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THE MYSTERY OF ARNOLD HALL, by Helen M. Persons [Part 2]

CHAPTER XI

AUNT BETSY TO THE RESCUE

Ted sprang to answer the call.

“Yes. Ted. Yes, she is. Who is it, please? Just a minute.”

He turned, putting his hand over the transmitter: “Pat, Norman Young wants to speak to you.”

“Good Heavens!” responded his cousin, getting up so suddenly that her chair toppled over backwards and fell to the floor with a loud crash.

“He’ll think I’m throwing you to the phone,” commented Ted with a grin.

“Hush! You wanted to speak to me? What? He is? Why, how should I know?”

Pat was nervously clenching and unclenching her left hand as she talked, and frowning heavily.

“Certainly not! He’s probably out for the evening, and I don’t see that you or anybody else has a right to meddle with his things.”

“Don’t burn up, Pat,” advised her cousin.

“Well, perhaps,” she admitted grudgingly to the man at the other end of the telephone. “Certainly. No, you may not; my cousin will take me home. Goodbye.”

Patricia hung up the receiver with a bang, threw herself into the chair which Jack had meanwhile righted, leaned her elbows on the table and announced explosively: “If there’s anybody in this college whom I cordially dislike, it’s Norman Young!”

“Why, what did he have to say?” inquired Ted, calmly helping himself to another piece of beefsteak.

“He told me that Jack was missing, and wanted to know if I knew where he was. The nerve of him! Somebody sent him to Jack’s room, looking for Jack, and our smart Norman found an envelope on the desk addressed to me.”

“The tickets,” interpolated Jack.

“And he wanted to know,” went on Patricia, “if he should bring it to me!”

“Quite a meddler,” said Ted.

“After I put him in his place, he apologized; and then wanted to know if he couldn’t call for me and take me home when I was ready to go. How did he know I was here, anyhow?”

“That fellow smells a rat!” announced Ted.

“I’m terribly afraid so,” admitted Patricia. “Still I think I had better go back to the dorm right after we finish dinner—”

“Oh,” began Jack in protest.

“I really think it’s wiser,” said Patricia, looking at him with a worried expression.

The telephone rang sharply a second time.

“Don’t tell me it’s that pest again!” cried Patricia, as Ted took off the receiver.

“Yes. Oh, hello, Anne. Well, spill it. You heard what? The deuce he did! Of all the rot I ever—To be sure it will. Thanks a lot for telling me. I’ll see what can be done right away. Goodbye.”

“Well, what’s happened now?” demanded Patricia.

“No use in my trying to break the news gently. Anne says there is a rumor around college tonight that Jack was offered a big bribe to stay out of the Greystone game; that he took it, and has disappeared. Can you beat that?”

Patricia, speechless with distress, simply twisted her napkin into a mere rope.

“The curs! The contemptible curs!” exploded Jack. “I might have known they’d get even with me some way!”

“Don’t tell me there’s a foundation for that rumor!” cried Ted sharply.

“There is,” replied Jack shortly. “I didn’t mean to tell this; but listen.” Rapidly, yet omitting no important detail, he related the story of the afternoon previous to his imprisonment in the belfry. “And the worst of it is, I haven’t a single witness. They can say pretty nearly what they choose, and go unchallenged.”

“Tut’s responsible for the rumor, of course,” decided Ted; “if we could only corner him some way.”

“We will!” declared Patricia, with vehemence.

“And make him eat crow!” concluded her cousin.

“But how?” asked Jack, with a short laugh. “Tut’s pretty hard-boiled, and who—”

“I shall,” announced Mrs. Carter firmly, getting up from the table.

“Aunt Betsy!”

“Mother!”

“Mrs. Carter!”

“No use objecting. I’m going to find him right now, and I’ll promise you to be back with his scalp before the evening’s over. I won’t give any of you away. He doesn’t know me from Adam.”

“Eve, you mean, Mother,” laughed her son.

“And, now where will I be most likely to find him?” she asked, slipping on her coat and perching a hat on the back of her head.

Jack looked at the clock. “Probably in his room at No. 9 Craig Street. It’s on the second floor, a single, right opposite the stairs; but at least let one of us take you as far as the house.”

“I won’t. You stay quietly here until I come back, all of you.” With a slam of the door, she was gone.

The three young people looked at one another in speechless astonishment. Finally, Ted laughed.

“I feel kind of sorry for old Tut, much as I dislike him. Mother will have the truth out of him if she has to stand him on his head. He’ll do what she says, or she’ll know why.”

The tension was broken, and they all laughed.

When the table was cleared, Ted announced that he was going to do the dishes.

“We’ll help,” said Patricia.

“No, you won’t. You two sit in the living room and chatter.”

Patricia shrugged her shoulders, and led the way into the next room; extinguished all but one of the lamps, turned on the gas log, and sat down before the fire. Jack threw himself on the hearth rug and propped his back against the big chair in which Patricia was sitting.

“Will—will this do you much harm, do you suppose?” she asked, after a moment’s silence.

“Hard to tell. Of course if I can’t be cleared, it will mean my finish as far as sports are concerned—that’s all Tut thinks of, naturally. But, as I told you once before, I think, there is a special reason why I must make good here; and if my reputation comes into question, well—”

Jack broke off abruptly, and frowned at the fire. In a moment he continued:

“I haven’t told anyone else about this, but I’d like you to know; and I’m sure it won’t go any farther.”

“Of course not.”

“On the tenth of last August, I received a special delivery letter,” began Jack slowly, gazing steadily at the fire.

Patricia leaned forward, breathless with surprise.

“In that letter,” continued the boy, “was a cashier’s check for One Thousand Dollars; and on a slip of paper, the words, ‘For John Dunn, to be spent on a year at Granard College.’ We tried in every way to find out where it came from, but when all of our efforts were fruitless we decided that the only thing to do was to use the money as requested. So you see why I feel under such heavy obligations to make good.”

“Jack,” whispered Patricia, with a little excited catch in her throat. “I’ve never told anybody, either—not even my aunt or cousin; but that’s exactly what happened to me.”

“You mean,” cried the boy, twisting around to look up into her face, “that you got money that same way—to come here?”

Patricia nodded.

“How very, very queer!”

The strangeness of the situation silenced them completely for a time. Then Jack murmured: “This should make us better friends than ever, shouldn’t it?”

Patricia smiled, but she did not withdraw the hand that Jack imprisoned in both of his.

“Doesn’t it seem sometimes as if you just must find out who sent the check?” asked Jack, a moment later.

“Yes; and sometimes I feel really nervous over it, as if somebody whom I couldn’t see were watching me all the time, to make sure that I behaved properly.”

The door flew open at that moment, and Aunt Betsy darted into the room just as Ted came in from the kitchen.

“Well,” she exclaimed, sinking down in a big chair and throwing off her coat, “I’ve settled his hash! He’s going around now contradicting the rumor he started, and he’ll never bother you again.”

“Hurrah for you, Mother!” cried Ted. “But tell us the whole story. How did you ever—”

“I knew that young man’s father; used to go to school with him. Got him out of an awful scrape once, and he promised he’d do anything I asked him to pay up for it. Never had any occasion to before. Told the young fellow about his dad’s promise (though of course not the reason for it) and said I was now about to ask him to redeem it. I said I knew what a contemptible thing he was up to, and that I stood ready right now to telephone the whole affair to his dad. Then I just lit into him, told him what a cad and a coward he is. Told him I’d start a public investigation and testify against him. Like all conceited blowbags, he collapsed when under fire; asked what I wanted him to do, begged me not to tell his father; for he’d take him out of college and put him to work in the store. Made him tell me just where and to whom he’d told that abominable lie, and told him I’d go with him while he corrected it. ‘You can call it a joke,’ I said, ‘if you must save your face.’”

