocked. There were stirrings within and presently Uncle Ross came to the door, knuckling his eyes as if he had been aroused from a nap, which indeed he had.
“Howdy, Miss, howdy,” he said to Madge and smiled at Cara. “Won’t you step right in—dat is, if you can find a groove to walk in with all this dishevelment.”
The girls returned the greeting, suggesting that they all sit under a tree in the front yard where Uncle Ross had provided a bench for smoking and resting purposes.
“Uncle,” Madge began when they were seated, “I have been told that your father was a caretaker at the old Swenster place years ago.”
“’Deed he was, chile. He’s tole me dat many a time. ’Sides dat, I used to live dere myself when I was a boy.”
“Do you remember that your father ever mentioned anything about the family pearls?” Madge inquired, watching him closely. “I mean the ones that were lost.”
“Oh, dem pearls! I used to hear heaps about ’em but dey just faded out wid de years. Sometimes I thinks dey neveh was any pearls—just ghost pearls dat went up in smoke if dey eveh was any such-like jewels in de family.”
“But can’t you recall anything your father ever said about where he thought they had been hidden?” Madge persisted.
Uncle Ross scratched his white wool, assuming a pose of deep reflection.
“Mah ole memory is full o’ holes now, Miss. It was so long ago dat de ole haid has lost its grip.”
“But try and think, Uncle! What were your father’s duties about the place. He was a gardener for one thing, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, Miss. De ole man was one of de expertest gardeners in dis town. Dey wasn’t anotheh family in dis whole town dat had a garden like dem Swenster folks—roses a ramblin’ around over de walls and honeysuckles loaded down wid hummin’ birds. Dey don’t have no more quality white folks dese days, no suh!”
“But Uncle,” Madge insisted, smiling at the implication of her own social status. “Surely you remember something your father said about the pearls. Maybe just a few words or even one word.”
Uncle Ross reflected deeply again and then replied:
“I does remembeh dat de ole man was powerful wurrit ’bout what happened to dem pearls. Fust place, he was ’fraid folks would sayhestole ’em and he was de honestest culled man in dis town. Yes, suh! Why, de ole man was a Deacon in de church and de ministeh used to say—”
Madge saw he was going off on a new tangent so tried to draw him up.
“Yes, yes, Uncle. No one ever thought your father took the pearls. All we want to know is if you recall anything he ever said about where he thought they might have been hidden.”
The old Negro reflected deeply.
“Well, Miss, I does remembeh dat when de ole man was in dis here very same house a passin’ on to de otheh shore and sort of talkin’ wild-like jest before he died, he said somethin’ about de pearls. And den he said another word. Let me think. What was it he said?”
While the girls waited patiently, hoping that he would be able to furnish the clue they needed, Uncle Ross seemed to lose control of his briefly gathered memories. Madge could almost see them slipping away.
“Think hard, Uncle,” she urged. “What was the word?”
Uncle Ross made one last grand effort to remember. He closed his eyes, shaking his head in a baffled sort of way.
Then speaking very slowly, as though probing his memory almost beyond its powers, he said:
“Seems to me, Miss, he said somethin’ about de sun. No, dat wasn’t it neither. It was sun—”
“Notsundial,” Madge supplied eagerly.
Uncle Ross’ dark face brightened and he slapped his thigh a resounding whack.
“Dat was it! De word de ole man said was sundial!”
Cara and Madge questioned Uncle Ross further, trying ineffectually to bring out additional information. The old Negro had scraped his memory bare and could recall nothing more concerning the pearls. The girls presently thanked him and in turning to leave, Madge handed him a dollar bill.
“Thank you, Miss, thank you,” he beamed and bowed.
The girls walked back to the parked car, only moderately pleased at the outcome of the interview.
“Do you think there really is a connection between the pearls and the sundial?” Cara asked somewhat skeptically as they drove away.
“Yes I do,” Madge returned. “Unless Uncle Ross’ memory played him false. It’s a pretty vague hint, but perhaps we can make something of it.”
