CHAPTER XI

WHILE THE ORCHESTRA PLAYED

WHILE THE ORCHESTRA PLAYED

WHILE THE ORCHESTRA PLAYED

Saturday night came, and when Dale Meredith called, three visions of loveliness awaited him. Pauline wore peach-colored satin that trailed nearly to the floor. Irene’s new yellow dress with matching slippers of gold was truly appropriate for this occasion, and Judy looked like a sea nymph in a pale shade of green that made people wonder about the color of her eyes.

“It’s going to be a perfect evening,” Irene sighed ecstatically. “Even the moon came out to shine on the roof garden.”

It was all that Dale had described—palms, cut flowers, waiters in long-tailed coats who moved noiselessly between the tables, and a circle of floor for dancing. Colored lights played on the dancers tinting them with rainbows. To her surprise, Dale asked Judy for the first dance.

“Oh, no,” she replied quickly. “Really, I’d rather you danced with the other girls. You see, I can watch the lights while I’m sitting here. When I’m home again I won’t be able to watch lights on a roof garden. And I can always dance.”

Afterwards Judy felt almost sorry she had refused. The orchestra was playing beautifully, magic to any young girl’s feet. Now and then a soloist would sing the number as it was played. Judy listened, at first watching Dale and Irene, then Dale and Pauline as they moved in and out among the crowd of dancers. Finally, not watching anybody, she just sat thinking.

It had been a queer day. Strangely enough, Emily Grimshaw had not once mentioned the missing poetry. She seemed to take it for granted that neither Dale nor Judy were responsible. But she had gone about her work with a harassed expression and a droop to her shoulders that Judy had never noticed before. An opportunity came, and she had asked about Joy Holiday. She had found out something, too, and now as she sat alone at the table she puzzled as how best to tell Dale Meredith. At first she had planned to tell Irene but, on secondthought, she had decided that it might be better for Irene not to know some of the things Emily Grimshaw had said.

“You must dance this one,” Dale urged her as the music began again. “Pauline is dancing with a friend of mine who just came in——”

“And I haven’t had a chance to finish this ginger ale,” Irene added.

Dale was curious to hear what she had found out. Judy could tell that as soon as he spoke to her alone.

“Her Majesty’s grouch gone?” he asked.

“A sort of depression has taken its place,” Judy explained as she swung into step. The floor was like glass and shone with their reflections. She could see Irene sitting next to the circle of light, sipping her ginger ale. There was another girl reflected on the floor beside her. Judy pointed it out to Dale—that golden reflection on the polished floor.

Just then the orchestra struck up a new tune. Soon the soloist joined in, singing the latest popular song:

My own golden girl, there is one, only one,Who has eyes like the stars and hair like the sun.In your new yellow gown you’re a dream of delight.You have danced in my heart on bright slippers tonight ...

My own golden girl, there is one, only one,Who has eyes like the stars and hair like the sun.In your new yellow gown you’re a dream of delight.You have danced in my heart on bright slippers tonight ...

My own golden girl, there is one, only one,Who has eyes like the stars and hair like the sun.In your new yellow gown you’re a dream of delight.You have danced in my heart on bright slippers tonight ...

My own golden girl, there is one, only one,

Who has eyes like the stars and hair like the sun.

In your new yellow gown you’re a dream of delight.

You have danced in my heart on bright slippers tonight ...

“It sounds as if he meant Irene,” Dale whispered. “She’s a ‘golden girl’ tonight.” He glanced again at her reflection as the orchestra played on:

I’ll enthrone you my queen in a circular towerWhere frost may not blight my most delicate flower.And from this hour on, you belong all to meThough you drown in my love as a bird in the sea.

I’ll enthrone you my queen in a circular towerWhere frost may not blight my most delicate flower.And from this hour on, you belong all to meThough you drown in my love as a bird in the sea.

I’ll enthrone you my queen in a circular towerWhere frost may not blight my most delicate flower.And from this hour on, you belong all to meThough you drown in my love as a bird in the sea.

I’ll enthrone you my queen in a circular tower

Where frost may not blight my most delicate flower.

And from this hour on, you belong all to me

Though you drown in my love as a bird in the sea.

Irene looked up just as the music stopped. She smiled, and Dale’s eyes smiled back at her.

“Her hair is like the sun,” he said dreamily and half to himself.

“Yes,” Judy replied. “And her dress and slippers are golden. You’d almost think the song was written for her. It must have been written for someone very much like her, and whoever wrote it loved that someone dearly.”