Aunt Betsy laughed contemptuously.

“The boy fairly groveled, and swore he’d go; that it wouldn’t be necessary for me to accompany him. I waited while he put on his coat, and started out with him. Watched him go to two places, and on his way to the third before I left him.”

“Mrs. Carter,” began Jack, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Don’t try. I hate to be thanked.”

“Aunt Betsy, you’re just wonderful!” cried Patricia gleefully, while Ted shook his mother’s hand violently.

Conversation for the rest of the evening was general, concerned principally with the prospects of Granard in the morrow’s game. Patricia apparently forgot her resolution to leave right after dinner, for it was half past nine when she drove back to the dorm alone, having decidedly refused Ted’s offer to go with her.

“I’d feel lots better if you stayed home and kept guard,” she whispered to him as he protestingly let her out. “I’ll be all right.”

She did not know that Norman Young had inspected the interior of the car as it stood in the back yard; nor that, hidden behind a pillar on the porch next to the apartment house, he had watched her come out alone and start for Arnold Hall.

CHAPTER XII

ON DUTY

“Oh, come on, Pats!” urged Betty, impatiently.

“It’s heaps of fun to hear the tryouts,” added Anne; “more than seeing the plays themselves, sometimes.”

The football season was over. The Greystone game had resulted in a close victory for Granard, in a hard-fought battle. Jack had covered himself with glory and made the final score for his college in the last few minutes of play. Tut had come down with a heavy cold—so it was said—and had gone home for the Thanksgiving recess a few days early; so he was absent not only from the line-up, but also from the game. All rumors regarding Jack had died a natural death, and now were nearly forgotten; so rapidly does one event follow another, and a fresh excitement take the place of its predecessor, in college life. The present and the future are the only tenses the college student knows anything about.

Dramatics now held the center of the stage.

The Alley Gang was standing on the corner of Wentworth Street and College Avenue after leaving Horton Hall, and were discussing a coming production of the dramatic club.

“And we’ll all go to ‘Vans’ afterward and get something decent to eat,” proposed Frances enthusiastically. “That dinner we just had was fierce!”

“Dinner, did you say?” inquired Hazel scornfully.

“Why won’t you go, Pat?” asked Jane, clasping Patricia’s arm affectionately.

“Because my theme for English III is due tomorrow, and—”

“But not until afternoon,” objected Hazel. “You’ll have plenty of time to—”

“That’s just what I won’t have,” contradicted Patricia. “French test and History review both in the morning; and with Yates’ lab period early in the afternoon. I don’t know when you people do all your work, I’m sure.”

“We don’t do it,” laughed Mary, shifting rapidly from one foot to the other to keep warm; for the night was cold.

“Well, let’s go somewhere,” grumbled Lucile, sinking her head deeper into her big fur collar, “before we all freeze.”

Patricia bit her tongue to keep back an angry response to Lucile’s unpleasant tones. She and Lucile had never hit it off very well, and she had wondered more than once how the other girls managed so nonchalantly to put up with Lu’s uncertain moods. Clarice, the “black sheep,” was noisy and indiscreet, but at least she was accommodating and good-natured.

“You’ll be all alone in the alley, except for Clarice,” warned Anne. “It’s her night on the Black Book.”

“I can work in peace and quiet, then,” replied Patricia; “with all of you ‘hyenas’ out of the way.”

Dodging a threatened blow from Katharine’s sturdy arm, Patricia ran quickly down Wentworth Street, while the rest of the crowd started for the auditorium. It was hard to leave the girls and go back alone to work in the lonely dormitory; only a strong sense of obligation to her unknown benefactor saved Patricia from giving in to the pleas of her pals and let the theme slide. When she entered the hall she was surprised to find Rhoda still on duty.

“Why, where’s Clarice?” she asked.

“She hasn’t come in yet,” replied the maid, looking up from some fancy work she was doing.

“You’ll be awfully late for your dinner, Rhoda. You’d better go. I’ll stay here until Clarice comes.”

“That’s very kind of you,” responded the girl gratefully, beginning to fold up the long scarf and lay aside her silks. “The chef is always so put out when the help come in late.”

“I suppose he wants to get his work finished, and go somewhere; we all do. It is only stern necessity for work on an essay that brought me back here tonight. The others have all gone to the tryouts.”

Patricia slipped into the chair which Rhoda vacated, and watched the maid put on her hat and coat, thinking how little, after all, they really knew about her in spite of their association with her, day after day.

“Good night, and thank you,” said the girl softly, as she opened the door.

“Good night, and you’re welcome,” laughed Patricia.

A couple of minutes later, the telephone rang.

“Yes?” answered Patricia.

“Rhoda?” demanded a thin, sharp voice.

“No; she has just gone. Is there any message?”

“There is not,” was the curt response, as the woman at the other end of the line hung up noisily.

“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. So she won’t be able to go out with you.”

There was the faintest accent on the word she, 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 certainly am alone 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.

CHAPTER XIII

A FIRE

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 I know about it,” replied Patricia, with a faint accent on the word know, 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. Who was supposed 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 Young was the 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, could be a fire bug.

After another hour of restless tossing, she decided to tell the whole truth if questioned closely.

CHAPTER XIV

AN INVESTIGATION

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 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; I don’t know.”

“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 it had been 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.

CHAPTER XV

UNDER ARREST

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? It can’t be. 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 the Granard 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.

“Listen!” said Patricia, her anger gone in a minute as she saw that he was really disturbed. “Everybody will laugh and joke about it for a while, and then—pouf! It’s all out, just like a candle. Nothing lasts very long.”

“What about our benefactors’ opinion of the affair?”

“Under the circumstances, he or she ought to take a sane view of the matter. We have done nothing of which we should be ashamed. Don’t worry about it.”

With these words Patricia ran up the steps, and Jack strolled to the Frat House thinking what a sensible girl Patricia was, and what a good pal.

A most amusing account of their escapade came out in the morning’s paper, and the college world rocked with merriment. Patricia and Jack were bombarded with jokes, questions, congratulations, and cartoons.

The next day Jack and Patricia met on the stairs leading to their Shakespeare classroom.

“I got a queer note,” began Patricia.

“So did I.”

“What did yours say?” asked Patricia eagerly.

“‘Keep out of police stations in the future.’”

“So did mine; but, some way, it didn’t seem cross.”

“How could you tell that?”

“I don’t know; but I just felt that whoever sent the note was smiling as he wrote it.”

“You have a wonderful imagination, Pat,” said Jack, grinning down at her. “I only hope it’s a reliable one.”

CHAPTER XVI

A PICNIC

“Could I hire any of you ladies to swim for me next Tuesday?” inquired Clarice, popping out of the back door and perching on the porch railing.

It was Saturday morning. Patricia, Anne, Frances, Katharine, and Betty had washed their hair, and were strung along the sunny top steps drying it, preparatory to going to town for a wave.

“None of us were keen enough about that swimming exam to be looking for chances to try it twice,” replied Katharine decidedly.

“You ought not to mind it,” drawled Anne sleepily; “you’re a regular mer—maid,” her last word cut short by a huge yawn.

“Look out, Anne,” cried Frances, grabbing her by the shoulders, “you’ll be sound asleep in a minute and roll down the steps.”

“It’s this strong sunlight,” said Anne, leaning comfortably back against Frances’ knees, and closing her eyes.

“What’s the matter with you doing your own swimming?” asked Betty, glancing up at Clarice through a tangle of brown hair.

“Can’t. Don’t know enough about it,” replied the girl nonchalantly, swinging one foot. “I hate it.”