“Perhaps you can,” Cara corrected. “I’m no good at puzzles and this one takes the prize.”
Madge soon reached the edge of darktown, taking a main street which led to the better section of Claymore. She drove like an expert automaton, her eyes glued on the road but her thoughts many miles away. She came to life with a start as the car wheels struck a hole in the pavement.
“Cara, I was just thinking—”
“Please don’t or we may end up in a ditch,” Cara laughed. “What were you saying?”
Madge scarcely knew how to tell what was in her mind. It seemed reasonable to her that the Swenster pearls might have been hidden in the garden near the sundial. In digging about, the girls had not paid particular attention to the old sundial, but had confined themselves to the general locality disturbed by the prowler. Madge was convinced too that the man they had seen was after the same thing—the Swenster pearls. How he had learned of them she could not imagine.
“Of course, we did do some of our digging near the sundial,” she said to Cara, “but at the time we never dreamed there was any connection. Now my idea is to go back there and look over the situation again. It may be that at a certain hour the gnomon casts a shadow at the designated place. I’ve read of such things in story books.”
“But this isn’t a story book,” Cara protested in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s my personal opinion that the pearls are gone. If they were ever hidden in the garden, that prowler has them by this time! Otherwise, why hasn’t he been back?”
“Perhaps he’s been afraid. And he did return one night, for Miss Swenster heard him. I wish we could catch him at it and turn him over to the police for questioning.”
Although Cara was reluctant to resume excavation activities, she agreed to make one more attempt when Madge promised to do most of the digging. It was too late to go to the Swenster mansion that evening but the following afternoon they went there directly after school.
They set to work with high hopes and soon had excavated a complete circle around the sundial. Dusk found them still digging. Finally, with an exclamation of disgust, Madge threw down her spade.
“I’ve had enough. As far as I’m concerned, the pearls may stay hidden until the end of time!”
“Amen,” Cara added fervently. “Just look at the blisters on my hands. And my shoulder muscles are sore already. What will they be like tomorrow?”
“If the way I feel is any indication, we’ll both be in the hospital. The next time I get one of my so-called brilliant ideas, I hope you choke me.”
“I will,” Cara promised gravely.
They filled in the earth they had disturbed and went home in a very ill temper. A hot bath and a warm supper cheered Madge considerably, causing her to forget her resolution to think no more of the pearls. That very evening she settled herself in an easy chair, determined to reread Florence Swenster’s diary.
It was a tiresome ordeal now that the material was no longer novel. Several times Madge yawned wearily and was tempted to switch to a popular magazine.
“This is absolutely our last hope,” she told herself, gazing thoughtfully at the little leather book in her hand. “Miss Swenster’s auction sale will be held in a few days now, and after the place is sold, it will be too late to help her. I suppose I’m crazy to keep kidding myself we may find the pearls—especially, after our experience today. Just the same I can’t help feeling that I’ve overlooked some important clue.”
She yawned again and went back to her reading.
“This will never do!” she chided herself. “My mind isn’t on it at all.”
She turned another page, read a few paragraphs which she remembered perfectly. Then, unexpectedly, her eye fastened upon a notation which she and Cara had skipped during the first reading of the diary. It was not particularly startling, merely reading:
“Uncle George is to mix cement for the new sundial tomorrow.”
Madge stared at it long and thoughtfully. She felt it must have more significance than was apparent. She began to recall scraps of information, previously gleaned. Why had Florence Swenster taken Uncle George into her confidence in regard to the hiding of the pearls? It was unlikely that she would trust such knowledge to him unless she had need of his help.
She looked at the date of the notation to compare it with the day Florence had recorded that she had hidden the pearls.
“According to this diary, Uncle George must have been making the sundial on the very day that the pearls were disposed of!” she thought, with growing excitement. “And Uncle Ross said his father mentioned the sundial. Oh, there’s a very significant connection!”
Madge knew that she was on the verge of making an important deduction, but try as she would she could not solve the enigma. For fifteen minutes she sat staring thoughtfully into space, trying to work her way through the maze.