“What was the poet’s name?” Dale asked.

Judy thought a minute. “It was Sarah Glynn—or Glenn. I don’t quite remember. I used to think the song was written by a manuntil Miss Grimshaw showed me the original manuscript. It’s one of the missing poems, you know.”

“And you didn’t find out a thing about it?”

“Yes, one thing.”

Dale’s face glowed with interest. “You did? What?”

“That Emily Grimshaw believes Irene’s name is Joy Holiday. I can’t convince her otherwise. And she is sure Joy Holiday took the poems. You know it’s ridiculous. Irene isn’t anybody but herself and wouldn’t have any use in the world for the faded old poetry. Besides, she said she didn’t take them, and I believe her.”

“Keep on believing her,” Dale advised as he ushered Judy back to the table. “My own opinion is that your beloved employer has worked a screw loose somewhere in her upper story.”

Judy giggled, partly from excitement. But the thought would be less entertaining when she was catering to the old lady’s whims at the office.

On the way home they discussed the mystery. When questioned, Irene seemed glad to contribute scraps of the missing poetry for the others to puzzle over. It was remarkable how much of it she remembered, and Dale was charmed with the soft tones of her voice as she recited.

When the word “Joy” came up for the fifth time Judy stopped her to exclaim, “That must mean Joy Holiday, the girl Emily Grimshaw thinks took the poetry.”

“Then she must have been ‘Golden Girl,’” Irene said unexpectedly.

Dale turned to her in surprise. “That’s right! We never thought of that. I’m glad to see you so interested in it; I thought at first you weren’t keen on detecting.”

“I’m not,” Irene admitted. “It’s the poetry I like.”

Judy shuddered. “Those creepy poems! I’d rather read a good murder mystery any day. At least there’s always a solution. What do you suppose this poet means when she says ‘Better to crumble in a tower of flame than sit with ghosts...’? Could the ghosts be memories, too?”

“They could be,” Irene said thoughtfully. “It’s queer, butGolden Girlmentions a tower.”

“So it does!” Dale exclaimed, growing excited. “It looks as though there might be some connection. Do you know, girls, we may find the solution to this whole mystery in that poetry!”

“I have some of the typewritten copies. I’ll hunt through them for clues,” Judy promised.

IRENE’S BIRTHDAY

IRENE’S BIRTHDAY

IRENE’S BIRTHDAY

Unexpectedly, the next day Jasper Crosby came into the office with another lot of his sister’s poems. This time they were in a tin box with padlock attached.

Judy listened in silence as the earlier manuscripts were discussed, wondering how Emily Grimshaw would break the news of their disappearance. Presently she realized that the poet’s brother was being kept in ignorance of the whole affair. Worse than that, he was being deceived. What did the agent mean by saying the publishers were considering Sarah Glenn’s work?

Thinking there might be some mistake, Judy refrained from asking questions until she and her employer were alone again. Then she expressed herself frankly.

“It isn’t right,” she declared, “not to tell him the truth about those poems. We can’t publish them when they’re lost.”

“Tut, tut, child,” Miss Grimshaw reproved in a patronizing tone that always annoyed Judy. “You must never correct your elders. Haven’t you heard that there are tricks to all trades?”

“Not dishonest tricks.” Judy’s scruples about deceit and treachery had made her over-bold.

“Look here, Miss Bolton,” her employer cried. “If this position means anything to you, learn to keep a civil tongue in your head. I have evidence enough against you right now to place the blame on your shoulders if I wanted to. The idea! Talking about dishonest tricks! Wasn’t it a dishonest trick that somebody played on me?”

“Yes, Miss Grimshaw,” Judy answered penitently. “I shouldn’t have spoken so hastily, and if you blame me....”

“But I don’t blame you, child. You’re as innocent as I am. That’s why I hired you—because I knew I could trust you.”

This unexpected praise brought a flood of color to Judy’s cheeks. She mumbled something intended for an acknowledgment. Not hearing the interruption, her employer went on talking.

“I know we can’t keep putting Jasper Crosby off forever, but, don’t you see, we must do it until the poems are found? I’m ruined if we don’t.”

“I suppose he would hold you responsible,” Judy ventured.