“Do you mean to say that you’ve been in gym class all this year, and don’t know yet how to swim?” inquired Katharine bluntly.

“Guilty!”

“I should think Professor Wilson would have killed you off long ago,” remarked Frances. “He’s such an irritable creature.”

“Yes,” agreed Clarice, “and also so near-sighted that he doesn’t know half the time who’s in the pool and who’s out of it. Haven’t you noticed how dependent he is on his class books?”

“Then can’t you take a chance on his being too near-sighted to see that you can’t swim?” asked Betty.

“No such luck! All women may look alike to him, but not all strokes in swimming.”

“How did you manage all term?” inquired Patricia, shaking her yellow mop of hair vigorously.

“Oh, he was always hollering at me.”

There were two divisions of the Sophomore Gymnasium class. Clarice was in the second, while all the rest of the Alley Gang were in the first. To be able to swim was absolutely necessary for promotion to the Junior class at the end of the year, and the second week in May had been assigned for the final tests. Professor Wilson, a critical, quick-tempered little man, was an excellent teacher, but he did not like women and never bothered to get acquainted with the individual members of his classes, which did not at all add to his popularity.

“When I can swim out of doors by myself, I think I shall like it,” commented Anne, “but not while Professor Wilson dances around the rim of the pool snapping like a turtle.”

“That’s the way I feel about it,” agreed Patricia. “Why don’t we go out to Green Lake some Saturday and try our skill?”

“Let’s go next Saturday,” proposed Katharine enthusiastically. “We’ll go in the morning, and have a roast.”

“Who?” asked Betty.

“Us and the rest of the Gang. Everybody willing, hold up the left foot,” directed Katharine.

A laughing scramble ensued during which Clarice nearly fell off the railing. When they had settled back into their former positions, Patricia suggested hesitatingly, “Let’s take Rhoda. She’s so very nice to all of us.”

“Good idea,” agreed Katharine promptly.

“But who’d take her place?” questioned Betty doubtfully. “Could she get off for the whole day?”

“I think so. That day she was ill, Sue Mason subbed for her; and she probably would again. Sue doesn’t have many dates,” said Frances.

“I wish we could invite her, too, then,” said Patricia slowly. “It must be pretty lonely to be among so many girls, and not be in on their good times.”

“I know, but you can’t start asking people from upstairs,” protested Anne. “If you do, there’ll be no stopping place.”

“What’s the matter with Sue, anyhow?” asked Patricia.

“Mostly her queer ways,” replied Clarice quickly. “Last year she was always rapping on people’s doors and asking them to keep quiet so she could study. Then she complained to the Dean every so often about how long some of the girls kept her out of the bathroom. She also felt it her duty to report the maid several times for being late in distributing the clean linen. In short, Sue just disapproved of the way everything was run, and got herself in most awfully wrong. She belongs in some boarding house, not in a dorm.”

“How did she happen to come back here, since she found so much fault with the place?” inquired Patricia.

“Don’t know. Maybe she found out that she liked it after all. Hasn’t opened her mouth this year, so the girls upstairs say; but she queered herself for good and all last year,” replied Clarice carelessly. “But to return to my original question, can’t I interest any of you in helping me out?”

“I don’t know what we could do,” began Anne.

“Go into the pool for me when my name is called,” answered Clarice boldly. “There’s a ten in it for anybody who will.”

“You’re surely not in earnest,” said Patricia, pushing back her hair to look directly at the girl on the railing above her. Patricia was so easily embarrassed for others, frequently an embarrassment in which the “others” took no part.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” retorted Clarice.

“Why, Clarice!” cried Frances reprovingly.

“I can’t help it if you are shocked. If it were as necessary for any of you to be graduated from this institution as it is for me, you’d go the limit, too!” Clarice’s tone was defiant, but as she slid off of the railing and hurried into the house, Patricia who was still watching her saw sudden tears fill the girl’s hard, black eyes.

Anne shrugged her shoulders as the back door banged. Frances raised her eyebrows and looked troubled. Betty and Katharine nonchalantly continued the business of hair drying. Patricia sighed—“I wish we could help her out,” she said thoughtfully. “I know a little of what graduation means—”

“Then why doesn’t she work?” demanded Betty sharply.

No one was able to answer that question, so after a moment they began to discuss plans for the picnic. In the meantime a girl who had been sitting quietly at an open window above the back porch left her room and went in search of Clarice.

By four o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, the swimming tests were over and the gym was filled with chattering girls discussing the probabilities of success and failure.

“I won’t draw a full breath until I see the list posted,” declared Frances, as she left the building with Anne and Patricia.

“I imagine we all passed,” observed Anne placidly.

“Wish I knew how poor Clarice came out,” said Patricia. “Yet I hate to ask her right out.”

“Haven’t heard her mention the subject since Saturday morning,” said Frances. “Have you?”

Both girls shook their heads.

“Maybe she took some time to practice, and managed to pull through,” suggested Anne. “Clarice can do almost anything if she tries.”

“I truly hope so,” said Patricia fervently.

That evening the Alley Gang was in such a furore over arrangements for the picnic that the test was not even mentioned.

“Isn’t the water going to be awfully cold so early in the season?” objected Jane, when the question of “eats” had been satisfactorily settled, and that of bathing was under discussion.

“If the day is fairly warm, and we go in where it’s sunny, I think it will be all right,” replied Katharine.

“All right for an out-door girl like you,” retorted Betty, with a shiver, “but it doesn’t sound altogether attractive to me.”

“Then stay out of it,” advised Katharine sensibly.

“Yes; anybody who doesn’t want to go in can get busy around the fireplace and have a big feed all ready for us. We’ll be starved.”

“Never saw you when you weren’t, France,” called Clarice, who just then appeared in the doorway of Jane’s room where the girls had congregated.

“Know anybody who runs up to the Varsity Shoppe any oftener than you do?” retorted Frances quickly.

“Don’t quarrel, children,” admonished Jane. “We can all do our share when it comes to eating.”

“By the way,” inquired Anne, “what did Rhoda say when you asked her? Will she go?”

“She wasn’t quite sure,” replied Patricia, “but will let us know on Friday.”

“Say,” interrupted Frances, leaning forward to look at Patricia, “does anybody know why she goes over to Mrs. Brock’s early in the morning?”

Patricia glanced at Jane and Ruth before she replied with a laugh, “I’m sure I don’t.”

“How do you know she does go?” demanded Lucile quickly.

“Saw her, this very morning.”

“What were you doing, awake before the bell rang?” inquired Anne.

“My shade was flapping; and if there’s anything I can’t stand, it’s a flapping shade. I got up to fix it.”

“What time was it?” queried Ruth.

“Five o’clock.”

“You dreamed it,” jeered Lucile.

“I did not!”

“Maybe she was just coming home from a party,” suggested Mary’s mild voice.

“I saw her one morning, too,” admitted Hazel. “I got up at five to study, wrapped a blanket around me, and was curled up in a chair beside the window cramming French verbs—”

“Now I know that you were asleep, too,” interrupted Lucile.

“When I saw Rhoda,” continued Hazel, throwing a pillow at Lucile, “she was coming out of the back door of Big House. When she passed our window, I said ‘Hello!’ and she jumped a foot.”

“What did she say?” asked Jane.

“Nothing; she just glanced up, put her finger on her lips, and hurried into the Hall. She is always so smiling and good-natured, but she didn’t look at all pleased to see me.”

“How did she get in without ringing the bell?” inquired Clarice eagerly.

Everybody laughed.

“That interests you most, doesn’t it?” inquired Lucile sweetly.

“She went around to the laundry door,” explained Hazel. “I think she has a key for it.”