Then like a flash, the answer came. She sprang to her feet, her face jubilant.
“How stupid of me not to think of it before! We’ve had the clue all the time and didn’t know it! Tomorrow, if I can convince Miss Swenster to my way of reasoning, I’ll lead her to the pearls!”
Madge waylaid Cara the following evening after school, fairly dragging her down the street, so great was her hurry to get away from the building.
“We’re going straight to the mansion,” she announced impressively.
Cara threw up her hands in a gesture of hopeless despair and stopped dead in her tracks.
“Another brilliant idea! I see it coming on. Remember, you told me to choke you if you ever had one again!”
Madge laughed.
“This idea is different and it doesn’t involve any digging. It’s worse than that. I’m afraid Miss Swenster won’t consent. You must help me convince her.”
In spite of herself, Cara’s curiosity was aroused.
“Convince her of what?”
“Come on,” Madge ordered, catching her by the hand and pulling her along. “There isn’t time to explain now. You’ll hear everything when we reach the mansion.”
Miss Swenster received them with her usual cordiality. Madge was so excited that as she plumped herself down on the sofa, it was difficult for her to begin. Briefly, she reviewed the facts already known to Miss Swenster and Cara, then disclosed the new notation she had found in the diary. She was a little disappointed to observe that neither appeared greatly impressed.
“I don’t see just what you have in mind,” Miss Swenster confessed.
“Simply this! Uncle George Jackson had a hand in hiding the pearls. We know the sundial had something to do with it too. Now, since the pearls were hidden on the very day that the old Negro was mixing cement for the sundial, it’s my contention that the necklace was hiddeninsideit, probably in the pedestal!”
For a full minute, Miss Swenster digested this in silence. Then she said quietly:
“It’s an interesting theory at least.”
Madge cast a glance of despair at Cara. Everything depended upon Miss Swenster’s enthusiastic acceptance of the idea. She was even more discouraged to see that her chum regarded her somewhat skeptically.
“Oh, I can tell you both think it’s another silly idea. But you must admit it’s logical. If only we could have the sundial opened, I know we’d find the pearls!” She arose, feeling that it was useless to add more. Although Miss Swenster had said little, Madge could tell that she did not care to have the sundial broken. Nor could she really blame her for the dial was a beautiful piece of work.
“Wait!” Miss Swenster said firmly. “There may be something in what you say. At least, we’ll find out.”
“You mean we may have the sundial cracked open?” Madge demanded eagerly.
Miss Swenster nodded.
“Yes, shall we go to the garden now and see what must be done to remove the pedestal?”
She slipped a shawl over her shoulders as a protection against the fall winds and the girls followed her outside.
“It’s my opinion the pearls are hidden in the base,” Madge declared as they surveyed the sundial speculatively. “But it’s a shame to ruin the pedestal unless we’re sure. Perhaps if we move it a trifle, we may hear something rattling about inside.”
The three placed their shoulders to the pedestal, trying to lift it. The sundial seemed rooted to the ground, so little would it give.
“It’s too heavy for us,” Miss Swenster said, wiping the dust from her hands. “We must have it cracked open.”
“I know a man who is very reasonable in his charges,” Madge informed quickly. “Occasionally, he does work for Uncle George.”
“Then go for him now if you wish. It grows dark very early these fall days. If we are to accomplish anything today, we must lose no time.”
Madge was only too eager to take herself upon the errand. Since Cara, who never enjoyed long walks, preferred to remain at the mansion with Miss Swenster, she started off alone.
Silas Davies was the man she had in mind for the work. He was always glad to pick up odd jobs, and in case the pearls were not found, she thought she could trust him to maintain a discreet silence.
She had forgotten where he lived so stopped at a corner drug store to consult a telephone directory. Finding that the house was only a short distance away, she decided to go there instead of calling.
A few minutes later she knocked at the door of a neat, modest little house on Bancroft Street. A woman answered, and Madge inquired if Mr. Davies was home.
“He’s working for Mr. Ruggles today,” his wife returned regretfully. “But I’m expecting him home in three quarters of an hour.”