“He would exactly,” the agent declared. “He’d charge me with gross negligence or something of the kind and sue me for more money than Sarah Glenn’s royalties would bring in a lifetime. He’s just crooked enough to get away with it. And,” she finished tragically, “all our time and work will go for nothing. Oh, Miss Bolton, if you can help me, won’t you do it? You’re clever. Perhaps you can figure it out. My mind gets all befuddled of late—ever since Joy Holiday came back. Find her. She’s got the papers.”

“I’ll do my best,” Judy promised, genuinely moved. She resolved to tackle this new task her employer had given her with all the seriousness it demanded. But whom was there to suspect? Joy Holiday, as far as she could figure out, was a creature of Miss Grimshaw’s imagination, a ghost. Judy refused to believe in ghosts or be frightened by them. That angleof the mystery she dismissed as wholly implausible. She had proved Dale Meredith’s innocence to her own satisfaction, and Irene hadn’t taken the poetry. Judy felt sure of that.

She was still sure the following Thursday when she and Pauline planned a birthday party for her. Dale happened to come in the office, and Judy told him. Together they arranged a surprise dinner. At first he wanted to take them to an exclusive restaurant but was soon won over when Judy suggested a meal served out on the roof garden. Pauline liked the idea, too, and found a great deal of pleasure in planning the menu. She telephoned to the market and ordered a good-sized capon; nuts, celery and raisins were to go into the dressing. There would be fruit cups and salads, and ice cream for dessert and, of course, a cake with candles. Judy came home early to make the cake. While Pauline helped Mary put on the roast she continued fixing things, waiting for Dale who expected to arrive ahead of Irene.

“It looks great!” he exclaimed as soon as he opened the door and saw the table set in the center of the roof garden. It was decorated with yellow candy cups and tall yellow candles. “And isn’t it lucky that I brought yellow flowers?”

“You knew we’d be decorating in yellow,” Pauline charged as she took the flowers and buried her face in their fragrance. Then, while Dale stood admiring the tasteful arrangement of the table, she placed them as an appropriate centerpiece. Everything was ready, and it was after six o’clock.

“Irene ought to be here,” Judy said anxiously. “I wonder where she went.”

Pauline had seen her go out early that morning, carrying a borrowed book.

“She’d stop in on her way home to return it. Dale, why don’t you and Judy go down to the bookstore and meet her?”

“Can’t you leave the dinner long enough to come with us?”

Pauline laughed. “I guess I could if you want me. There’s a chance of missing her, though. She may come from another direction.”

Dale helped Judy and Pauline with their wraps, and together they walked toward the bookstore. It was only a short distance, but the cool air felt good to Judy after having spent all afternoon over the cake. As they walkedthey watched for Irene. She would be wearing a brown suit with a close-fitting brown hat to match, Pauline said. The outfit was new and she wondered if, for that reason, they had missed her.

At the bookstore, however, the girl who took care of lending out books from the circulating library told them that Miss Lang had not been in since morning when she returned a book.

“What could have happened to her?” Judy exclaimed in real concern.

“Perhaps she went out shopping to celebrate. I’ve seen girls shop before. They never leave the stores until closing time.”

“It’s closing time now.”

“And she’ll probably be waiting for us back at the house,” Dale prophesied cheerfully.

“Oh,” exclaimed Judy, “I hope she doesn’t peek in the ice box and see her cake. I do believe I forgot to put Blackberry out, and if he smells that chicken....” She finished the sentence with a gesture of hopelessness.

Blackberry was out—out on the roof garden—when they returned. Sensing a party in the air, he had taken advantage of his mistress’ absence and upset the vase of yellow flowers. There were bits of chewed flower petals and ferns scattered all about.

“You bad cat!” cried Judy, shaking him. “Just look what he’s done. And Irene isn’t here yet! Let’s hurry and put the place in order before she comes. Collect the flowers, Dale, won’t you? I think I can save a few of these ferns.”

She was on her knees, hunting for pieces of them as she spoke.

“And I’ll get Mary to wipe up the water and put on a clean cloth,” Pauline offered.

Soon everything was in order again.

Oliver had hung a string of Japanese lanterns all the way across the roof garden. They were a little too low, and for a few more minutes Dale and the girls busied themselves with a pole, raising them to a higher level.

Meanwhile it had grown dark, and Judy suggested lighting the candles on the table so that Irene would see them the moment she opened the door. Then they planned to call out, “Surprise!” all at once. Judy could imagine the rest—Irene laughing, exclaiming, her two eyes like stars as she enjoyed her very first birthday party.