“That’s an idea!” cried Clarice. “Why can’t we borrow that key some night when we want to go out?”

Four stone steps led down from the path on the east side of the dormitory to a small door which opened directly into the laundry, located under Frances’ and Katharine’s room.

“And spend the rest of the night in the laundry?” exclaimed Hazel. “An ironing board for a bed doesn’t appeal to me.”

“Why not come up?” inquired Anne idly.

“Because, darling, Dolly herself locks that door at the head of the stairs on her eleven o’clock round every night,” replied Ruth.

“Then I don’t see how Rhoda gets up,” said Frances, frowning in perplexity.

“Oh, bother Rhoda!” cried Hazel impatiently. “Let’s plan how we’re all of us and our luggage going to get out to Green Lake and back, when we’ve only two cars available.”

“Pat and I can take the eats and a couple of girls to guard them, and then come back for the rest of you,” proposed Mary, who owned the only other car in the Gang.

“That’s a good idea,” approved Anne; and so the matter was settled.

Saturday proved to be one of those warm, sunny days which often usher in an early summer.

“See that haze on the hills?” said Katharine, as they were packing the cars in the driveway. “That means heat. We’ll be able to swim after all. Isn’t it fine that we all passed the test, even Clarice?”

“Didn’t look much like a picnic at this time yesterday,” observed Patricia with a shiver at the recollection. “Wasn’t it a cold, dismal day?”

“It sure was! Who’s going on this load?” inquired Anne, turning to the girls who were bossing the job of loading.

“Katharine and Frances will go with Pat,” responded Jane, “and I’ll keep Mary company. Don’t any of the rest of you wander off and have us hunting all over for you when we come back. All aboard who’s going aboard!”

By eleven o’clock the whole Gang, including Rhoda, was swarming over the picnic grounds situated on a wooded hill overlooking Green Lake, an oblong body of very deep water. At one end, the lake was bordered by flat, treeless meadows, and the low shore line provided a fairly good sandy beach. At the other end, heavily wooded land sloped down to the water on all sides, giving it a gloomy, deep green cast. A rough path followed the irregular stretch of water on the east side, and wound on up the hill into the woods where a depression between two steep slopes formed a small picnic ground. The few tables, benches, and stone ovens which occupied the space were unclaimed today; so the girls had their choice. They decided on a table from which they could look through an opening in the trees, directly down onto the still, green water.

“Swim first,” announced Katharine, after the food had been placed upon one table, and the extra wraps upon another.

“Will our things be safe here alone?” inquired Betty doubtfully, when they were ready to go down to the lower end of the lake.

“I’ll stay with it,” offered Rhoda.

“Oh, no,” protested Anne. “Come on down with us and swim.”

“I can’t swim,” replied Rhoda, “and I don’t care for bathing. I brought a book along, and I’d just as soon as not stay here and read until you come back.”

Seeing that the maid really meant what she said, Anne followed the rest of the girls who were already half way down the hill.

“Where’s Rhoda?” asked Patricia, looking around, when they reached the beach and were about to dive into the water.

“I should think she’d like at least to come and watch us,” said Patricia, when Anne had explained. “I’ll go up after a while and bring her down.”

Swimming in the open was very different from swimming in a tank, and after fifteen minutes of strenuous exercise the girls came out to lie on the sand in the warm sun for a little rest.

“Lend me your cloak, Anne,” requested Patricia, “and I’ll run up for Rhoda.”

“Don’t believe she’ll come,” replied Anne, handing Patricia her woolly bath cape.

“I’ll make her. The things will be all right. There isn’t a soul here today, except us.”

Wrapping the cape closely around her, Patricia started briskly along the path toward the picnic grounds. Rhoda was sitting on a big stone, half way down one of the sloping sides of the depression, in a pool of sunlight which some broken branches let through. So deeply interested was she in her book, that she did not see Patricia until the girl stood right in front of her.

“I came back to get you,” panted Patricia. “We don’t like to have you up here all by yourself. That’s no fun. Come on!” taking the book out of the maid’s hands.

“I really don’t mind,” began Rhoda.

“But we do,” Patricia cut her short, putting out both hands to help her up from the stone.

Laughing a little in protest, Rhoda got up and the two started down the hill.

“Why, there’s Clarice,” said Patricia, stopping short in surprise, as she caught sight of the girl, swinging carelessly along beside the lake just below them. “She’s all dressed. I thought she was with the rest of the crowd. I wonder what happened.”

“She’s too near the ragged edge,” exclaimed Rhoda sharply.

Hearing voices, Clarice looked up without checking her pace. Her foot struck a hole in the bank beside the path, and with a cry she slid down into the lake. Dropping Anne’s cloak, Patricia dashed down the hill and dove into the water.

A treacherous current had immediately swept Clarice away from the bank and was bearing her out toward the center of the lake. “No use to call for help,” thought Patricia; “the rest of the girls are too far away. Lucky that Clarice learned to swim after all; for she’ll be able to help herself a little. She’s gone down!” Striking out frantically, with legs and arms, Patricia made what speed she could toward the place where she had seen Clarice disappear. Fear and necessity gave her extra strength and speed, so that she was near enough to Clarice when the girl came up to seize her by the collar of her sweater.

With the irresistible inclination of a drowning person, Clarice tried to throw her arms around Patricia, who knew that meant disaster for both of them.

“Stop that!” she snapped. “Swim!”

“I can’t,” moaned Clarice, frantic with fear.

“You’ve got to! We’ll both drown if you don’t. Put your hand on my shoulder and strike out as I do. If you try to grab me around the neck, I’ll leave you.”

Clarice pulled herself together and tried to obey. It seemed to Patricia as if they made no progress at all, so weighed down was she with Clarice’s weight. Just one more stroke, she said to herself, when it seemed as if she could go no farther. Now one more. That wasn’t so bad. Now another. Encouraging herself, straining each muscle to the utmost, she at last reached the bank where Rhoda stood with one arm wound around the tree trunk and the other extended to help them scramble up the rough stones, slippery with moss.

As soon as they were safe again, Clarice threw herself flat on the ground and burst into a violent fit of tears.

“Let her cry,” advised Rhoda, as Patricia bent over the sobbing girl. “She’ll get over the shock more quickly.”

“But she’ll take cold,” objected Patricia, throwing Anne’s cloak over the prone figure.

“And so will you,” added Rhoda, removing her own coat, preparatory to wrapping it around the shivering girl beside her.

“You keep that. I’ll get my own,” protested Patricia, running up the hill to where the wraps were piled on one of the tables. Pulling her long brown coat from under several others, she wrapped it around her and returned to Clarice and Rhoda.

The former was still weeping with her face hidden in a bed of ferns.

“Clarice, get up!” ordered Patricia sternly. “No sense in having pneumonia just because you won’t control yourself. Get up, I said.”

Taking her firmly by the arms, with Rhoda’s help she raised the girl and wrapped Anne’s cape more closely around her.

“It’s a judgment on me!” quavered poor Clarice, as they led her up the hill.

“What’s a judgment?” demanded Patricia rather sharply.

“Being drowned because I cheated.”

“But you aren’t drowned,” objected Patricia, laughing in spite of herself. Clarice was such a child!

“I would have been, if it hadn’t been for you. I’ll never cheat again; I’m sure of that.”

“How and when and where did you cheat?” inquired Patricia, puzzled.

“Swimming test. A girl from upstairs went in when my name was called, passed, and Professor Wilson never knew the difference. She’s about my size.”

Patricia was speechless. What should one say under such circumstances? She shrank from the holier-than-thou attitude; yet to remain quiet might be taken as approval.

“What can we do about dry clothing for her, Miss Randall?” inquired Rhoda, saving the situation.