“If he’s been working all day, I suppose it’s too late to get him to come to the Swenster mansion,” Madge murmured in discouragement. “Miss Swenster had a little job for him—it won’t take long but it’s dreadfully important that it be done tonight.”
“Well, I can’t say how tired Mr. Davies will be. He makes a point of not working after five but if it’s real urgent he may accommodate you. He’ll be at the Ruggles place for another half hour. Why don’t you stop there and see what he says?”
Madge thanked Mrs. Davies, deciding to follow the suggestion. It really was urgent that the sundial be investigated that very afternoon. With strangers prowling about the mansion at night, it was not safe to leave anything to chance. If necessary, she was willing to pay Mr. Davies out of her own pocket for the extra service.
She walked hurriedly toward the Ruggles residence, anxiously studying the western horizon where the sun was sinking lower and lower. So absorbed was she in her own thoughts that she failed to observe the approach of a man who walked swiftly, with head low and chin thrust deeply in his coat collar. Inevitably, they collided.
For a brief instant they were face to face. Involuntarily, Madge started, and an exclamation scarcely above a whisper, escaped her.
It was the man she had seen many nights before prowling about in Miss Swenster’s garden!
“Better watch where you’re going!” the man said gruffly.
“I—I beg your pardon,” Madge stammered, unable to remove her eyes from his face.
For a moment they continued to stare, then the man moved on. Madge looked after him, trying to gather her scattered thoughts.
“I’ve seen him before,” she told herself tensely. “In Miss Swenster’s garden.”
Watching the retreating figure, she was convinced she had not been mistaken in her first hasty conclusion. The man was none other than the mysterious prowler. His build was the same; he had a similar way of walking: everything tallied.
“And that’s not the only place I’ve seen him,” she thought. “Let me think—”
Before her eyes flashed a mental picture of the photograph she had seen hanging in Miss Swenster’s study. She recalled the youthful face, the regular, almost classical features, a head of curly, golden hair.
“He’s changed some with the years,” she told herself, “but I’ll bet a cookie it’s John Swenster. I wonder if Miss Swenster knows he’s in Claymore?”
Such a possibility seemed remote. Madge knew that Miss Swenster was still so distressed by the memory of her adopted son that his presence in the city was almost certain to disturb her usual calm manner. And during the past few days she had seemed no different than usual.
She wondered what had brought the man to Claymore. It was unlikely he had come to attend the auction sale or to see his mother. His secret trips to the garden suggested a deeper, more selfish purpose.
Madge was inclined to hurry back to the mansion to tell Miss Swenster the startling news. A minute’s thought convinced her that such a course would be unwise.
“There’s just one chance in a hundred that I’m mistaken,” she reasoned. “And if I should tell Miss Swenster her son is here when it’s some other person, she might never get over the shock. No, I must be absolutely sure before I say a word to her.”
She looked after the retreating figure. He was far up the street, walking swiftly, but she thought she could overtake him.
“I’ll follow and see where he goes,” she decided.
She soon saw that he was heading toward the business section of Claymore. Rapidly cutting down the distance between them, she then kept just far enough behind to avoid suspicion.
As they reached the downtown section, the stranger walked faster, moving in and out to pass pedestrians hurrying home from work. Madge found it increasingly difficult to keep him in sight.
Then she lost him entirely.
“I don’t see where he went unless he dodged in somewhere,” she thought.
She gazed in through the window of a drug store but could not locate him. The only other possibility was the Grand Hotel. She went in.
The lobby was crowded. Madge looked carefully about, observing no one who resembled the man she sought.
“I’ll see if his name is on the register,” she decided.
Before she could transfer the thought to action, an elevator discharged passengers. Several of the men walked toward the main desk. And one of them was the stranger Madge had followed. He did not glance in her direction but moved directly to where the clerk was standing.
Madge slipped behind a pillar and waited.
“I’m checking out early this evening,” she heard him say tersely. “I left my baggage upstairs but I’ll not be using the room after six. Please charge me accordingly.”