In the kitchen below a sizzling noise called Mary to the oven. The roast needed basting again. It was too brown already, but she couldn’t take it off and let it get cold. The potatoes had cracked open and their jackets were done to a crisp. She turned the flame as low as she dared and faced about to see Dale and the girls standing in the doorway.

“Getting hungry?” she asked.

“A little. Irene ought to be here by now.”

“I know it,” the housekeeper replied, “and the dinner will be spoiled if we let it wait much longer.”

WAITING

WAITING

WAITING

Eight o’clock came and still no Irene. By nine o’clock Judy was in tears. She felt that something dreadful must have happened and suggested calling up hospitals to see if there had been any accidents. After the calls were completed Dale returned to the kitchen and stood looking at the dinner.

“You might as well eat some of the chicken,” Mary suggested. She placed it on a platter and carried it up to the roof garden, but they ate only a little, cut from underneath where it wouldn’t show. Then they left the table as it was, waiting for Irene.

The yellow candles burned lower and lower. Finally they flickered and went out. Pauline gave a little start, but Judy sank back in her chair shaking with sobs.

“I—I’m not superstitious,” she blurted out. “I’m trying to be sensible about it, but do you think it’s sensible just to wait?”

“There isn’t anything else to do unless we notify the police, and then, if she had just been to a movie, wouldn’t she have the laugh on us?”

“But, Pauline, she isn’t thoughtless.”

“I could tell that,” Dale put in seriously. “She’s a mighty fine little girl. I know how you feel, Judy. I’ll stand by. Didn’t Irene and I wait up that night for you—and nothing had happened except that you took a walk?”

Dale was comforting. It was nice to have him there, especially when Judy knew that he was as interested as she in Irene’s safe return. But Judy could not help thinking of Farringdon and the enthusiasm with which the boys there would help her if they only knew.

Pauline thought of Farringdon too.

“Maybe Irene didn’t like it here in New York and went home,” she suggested.

“But the house is empty,” Judy objected. “There really isn’t any home in Farringdon for her to go back to. She doesn’t even know where they are going to live when her father is well again. He’s in a sanitarium now, and I hate to notify him if there’s any other way. It really would be better to notify the police.”

“I guess you’re right,” Dale agreed. “If she isn’t home by midnight we might try it. Things do happen—and especially to pretty girls,” he added gravely.

It was five minutes to twelve when footsteps were finally heard outside the door. Dale started to his feet, and Judy rushed toward the door, then halted with a cry of disappointment as she recognized the now familiar, “Hit’s Oliver, Miss.”

Pauline opened the door and urged him to come in.

“Irene isn’t home yet, and Mr. Meredith was waiting,” she explained. “Did you happen to see her?”

“Well, let me think a minute.” The English servant passed his fingers through his thinning hair. “Indeed, yes, Miss Pauline, I did see her when the post came this morning. She stood hin the vestibule reading a letter.”

“Did she seem worried, as if it were bad news?”

The man shook his head. “Indeed, she seemed quite ’appy over hit. She went out a bit later ’umming a tune, ‘De de-de da de. Da de da. Da de dum’—like that.”

He had given a crude imitation of the first notes ofGolden Girl.

“She was very fond of that song,” Dale remarked after Oliver had left. He was helping the girls with their wraps preparatory to calling at the police station.

Again Judy thought about the papers. Could their disappearance and Irene’s, in some way, be connected? She mentioned the possibility to Dale but he thought it unlikely.

“At any rate we know Irene didn’t take them, and when we make our report to the police we had better leave the papers entirely out of it.”

“And the name ‘Joy Holiday’?” Pauline questioned.

“Yes, for the present. We want to do all we can to save her from embarrassment until we have an explanation. I feel sure that, whatever it is, it will be—like Irene—satisfactory.”

“I’m glad you believe in her, Dale,” Judy said. She hoped, with all her heart, that Irene would prove herself worthy of his loyalty.

At the police station the sergeant on night duty at the desk did not take their story very seriously. He had a great many such cases, he explained, most of which solved themselves.His questions, however, suggested terrifying possibilities. Did she have any enemies, any rejected suitors, any hostile relatives? Was she wearing any valuable jewels? How much money did she have in her purse?

Judy thought it was about ten dollars.

“Ten dollars could take that girl a long way,” the officer said significantly. “What about publicity on the case? We broadcast a general alarm for missing persons every evening over the radio.”

Undecided, the girls appealed to Dale. “What do you think?”