“I don’t know,” replied Patricia in a worried tone. “I guess I’d better drive her home to get some. It won’t take long.”

“I’d rather stay home, if you don’t mind,” said Clarice, drying her eyes.

“Why?”

“Oh, because.”

“It would be just as well if she’d take a hot bath and go right to bed,” advised Rhoda. “Shall I come, too, to help you?”

“Oh, no,” said Clarice quickly. “I’ll be all right.”

“And you’ll do as Rhoda suggests?” asked Patricia.

Clarice nodded and went toward Patricia’s car, while Patricia said to Rhoda in a low tone: “If any of the girls come back while I’m gone, tell them Clarice didn’t feel very well and I took her home. No point in letting them in on poor Clarice’s story.”

“You’re quite right,” agreed Rhoda.

“Patricia,” said Clarice, when they were on their way out of the parking section, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Don’t bother about it. I’m glad I happened to be there.”

“Should I tell about the test?” inquired Clarice slowly after being silent for several minutes. “I’ve made up my mind to learn to swim before college closes for the summer.”

“Good! Then under those circumstances, you’ll be getting your promotion fairly; and it seems to me that any revelation of your—your—”

“My cheating,” supplied Clarice frankly.

“Would involve too many people. You see, Professor Wilson’s near-sightedness would be revealed, and perhaps cause his dismissal; the girl who subbed for you would be drawn into it, and probably get into trouble—perhaps even be dropped; then the girls in your section who know about it—”

“There aren’t any.”

“How’s that?”

“We were called out of the dressing room one at a time, according to numbered cards; and nobody paid any attention to who was out. It’s such a large section.”

“I see. Well, anyhow, since you’re going to correct the wrong, as far as possible, I can’t see any object in broadcasting the story. That reminds me, I asked Rhoda to tell the girls that you didn’t feel very well and I had taken you home. So the three of us will keep our own counsel.”

“Pat, you’re just the best sport I ever knew!”

“What’s the matter with Clarice?” inquired Hazel, an hour later, as they all sat around the table disposing of steak, potatoes, sugared buns, fried cakes, and coffee.

“She had a chill,” replied Patricia calmly, opening a box of marshmallows; “but she attended to it in time, so I think she’ll be all right tomorrow.”

The subsequent devotion of the black sheep to swimming aroused much comment among the members of the Alley Gang. Many were the theories advanced, but the girl kept her own secret and worked doggedly until she was as proficient as most of her companions.

CHAPTER XVII

A ROBBERY

“Have you seen the paper this morning?” demanded Jane excitedly, waving the Granard Herald overhead as Pat was hurrying down the corridor to her room after breakfast.

“No, what’s in it?”

“Look!” Jane held out the front sheet and pointed to a headline in heavy print:

Daring Robbery. Thieves Make Big Haul.

Victim of losses sits in library while men work in room above. No clews. Mrs. Brock, owner of property, offers reward.

“Why!” gasped Patricia. “How awful!”

A clock somewhere in the Hall struck the quarter hour.

“Oh, I’m going to be late,” cried Patricia, dashing into her room, seizing a couple of books, and running down the corridor. “Have to hear the rest later,” she called back to Jane.

“Pat!” cried Anne, catching hold of her at the door. “Have you seen the paper?”

“Yes, Jane just showed it to me.”

“Isn’t it exciting? All her jewelry, and a lot of money taken.”

“I’m late, Anne; let me go, please!” pulling away from the girl.

At the corner of Wentworth Street, Ruth caught up with her.

“Heard the news?” she panted.

“Yes, but can’t stop; most time for class.”

As Patricia sank, breathless, into a seat in French class, which had already begun, Frances leaned forward from the row behind to whisper, “Know about the robbery?”

Patricia nodded.

“The paper says nobody heard a thing,” continued Frances. “Norman was in his room right next to the one where the robbers were working. Isn’t that thrilling?”

“How do you know?” traced Patricia’s pencil on the margin of her note book.

“Clarice met him this morning, and he told her.”

“Mademoiselle Quinne, continuez s’il vous plait,” requested the Professor’s smooth voice.

It must be confessed that Patricia heard little of the French lesson that day. Her mind was briskly working on the piecemeal information she had received about the disaster at Big House.

“Seems awfully queer,” she commented to Jack later in the day, “that a person or persons would break into a house early in the evening like that. Why, Mrs. Brock or Norman might have walked in on them any minute.”

Jack smiled. “He probably had worked out, by direct observation, when his chances of being undisturbed were greatest.”

“Direct observation?” repeated Patricia.

“Yes; whoever it was knew the layout of the house, the habits of its inmates, and where valuables were kept.”

“Why, Jack!” cried Patricia, her eyes dilating with a dawning suspicion. “Who—”

“Better not put anything into words, Pat,” Jack said quickly; “probably we’re all wrong. I hope so. Let’s try to forget all about it. The authorities will take care of it; it’s their business, not ours.”

In spite of Jack’s good advice, Patricia could not keep from dwelling on the subject rather constantly for the rest of the week, especially since the robbery was the Gang’s principal theme of conversation.

“Mrs. Brock,” announced Katharine on Thursday night, “is offering a large reward for the return of her grandfather’s watch alone. It’s a valuable heirloom, and she cares more for that than for the rest of the jewelry. Don’t I wish I could go out some morning, pick up the timepiece, and take it over to her!”

“I guess none of us would object to some extra money,” laughed Anne. “If you weren’t going home this week end, Pat, we might organize a searching party and beat Kath out.”

“Go ahead, anyway,” advised Patricia, pulling out her bag and beginning to pack it ready for an early start the next afternoon. “You’d better get your things together, Jane; we won’t have any time after lunch tomorrow.”

“Jane going with you?” inquired Anne somewhat wistfully.

“Yes. Want to come, too?”

“Do I! You’re a peach.” Anne hugged Patricia, and departed for her own room, stumbling over the doorstop as she went out.

“Look out, Anne; you’ll break your neck over my coach-and-four,” called Patricia. “She never fails to fall over that,” she added to the girls. “Kath, why don’t you come with us?”

“I’d love to, but what will your mother say to so many of us?”

“She won’t care. My room has twin beds, so I can have guests in comfort whenever I want to; and then we have the regular guest room. You won’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“As if I’d care for that! I’ve done it at house parties.” Katharine departed to announce her good fortune to the rest of the Gang, and then went to pack.

“I envy you, Patricia,” said Jane, the next afternoon, as they were riding through a stretch of woods, “being able to take this lovely ride home any week end you want to.”

“Not whenever I want to,” corrected Pat, “but rather when I have money enough for the gas, and when my work can be left for a couple of days. I can’t do any studying at home, of course.”

“Don’t think I’d care for these woods in the dark,” observed Anne.

“Well, darling,” said Katharine soothingly, “you won’t be in them in the dark.”

“Not a chance,” agreed Patricia. “Dad always starts me back in good time so I won’t be on the road after nightfall. He’s deadly afraid of a hold-up.”

“Good place for wild flowers, I should think,” continued Jane, peering in between the tree trunks. “Don’t you want to stop and gather some, Pat?”

“I do not! I’ve had quite enough experience with wild flowers for a while, anyhow.”

“Ever see your reporter-rescuer?” asked Katharine.

“Once in a while. Jack likes him a lot, and Craig has asked us out a couple of times.”

“Hasn’t he a girl friend?” demanded Katharine.

“I guess not; not a regular, anyhow. But why should you be interested? Aren’t you and the Professor good pals any more?”

“Sure; but there are several nice girls in the Gang who haven’t boy friends. You see I’m being purely altruistic.”