He passed within a few feet of where Madge was standing, and walked out the front entrance.
“At least he’ll not be snooping around the mansion any more,” she told herself with satisfaction. “And judging from the crabby way he acts, he hasn’t been very successful in his mission—whatever it is.”
After the man’s back had vanished through the revolving doors, she moved over to the desk, asking to see the register. She glanced over the first page of names and turned back. At last she came to it: “John Swenster, Chicago.”
“Well, that proves I was right,” Madge commented inwardly. “And now the problem is whether or not to tell Miss Swenster.”
Emerging from the hotel she was astonished to see how dark it had grown. Consulting her watch, she realized it was too late to find Silas Davies at the Ruggles’. Regretfully, she decided that she must let the work on the sundial go for that night.
“It’s supper time now and Miss Swenster and Cara will be wondering what became of me,” she thought uncomfortably. “Aunt Maude will be in my wool too if I don’t scamper home.”
A few minutes later, breathless from hurrying so fast, she let herself in the front gate of the mansion and rushed up the walk. Cara, who had been watching at a window for the past half hour, flung open the door.
“Where have you been all this time?” she demanded. “Didn’t you bring the workman after all?”
“Sorry,” Madge apologized, flashing her a significant look which Cara did not understand. “Other matters came up. Anyway, Mr. Davies was working at the Ruggles’. I imagine we can get him tomorrow.”
Cara was disappointed and disclosed it. She brightened when Miss Swenster suggested that both girls remain for supper. It was not difficult to persuade Madge, for she felt that she should tell Miss Swenster what she had discovered, and she preferred time to lead up to the matter gradually.
The girls telephoned to their homes, receiving permission to remain. They helped Miss Swenster with the supper, setting the table, and taking great pains with the salad which was their own concoction.
It was nearly seven-thirty when they sat down to dine. For some reason, conversation lagged. Miss Swenster appeared unusually constrained though she made a studied attempt at cheerfulness. No one ate very much. It was in the minds of all that this likely would be their last supper together. In a few days the mansion would be sold.
“I wish you weren’t going away, Miss Swenster,” Cara said presently. “It won’t seem right for any other person to live in this lovely house.”
Miss Swenster smiled, but tears shone in her eyes. She brushed them impatiently away.
“What a sentimental old fool I am! Here I’ve not lived in this house for eight years but now that I know I’m to lose it, I feel so desolate. It’s almost as though I’m losing my last friend.”
“You have a great many friends here in Claymore,” Madge assured her, “only they’re timid about coming to see you. I’ve heard folks say so.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Miss Swenster agreed slowly. “There was a time when I didn’t care to see people. I couldn’t bear their sympathy. I drove them away.”
She relapsed into a moody silence which neither of the girls ventured to break. Presently, she looked up and smiled apologetically.
“I shouldn’t impose my troubles on you. I’m sure that at times my actions must have seemed very queer. I feel I owe you an explanation for certain things which likely are not clear.”
“Your past is your own,” Madge said kindly.
“Don’t tell us anything that you dislike to bring up.”
“I feel I must speak of my—my son. It was his picture you saw in the study. I turned it to the wall on the day I closed up the mansion.”
Madge and Cara nodded, not wishing to interrupt. They already had guessed this much.
“I found John in an orphan’s home. He was nine when I adopted him, and the sweetest boy in the world! Oh, I adored him! But even as a boy he was inclined to get into trouble. He’d take things that didn’t belong to him. I couldn’t seem to teach him the difference between right and wrong. Oh, I dislike to admit it, but he was willful and he repaid my kindness with indifference.
“I sent him away to school, thinking he might benefit by a change in environment. Once away from my watchful eye, he went from bad to worse. He fell in with the wrong sort of companions. He spent far more money than I could afford to give him. Several times he forged my name to checks.
“Finally, I told him that if he did not straighten up I should disown him. For a time he seemed to do better. I was encouraged. Then he forged another check—this time using the name of a prominent Claymore man. I’ll not bore you with the details. It was the end. I sent him away and I’ve never seen him to this day.”