“That’s another day. If she’s not home by then, by all means, yes. Anything to find her.”

“We’ll do our best for you. I’ll assign the case to the Detective Bureau right away, but be sure and telephone at once when she comes home. And take my word for it, she’ll show up before morning,” the sergeant prophesied as they turned to go.

“He probably thinks she’s only out on a party,” Pauline said later.

“But he doesn’t know Irene,” Judy reminded her. “She’s not the kind of girl police officers are used to dealing with.”

“You bet she isn’t,” Dale agreed fervently. He promised to be back as soon as it was daylight and urged the girls to try and get a little rest in the meantime. Judy surprised him a few hours later by announcing that she intended to spend the day at the office.

“Emily Grimshaw may know something about this,” she explained. “At least I intend to find out all there is to know about this Joy Holiday person. If there really is someone who looks exactly like Irene it might get her into a good deal of trouble.”

THE IMMORTAL JOY HOLIDAY

THE IMMORTAL JOY HOLIDAY

THE IMMORTAL JOY HOLIDAY

“That’s a good idea of yours,” Dale told Judy just before she left to go to the office. “Have a nice long talk with Her Majesty and I’ll meet you at noon to see what she says. In the meantime I’ll make some more inquiries at the bookstore and of people in the neighborhood.”

“Oh, and you might tell them at the police station that we gave a wrong description of Irene’s clothes,” Pauline called out to them. She had just been to the closet for her hat and school books and had discovered Irene’s brown suit hanging there. Only the yellow dress and jacket were missing from her wardrobe.

“It was the same yellow dress that she wore to the dance,” Judy explained.

“And she wore it that day I discovered you in the office,” Dale remembered. “She certainly looked like the heroine of our popular song then. Do you suppose there is a chance thatGolden Girlwas written for her?”

Both girls laughed. “Dale Meredith! How absurd! It was written twenty years ago.”

But when Emily Grimshaw heard of Irene’s disappearance and made a similar suggestion Judy took it more seriously. She strained her ears to hear every word the agent said as she rocked back and forth in her swivel chair. Apparently she was talking to herself—something about the spirit world and Joy’s song over the radio.

“Yes,” she went on in a louder tone, “those poems were written for Joy, every last one of them, and she sat right on that sofa while I readGolden Girlaloud. That was twenty years ago. Then all of a sudden I see her again after I think she’s dead—same starry eyes, same golden hair, everything the same, even to her dress. Then her mother’s poems turn up missing——”

“So the poet was Joy Holiday’s mother!” Judy interrupted to exclaim.

“Bless you, yes,” her employer returned. “I thought you knew. She went stark crazy. Set fire to her own house and tried to burn herself alive.”

“Who did? The poet? How terrible!” Judy cried, starting from her chair. “Why, it seems impossible that I’ve been correcting a crazy woman’s verses without even knowing it. Tower of flame, indeed! So that’s what she meant!”

Emily Grimshaw laughed dryly. “Don’t ask me what she meant! I’m no authority on crazy people. The asylum’s the place for them, and, if it weren’t for that mercenary brother of hers, Sarah Glenn would be there yet. He arranged for her release and managed to get himself appointed as her guardian. Handles all of her finances, you see, and takes care of the estate. The poet’s pretty much of a recluse. I haven’t seen her for years.”

This was beginning to sound more like sense. Hopefully, Judy ventured, “But you have seen her daughter?”

“Seen her! Seen her!” she cried. “That’s just it. I see her in my dreams. Ordinarily people don’t see spirits and that’s why it gave me such a turn the other day. And Joy did come back! Her mother said so in the last poem she ever wrote. Jasper brought it in only this morning.”

“He did!” Judy exclaimed. “What did you tell him about the missing poetry?”

“Nothing. And I intend to tell him nothing. If it becomes necessary to tell anyone we’ll tell the poet herself. Her address is on this envelope. Keep it, Miss Bolton, you may need it. The poem I mentioned is on the other side.”

Judy turned it over and read:

Lines to One Who Has Drunkfrom The Fountain of Youth

Lines to One Who Has Drunkfrom The Fountain of Youth

Lines to One Who Has Drunkfrom The Fountain of Youth

Lines to One Who Has Drunk

from The Fountain of Youth

Death cannot touch the halo of your hairThough, like a ghost, you disappear at will.I knew you’d come in answer to my prayer ...You, gentle sprite, whom love alone can kill ...