“Maybe the man in question would prefer to manage his affairs himself,” said Jane practically.

“Maybe; in fact, he may have made a selection already,” suggested Anne, smiling at Pat in the mirror.

Patricia kept her eyes on the road ahead, and feigned ignorance of Anne’s meaning. Presently she changed the subject by asking what her guests would like to do that evening. “The week end is so short that we have to use every minute of it.”

“A movie,” proposed Katharine. “I haven’t seen a good one in a coon’s age.”

“And double sodas all around afterward,” added Jane. “My treat.”

“Sounds good to me,” agreed Anne, when Patricia looked inquiringly at her.

“All right, then. That’s what we’ll do. Guess I’ll put on a little speed, so we’ll get home early enough to go to the first performance. This new road certainly has meant a lot to me—it shortened the distance so much. You know it’s quite a trip by rail; this road through the woods cuts off miles. Oh!” her remarks concluded with a shriek.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Anne, startled.

“A bee!” exclaimed Patricia. “For pity’s sake keep your eyes on him and try to put him out. I’m always afraid of being stung when I’m at the wheel.”

“You have some opinion of our eyes if you think they are capable of putting out a full grown bee,” remarked Katharine. “Mine don’t even see him, to say nothing of pushing him out the window.”

“Stop joking,” begged Patricia, “and find him.”

“There he is!” cried Anne, drawing herself as far into the corner as she could.

“Where?” demanded Jane, turning around to look at the passengers in the back seat.

“Down on the floor,” said Katharine. “You girls make me tired; all so afraid of one poor little bee!”

“Suppose you pick him up and throw him out, if there’s nothing to be afraid of,” suggested Patricia.

“No—o; but, there! I’ve set my bag on him. He’ll be quite dead in a minute, then I’ll pick him up,” offered Katharine.

“Most any one of us would be willing to pick up a dead bee,” offered Jane.

Presently Katharine lifted the bag; but the action was followed by a squeal from Anne, who announced that he was just as much alive as ever.

Katharine thumped her bag down again while Jane laughed breathlessly.

Ten minutes later, Katharine again peered at her victim; and again he showed very definite signs of life.

“Talk about cats having nine lives,” she commented.

“Set that bag down,” begged Anne, “and leave him alone. If he’s not dead, he’s at least out of mischief.”

“Toughest bee I ever saw,” commented Katharine, thumping the bag again on the unlucky insect. “There you stay until we get to our destination.”

Mrs. Randall was on the porch waiting for them when the car pulled up at the steps.

“I brought two extras, Mum!” cried Patricia, jumping out and hugging her mother.

“That’s fine,” replied Mrs. Randall, smiling at her guests. “It’s pretty lonesome around here now, and Pat’s friends are always welcome.”

When the introductions were over, the irrepressible Katharine said to their hostess, “One of our passengers is in there on the floor; where shall I put him?”

Mrs. Randall looked puzzled, while the girls laughed.

“See?” said Katharine, taking Mrs. Randall by the arm, and showing her the bee crawling along as if holding up heavy bags were just pastime for him.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Randall, entering into the spirit of the fun. “Suppose you leave the door open and let him select his own room.”

As she spoke, the big black and gold fellow spread his wings, blundered about a moment, then sailed out past the girls who dodged him with little shrieks and settled on a patch of lilies of the valley beside the porch.

“Now that the stowaway is disposed of, let’s go in,” proposed Patricia, following her mother up the steps.

“Better go right upstairs and get ready for dinner, Pat,” advised Mrs. Randall. “Daddy’s coming home a bit early, and I thought we would eat as soon as he gets here, so you girls will have a long evening for anything you want to do.”

“Your mother’s a peach; isn’t she?” remarked Anne, as the four girls went up the long stairs together.

“I think so,” replied Patricia, smiling with gratification. “Now this is my room, and the guest room is right opposite. We can divide up any way you please.”

“Suppose we change around,” proposed Anne. “Katharine and I will take the guest room tonight; then tomorrow night we’ll put Jane in with Katharine and I’ll go with you.”

“Ah—wa! Ah—wa!” lamented Katharine.

“What on earth’s the matter with you?” demanded Anne.

“I don’t have Pat at all, I don’t!”

“Oh, you sleep all the time; so what difference does it make?” laughed Jane.

“I’ll set the alarm,” offered Patricia in amusement; “and when the night’s half over, I’ll go in, roll Anne out, send her over to my room, and get in with you. How’s that?”

“I’ll consider it,” replied Katharine in her most dignified tones; “but I think my feelings are irreparably damaged.”

“Oh, go on!” cried Anne, shoving Katharine ahead of her into the guest room. “You’ll never be ready for dinner.”

Mr. Randall loved company, and was always most entertaining whenever Patricia had guests; so the dinner hour was prolonged to such an extent that when the four girls reached the theater, the early performance was well under way.

“I like it over on the right,” whispered Patricia, as they entered the darkened house. “Just follow me,” she added, ignoring the usher completely and hurrying down a side aisle. She was a bit careless in stepping up into a row of seats, and turned on her ankle. To save herself a fall, she grabbed madly at the seat in front of her, which was occupied by a very large and very dignified-looking man. Instead of grasping the back of his seat, as she intended, her hand came down very forcibly on the top of his bald head.

“Ouch!” he cried out in astonishment and discomfort.

Everybody within hearing turned around. Several people exclaimed in annoyance. Some nearby, who had witnessed the incident, laughed aloud. In the general disturbance, the girls managed to sink into their seats quite overcome with embarrassment. Presently Anne hid her face in her hands and began to quiver.

“What is the matter?” whispered Patricia.

Anne only shook her head, and Patricia realized that the girl was in a paroxysm of laughter. It was contagious, and before long Pat and Katharine were in the same state.

“Stop that!” ordered Jane. “Think of something sad, and do it quick.”

With much effort and several relapses they finally succeeded in pulling themselves together, and fixed their eyes determinedly on the screen, not daring to glance at one another.

“That was just terrible!” exclaimed Jane in mock anger, when they were out upon the street again. “I’ll never go to a movie with you again, Patricia Randall!”

“I’m—awfully—sorry,” gasped Pat.

“You certainly act as if you were, quite overcome with grief,” said Anne.

“Did you ever in your life hear anything so funny as the way that man hollered—he fairly bellowed!” said Katharine.

“You do get into more scrapes, Pat,” commented Anne, “than anyone I ever met.”

“Don’t I?”

“Never mind,” said Jane soothingly, as they entered a confectionery store, “you mean well.”

“I think,” said Katharine, “that is about the worst thing one can say. ‘Oh, he means well.’ It seems like sort of damning with faint praise. Not that Jane meant it that way.”

Everybody laughed. Katharine was so unconscious of her inconsistency.

While they were waiting for their order, Patricia’s eyes, which were roving about the room in search of possible acquaintances, came to rest on the back of a tall figure two tables beyond theirs. As if compelled by her questioning gaze, the individual turned around, immediately jumped up, and crossed the room in two strides.

CHAPTER XVIII

A WEEK END

“Craig!” exclaimed Patricia, smiling up at the lanky youth. “Fancy seeing you here! And what are you doing?”

“Here on business,” was the brief response, as he shook Patricia’s hand enthusiastically.

“These are my friends—Anne Ford, Jane Temple, and Katharine Weldon,” continued Patricia, “who are spending the week end with me.”

Acknowledging the introduction, Craig looked inquiringly at Patricia. “May I sit down here and have my sweet with the Sweets.”

“We couldn’t possibly refuse after such a ‘sweet’ compliment as that,” laughed Patricia. “How long are you going to be in town?”