Death cannot touch the halo of your hairThough, like a ghost, you disappear at will.I knew you’d come in answer to my prayer ...You, gentle sprite, whom love alone can kill ...

Death cannot touch the halo of your hairThough, like a ghost, you disappear at will.I knew you’d come in answer to my prayer ...You, gentle sprite, whom love alone can kill ...

Death cannot touch the halo of your hair

Though, like a ghost, you disappear at will.

I knew you’d come in answer to my prayer ...

You, gentle sprite, whom love alone can kill ...

She shivered. “Spooky, isn’t it? And,” she added, “like all of her poems, utterly impossible.”

“Hmmm, you think so—now. But you’ll see. You’ll see.” And the old lady kept on nodding her head as if the gods had given her an uncanny second-sight.

As far as Judy was concerned, the conversation closed right there. She had learned nothing of importance. In fact, she had learned nothing at all except that her employer believed in spirits. Someone, twenty years ago, had probably looked like Irene. But that wouldn’t help find Irene now.

FALSE ASSURANCE

FALSE ASSURANCE

FALSE ASSURANCE

At noon Judy gave Dale and Pauline what little information she had over sandwiches and coffee in a near-by restaurant. Joy Holiday, she told them, disappeared twenty years ago; and Emily Grimshaw’s only reason for acting strangely was because she believed Irene to be her ghost.

“If that’s the case,” Dale declared, “we’re simply wasting time questioning her. Irene’s father might know something real.”

Judy agreed. They telegraphed him at once:

IRENE MISSING SINCE YESTERDAY STOP IS SHEWITH YOUJUDY

IRENE MISSING SINCE YESTERDAY STOP IS SHEWITH YOUJUDY

IRENE MISSING SINCE YESTERDAY STOP IS SHEWITH YOUJUDY

IRENE MISSING SINCE YESTERDAY STOP IS SHE

WITH YOU

JUDY

The answer came back early that same afternoon:

DONT WORRY STOP IRENE WITH RELATIVES INBROOKLYN STOP ADVISED HER IN LETTER TOLOOK THEM UPTOM LANG

DONT WORRY STOP IRENE WITH RELATIVES INBROOKLYN STOP ADVISED HER IN LETTER TOLOOK THEM UPTOM LANG

DONT WORRY STOP IRENE WITH RELATIVES INBROOKLYN STOP ADVISED HER IN LETTER TOLOOK THEM UPTOM LANG

DONT WORRY STOP IRENE WITH RELATIVES IN

BROOKLYN STOP ADVISED HER IN LETTER TO

LOOK THEM UP

TOM LANG

Relief flooded Judy’s face. She waved the telegram excitedly and was on the point of telling the news to Emily Grimshaw. Then she decided that she had better not—not yet, at any rate. The papers were still missing even if Irene was safe. It would be better to clear her chum of all suspicion as quickly as possible.

Freed of a measure of worry and suspense, Judy’s mind eagerly took up the story of Joy Holiday’s strange disappearance. Now that she felt sure it had nothing to do with Irene she could view the tale dispassionately and take it for what it was worth. Still holding to Dale Meredith’s theory that valuable clues might be found in the poetry, she questioned Emily Grimshaw.

“Why do you call the girl Joy Holiday when her mother’s name was Glenn?”

“That’s only a pen name.” The agent explained. “Not any prettier than Holiday, is it? But when she had her first poems published Sarah was so anxious to please the publishers that she agreed to use a name that was short enough to be printed across the back of that thin little book. Humph! And now the publishers are just as anxious to please her!”

“What happened to her husband?” Judy asked after a pause.

“Dick Holiday? He left her shortly after their baby was born. Said he’d married a wife, not a nursemaid, and she insisted upon giving all of her time to Joy. When the child finally made a few friends among young folks her own age her mother, in a fit of jealous rage, locked her in the tower.”

“What tower?” Judy asked, growing more and more interested.

“It’s a circular tower built onto Sarah’s house. Joy’s room was on the third floor and there’s where her mother locked her up. She wanted Joy all to herself. That’s what I call mothering a girl to death. Though how Joy died is still something of a puzzle to me.”

“Why? What happened to her?”

Emily Grimshaw’s expression changed. The lines in her forehead deepened. “I told you she disappeared, vanished completely, just like you say this friend of yours vanished. Some folks think she jumped from a window. How ever it happened, Jasper Crosby identified a body in the morgue as hers. They had a funeral over it and buried it, but her mother declares to thisday it wasn’t Joy. It didn’t look like her. That girl was too beautiful to die and Sarah thinks she floats around bodily, mind you. No doubt you gathered that much from reading the poetry.”

“Oh,” Judy exclaimed. “That....”

“Yes,that. But I doubt it.” She shook her head gravely and regarded Judy with a fixed stare. “Yes, I very much doubt it. Joy Holiday must be dead. Otherwise her spirit wouldn’t be coming back to haunt the earth. But what I’ve done that she should haunt me, the good Lord knows!”

“Published the poetry, perhaps,” Judy suggested wickedly. If Irene’s disappearance hadn’t been such a serious matter she would have laughed at the old lady’s superstitions.

On the way home Judy tried to figure out why Irene had failed to get in touch with her. That Blackberry had chewed up her note as well as the yellow flower petals seemed likely until she talked it over with Pauline.

“A cat chew up paper?” the other girl sniffed. “Why, Judy, only goats do that.”

“I know, but Blackberry is an unusual cat. I thought he might——”

“Well, he wouldn’t,” Pauline interrupted. “You know, yourself, Irene is sometimes thoughtless. She probably didn’t leave any note. She never breathed a word about those relatives either, and I think she must have had some reason for not wanting us to know where she was going.”

Judy nodded, unconvinced. Irene wasn’t that sort. The relatives in Brooklyn might have been a surprise to her also. Judy remembered distinctly Irene’s assertion that she didn’t know a soul in the city. Her father must have revealed some family history in his letter. Oh, why did telegrams need to be so brief?

Vaguely uneasy about the whole affair, Judy showed the telegram to Dale when he called later in the evening. As he read it his face beamed.

“What more do you want?” he cried. “She’s safe! It’s all of Heaven to know that much.”

In a little while everything would be explained. Irene hadn’t intended to worry them. And Dale was right. They should forget everything else and simply be thankful that she was safe.

For a week Judy went about the daily office routine cheered by the hope that Irene would soon come back. After that doubts began to crowd in. Dale had been calling regularly, helping Pauline entertain even if there remained only one guest to pilot through the never-ending wonders of the world’s greatest city. One evening when he called to take them to dinner Judy confided her fears to him.

“I don’t trust that telegram,” she said in a low voice. “If Irene really is safe why hasn’t she written to tell us where she is?”

“I’ve been wondering about that for a week,” Dale replied. “Suppose we send another telegram.”

“And have it answered as briefly as the last one? No,” Judy declared emphatically. “I’m going to find out what has happened if it costs my week’s salary in nickels. Where’s the nearest phone booth?”

Dale pointed out a cigar store at the next corner and escorted her to it. Together she and Pauline assembled quite a pile of coins and Judy dropped her first nickel in the slot. It was a relief to hear a nurse’s voice, finally, at the other end of the wire.

“Farringdon Sanitarium?” she asked. “Is Mr. Lang well enough to come to the phone?”

“Oh, yes indeed,” the voice replied. “Just a moment and I will call him. He is taking a walk around the grounds.”

“He’s taking a walk,” Judy turned and whispered. “Won’t Irene be glad to hear he’s out of his wheeled chair?”

Then Mr. Lang’s voice, wonderfully clear, asked who was calling.

“It’s Judy. I called about Irene.”

“About Irene!” Instantly the voice changed. Judy could tell that her fears were well founded.

“Yes, yes. About Irene. She’s still missing. Who are her relatives in Brooklyn?”

“Why, I—I dunno,” the old man faltered.

“You don’t know! But you said not to worry. She was with relatives....”

“Didn’t I say as she might be?”

“Then youdidn’tknow where she was?” Judy demanded.

“N-no, not for sure. She’d have a purty hard time findin’ abody from jest the looks of their house. But she does have relatives—if they ain’t dead.”

“Her mother’s relatives?”

“Yes, my poor Annie’s folks. I told her about them in a letter, but I get all muddled up on the names. Can’t seem to remember. It’s queer how anything like that slips a man’s mind. Can’t you help me, Judy?” he begged. “Ain’t there anything you can do?”

“There’severything. Why, we would have turned New York inside out looking for her if it hadn’t been for that telegram——”

Dale touched her arm. “Go easy, Judy. Her father’s upset, too. Better hang up, and we’ll report it to the police again.”