“Well, that depends. If I find what I’m looking for, I’ll go back almost immediately; if I don’t, I’ll go Sunday afternoon, anyhow.”

“How interesting and mysterious you sound!” remarked Katharine.

“Reporting’s a great game. Now tell me about yourselves,” leaning both elbows on the table and looking from one girl to another. With flattering attention the boy listened to the story of their drive home; gave a couple of short barks of amusement at their movie experience, then inquired what they intended to do on the morrow.

“Shop in the morning,” replied Patricia. “I always do the Sunday marketing when I’m home. I just love to poke around the stores and buy things. In the afternoon—I really don’t know yet.”

“How would it be if you all went to the ball game with me?” proposed Craig, carefully rubbing a drop of chocolate sauce off of his tie.

“Grand! But you’d be embarrassed to death escorting four females,” laughed Patricia.

“Don’t you believe it. I’d be the proudest fellow in the stand, and the most envied. That’s settled then,” as all the girls manifested their pleasure in the plan. “I’ll call for you at two o’clock,” he added, as they rose to go. “I’d offer to see you home, but I suppose you have your car?”

“Yes; it’s in a parking station. Why don’t we meet you at the Park tomorrow afternoon instead of your going way out to our house?”

“Not a bad idea, especially as I haven’t the least idea where you live.” Everybody laughed.

“97 Minton Road, in case you ever need to know,” said Patricia, smiling frankly up into the brown eyes and serious face above her.

“Thanks,” he said, making a note of the address. “Wait a minute,” he added, taking hold of her arm and steering her toward a candy counter. “Make up five pounds of the kinds selected,” he directed the prim clerk who came to take his order. Then, waving off the girls’ thanks, he was gone.

“Shall we each choose our favorites, to make up one-quarter of the box?” asked Patricia, turning to the other girls.

“Fine; and in quarter-or half-pound lots, so as to get variety,” said Katharine; and they all assented.

It was rather late when the girls finally reached home, but they settled down before the living room fireplace with the box of candy, and regaled Mr. and Mrs. Randall with chocolates and the story of their adventures. Mr. Randall finally drove them off to bed shortly after midnight.

“I’m going to stay in the car,” announced Katharine the next morning, when Patricia drew up in front of a large department store in the grocery department of which she intended to make several purchases. “I don’t care for marketing, and I do love to watch people hurrying along the streets.”

“As you like it,” replied Patricia, getting out, followed by Anne and Jane.

“Can you park here?” inquired Jane in surprise, as Patricia slammed the door.

“Not really supposed to, but I won’t be long; and I hardly think there’ll be any trouble.”

“I’ll entertain the cop,” offered Katharine magnanimously, “if he shows up.”

She had been watching the crowd for about ten minutes, when she noticed a big, red-faced policeman approaching, his eyes fixed indignantly upon the car in which she was sitting.

“Now I’m in for it!” she thought. “Why in time doesn’t Patricia come? She’s been gone an age.”

“You can’t park here, lady,” said the officer sternly. “Can’t you read?” pointing to the No Parking sign.

“No, sir,” replied Katharine demurely.

“You can’t!” exclaimed the man in surprise

“Not a word!” was the reply, and Katharine looked innocently at him.

“What nationality are you?”

“American, sir.”

The officer pushed back his hat in perplexity. He felt that something was wrong, but could not quite put his finger on it. With all our money spent on schools, and this young woman couldn’t read.

“Well, anyhow, whether you can read or not, you can’t park here.”

“But this isn’t my car, and I can’t drive.”

“Where is the owner?”

“In there,” pointing to the store. “She’ll be out in just a minute. I think she went in to buy—oranges.”

“Well, if she isn’t out by the time I come around again, she gets a tag; and that’s flat!”

Wrathfully the officer strode on, and Katharine sank back comfortably against the cushions again. Five minutes passed; ten; and still no signs of Patricia. Katharine began to fidget nervously and wish she had gone into the store with the girls. Still, if she had, the car would have been tagged at once; even now perhaps she could stave the man off again if he came around before Pat got back.

There he was, striding along as if he meant business! “I wish Pat and her oranges were in Hades,” thought Katharine, preparing to smile sweetly at the irate officer.

“She hasn’t come yet,” she said, leaning out of the window and speaking confidentially. “Something must have happened to her. I’m so worried. What ought I to do, do you think?”

Momentarily disarmed by the unexpected greeting, the man removed his hat and scratched his head. Then suddenly realizing that he was being worked, he snapped:

“What could happen to her except that, like all other women, she has no notion of time! This car’s been here half an hour now. I suppose she can’t read either!”

“It’s been here only twenty-five minutes, officer,” corrected Katharine, showing him her watch.

“So you can tell time, even though you can’t read,” commented the officer, rather admiring the girl’s poise despite his annoyance.

“Well, you see,” began Katharine, resting both arms on the opened window, “when I was a little girl—(if I can only keep him interested until Pat comes!)—I was—” She broke off to gesticulate madly to her friends who were just coming out of the store.

The policeman wheeled sharply and saw three girls racing madly toward him. Just as Pat reached the car, the bag she was carrying broke, and a dozen oranges rolled in all directions.

“There!” cried Katharine triumphantly. “Didn’t I tell you she just went in to get some oranges?”

What could the man do but help gather up the fruit and toss it into the car? Scarlet with exertion and embarrassment at the comments of passers-by, he finally faced Patricia sternly.

“Lady, you’ve been parked here half an hour, right under that sign. Can’t you read either?”

“Why, yes, a little,” replied Patricia, with a suspicious glance at Katharine. “But those signs are placed so high that if you’re in a low car, you really have an awful time seeing them at all. You can see for yourself that this one is directly over the top of the car. Get in and see.”

“Of course it is if you drive directly under it!” grumbled the man. “And the next time I see this car where it doesn’t belong, it gets a tag right away; whether your passengers can’t read, or you think the signs are too high, or—or anything else.”

“Thanks for your patience, and assistance,” replied Patricia, smiling at him in such a friendly fashion that he had a hard time maintaining his expression of outraged dignity. He was still a bit doubtful as to whether or not the girls were making fun of him. These women!

“Goodbye,” called the irrepressible Katharine, as Patricia stepped into the car and started the engine. “Hope I meet you again sometime.”

The officer strode away without comment, while Katharine reported her encounter to the girls.

“I’m an absolute wreck!” she declared in an injured tone, as her companions laughed heartlessly. “I’ll never keep car for you again.”

“Your own choice,” retorted Patricia flippantly. “We wanted you to come with us.”

“That’s all the thanks I get,” sighed Katharine, “for risking my life to protect your property.”

“Policeman, spare this car; touch not an ancient wheel!” giggled Anne.

“In youth it carried me,” continued Jane.

“And I’ll protect it now,” carolled the three.

“I’ve a good mind to dump you all out,” declared Patricia in mock indignation. “I know it’s not exactly a latest model, but it really isn’t so ancient as all that.”

“Never mind, Patsy,” said Katharine. “We’ll ride in it, even if it is old.”

“There’s where we’re going this afternoon,” remarked Patricia a few minutes later, pointing down a side street; “you can see the baseball park from here.”

Long before the game started, they were in their seats watching the crowds pour into the stands.

Patricia, who sat beside Craig, soon noticed that he was scanning faces with more than casual interest. When he pulled out a pair of opera glasses with which to view the opposite stands, her curiosity got the better of her.

“Looking for someone special?” she inquired, making pleats in her handkerchief.

“Yes.” He moved closer, put his head down, and spoke softly. “We got a tip that the principal in the Brock affair might be around here, and my chief sent me out to see what I could pick up. Keep it under your hat, though.”

“Of course,” breathed Patricia, quivering with excitement.