At the same time Mr. Lang was saying, “I’ll manage it somehow. The nurses ain’t strong enough to keep me here when my little girl is lost.”

Through tear-dimmed eyes, Judy fumbled for the pile of coins, put the few that were left back in her pocketbook and stumbled out of the store with Dale and Pauline.

“All this to go through again,” she moaned, “and after we believed she was safe!”

Then she looked up and saw Dale’s sober face and resolved to be brave herself.

“We’re going to the police station, aren’t we?” she asked. “We’ll tell them it was a mistake—that report that she was with relatives—and perhaps, if we hurry, there will still be time for a police broadcast of Irene’s description over the radio tonight!”

“There must be time,” Dale said between set lips. “And then what?”

“And then,” Judy declared, “we’re going to take paper and pencil and write down every possible thing that could have happened to Irene. After that we’re going to begin with the most plausible and follow up every clue. We’ll call in the police where necessary but we are the ones to do the brain work. We are the ones who care.”

OVER THE RADIO

OVER THE RADIO

OVER THE RADIO

Lieutenant Collins was a big man with a ruddy face and blue eyes that smiled kindly over his massive desk. Like Chief Kelly at home he inspired confidence, and Judy felt relieved to be talking with him instead of the young sergeant they had found at the police station before. With now and then an additional bit of information from Dale and Pauline, she retold the story of Irene’s mysterious disappearance. Then she explained Mr. Lang’s subsequent telegram leading them to suppose Irene was safe and, finally, the discovery that Mr. Lang had merely described a house in Brooklyn.

“You see, he lives in a small town. He didn’t realize that such a description would be of no use to Irene here. And now,” Judy finished, “we seem to be right back where we started from—without a clue.”

By this time quite a group of officers and young detectives had gathered around the lieutenant’s desk.

“It’s beginning to look like an interesting case,” one of them remarked with a smug satisfaction that caused Dale to glare at him. Irene was no case! She was a flesh-and-blood girl—lost, alone. He did not think of the many instances in his own stories where the detective had made similar remarks. It never occurred to him that here was real experience on which to build his imaginative tales. No one had told him that the one thing his stories lacked was an intensity of feeling gained only by living through an actual tragedy.

Judy thought of it. It seemed irrelevant, almost disloyal to Irene to think of fiction and Dale’s future just then. But if they found Irene, Dale’s future might be hers. How wonderful! And after those high-hat girls in Farringdon had snubbed her so! It would be almost a triumph for Judy, too—that is, if they could only find Irene and give this Cinderella story a chance to come true.

The printed form Judy had previously filled in was still on file in the police records. This was checked up and once more turned over to the Detective Bureau. The description, Lieutenant Collins promised, would be telephoned to the Bureau of Missing Persons and broadcast over the radio at seven-thirty.

Dale looked at his watch. Only an hour and the whole country would be hearing about Irene’s disappearance. Surely someone had seen her, and whoever it was couldn’t forget the golden dress and slippers.

“Girls don’t vanish,” Judy declared as they turned to leave.

“Oh, but they do,” Pauline cried. “Joy Holiday vanished right out of a locked room. And when they found her she was dead.”

None of them spoke after that. Automatically they went back to the house and climbed up the three long flights of stairs. Blackberry greeted them as they opened the door, but Judy had no heart for romping with him.

“Go away!” she said, pushing him gently out of the way. “Cats can’t understand human troubles.”

But instead of minding her, he rubbed his silky head against her ankles. His soft, crackly purr seemed to say: “Cats do understand human troubles. What you need is someone who loves you to sympathize.”

Tears came to Judy’s eyes. She thought of her father and mother struggling with an epidemic of influenza when they had wanted a vacation. She thought of her brother, Horace. She thought of Peter and Honey and their two dear grandparents, of Arthur who had once helped hunt for Lorraine Lee in his airplane. How she missed them all! How she needed them! Oh, why had she and Irene ever left Farringdon at all? To find adventure, she supposed. Now she felt sick to death of adventure and only wanted all her friends together the way they used to be. Irene, even the pale overworked Irene, would be better than this awful uncertainty.

Walking over to the radio, Judy stood watching Dale as he fumbled with the dials. In ten more minutes the police alarms would be on the air.

“A little more to the left if you want the city station,” Pauline directed from her chair beside the desk. He turned the dials and, loud and clear, a familiar dance tune broke upontheir senses. It wasGolden Girland a well-known radio artist, Kate South, was singing in an emotional, contralto voice:

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