“Come home to dinner with us?” asked Patricia, when the game was over and they were headed for the parking station.

Craig shook his head. “Like to a lot, but I want to look around a bit more tonight; so I’ll eat in a one-arm lunch that I know about where perhaps I’ll overhear something. Thanks a lot.”

“If you’d care to come, suppose you make it tomorrow instead. We have dinner at one on Sundays.”

“I’ll be glad to come then.”

“Any luck?” Patricia inquired, as she met Craig in the hall of her own home the next noon.

“Not a bit,” looking so dejected that Patricia could hardly keep from smiling.

“Too bad; but don’t be quite so downcast.”

“Good advice; perhaps I’ll run across something on the train. You get into a conversation with strangers, and oftentimes a clew slips out.”

Dinner was a hilarious affair. Craig exerted himself to be entertaining, and Katharine had a silly streak which kept the company in gales of laughter.

“Hate to break away,” said Craig, looking at his watch after they finished their coffee before the fireplace in the living room.

The day had turned cool, and a wood fire was very welcome. “This is awfully cozy,” he went on; “but my train goes in twenty minutes.”

“Why don’t you let Pat tuck you into her machine, and go back with the girls?” suggested Mr. Randall.

“Like nothing better,” replied Craig, unfolding his long body slowly as he rose reluctantly from a big easy chair; “but I have my return ticket, and ‘Waste not, want not’ is one of my mottoes.”

“See you when you get back to town,” were his last words to Patricia, after taking leave of the rest of the party.

“Very likely,” she replied carelessly.

Had she been wise in inviting the boy to her house? She wondered, closing the door. He was inclined to be a bit possessive and might think she was more interested in him than she really was. But the end of the college year was fast approaching, and with it a breaking off of many Granard associations. Her face was very sober as she rejoined the group in front of the fire; for the fear of not being able to go back next fall was a very poignant one.

“What’s the matter, Pat?” inquired Katharine bluntly. “You look as if you’d just buried your last friend.”

“Haven’t,” replied the girl, perching on the arm of her father’s chair, and twisting his hair into a Kewpie knot.

“Pat always looks like that when it’s time to leave home,” commented Mrs. Randall, after a searching glance at her daughter.

“I don’t mean to appear inhospitable—” began Mr. Randall.

“But you think we should be on our way,” finished Patricia, “so as not to be on the road long after dark.”

“Well, you know it always takes longer than you expect.”

“Yes, darling; we’ll get started. Come, girls, get your things together.”

When they were about twenty-five miles from home, Patricia gazed anxiously ahead at a bank of dark clouds, rapidly spreading all across the sky. “Afraid we’re going to run into a storm, girls.”

“As long as it isn’t a thunder storm,” began Anne, in a worried tone.

“Safe enough in a car if you keep out from under trees,” commented Katharine.

“Can’t, if you happen to be in the woods,” objected Jane, who was watching the clouds gathering so rapidly.

“We’re not going to be in the woods,” said Patricia. “We’ll strike the storm long before we reach them.”

As she spoke a wave of chill wind swept across the country as the darkness shut down like the cover of a box, and huge hailstones began to bounce off the hood and patter on the top of the car with such force that it seemed as if they must break through.

CHAPTER XIX

A WEIRD EXPERIENCE

“I’ll have to pull off the road and stop for a while,” declared Patricia. “Trying to drive in this is too nerve racking.”

The shoulder was wide and smooth; so she had no difficulty in finding a safe place to park. In fact, almost any place would have been safe, so far as traffic was concerned; for nearly all drivers stopped to await the end of the storm. For three-quarters of an hour the sky was dark, while hailstones, big and little, pelted down covering the ground with an icy white carpet; then they ceased almost as abruptly as they had begun. The sun was trying to break through the clouds when Patricia started the engine and turned out onto the road again.

“We’ll get as far as we can while it’s pleasant,” she said.

“Why, are we going to have another?” inquired Anne nervously.

“Can’t tell for sure; but the sky looks pretty black ahead of us. Maybe it’s only rain though.”

She was right. Five miles farther on they struck rain which was falling steadily as if it meant to continue indefinitely. The road was crowned and slippery, which made careful driving advisable.

“Good thing your father can’t see us now,” remarked Katharine, as Patricia turned on her headlights.

“Yes, isn’t it? Going to be dark awfully early tonight. I don’t like night driving any better than he does.”

None of the girls liked the prospect of driving the rest of the way in rain and darkness. The little party became a very silent one as time went on, and even Katharine had almost nothing to say. Only the windshield wiper squeaked regularly as it swept back and forth across the wet glass. At Braggs Corners a couple of Boy Scouts stood in the middle of the road directing traffic from Main to Pearl Streets.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Patricia, sticking her head out of the window.

“Bridge washed out. Have to go around by Millersville,” replied the boy.

“At least twenty miles longer than this route,” groaned Patricia; “and not so well traveled. But, no help for it, I guess.”

The new route was indeed a lonesome one—a country road through flat, drenched farm lands, alternating with stretches of dripping woods.

“What’s the matter with the lights, Pat?” inquired Katharine, after they had covered about ten miles.

“Something, certainly, but I don’t know what,” was the worried reply. “They keep going out. I’ll just have to drive as fast as possible while they’re on, and slow down when they go off.”

“Hope they’re on the job while we’re in these woods we’re coming to,” remarked Anne, eyeing the dark tree shapes ahead with no inconsiderable apprehension.

“They probably will,” said Patricia encouragingly; “and I think Millersville must be on the other side of them. I’ll stop there and have the lights fixed.”

The girls sat with bated breath as they plunged into the gloomy woods, but all went well until they had nearly reached the last of the trees. Suddenly the lights flickered out, and there was a terrific bump which jarred startled cries out of all of the passengers.

“What on earth was that?” demanded Jane, as Patricia slowed up.

“A hole, I suppose,” replied Patricia with feigned carelessness.

“Then it must have been an out-growing hole,” said Anne, rubbing her elbow which had come into sharp contact with the window frame. “It felt as if we went over an elephant.”

“More likely the limb of a tree,” declared Katharine.

“Well, whatever it was, it can stay there,” declared Patricia. “I’m not going back to see. There are lights ahead, and I’m quite sure we’re almost in Millersville.”

“Hurrah!” cried Katharine, clapping her hands.

With great care Patricia drove her dark car into the little town, and stopped at the first garage she came to.

“Drive right in,” directed the mechanic who came out to see what they wanted.

Inside the garage, the girls all got out of the car and walked around while Patricia explained her difficulties. After a hasty examination, the man stood up facing Patricia sternly.

“Lady, there’s blood and part of a man’s clothing on your car! You must have run over someone.”

“Of course I didn’t!” began Patricia indignantly; then stopped short, clutching the fender to steady herself.

“Look here!” persisted the man.

Patricia forced herself to walk around to the other side of the car, and saw a strand of grey cloth twisted in the wheel, and stains on the body of her car. They were partly washed off by the rain, but enough remained to show that it was blood.

“That awful bump,” offered Anne incoherently.

“Didn’t feel big enough for a man,” objected Katharine.

“What shall I do?” cried Patricia, biting her lips to keep from crying.

“Better report it at the station, and get an officer to go back with you,” advised the man. “I’ll fix your lights; then you drive on one block and you’ll see the station.”

“Would you go up with us and tell your part of the story?” begged Patricia, feeling very much in need of male support in such an emergency.

“Sure,” was the hearty response. “I’ll walk up and be there as soon as you are.”

“Never mind, Pat,” said Katharine consolingly. “You’ve got to run over somebody sometime, and now it’s over.”

Patricia shivered.

The mechanic was as good as his word, and when the frightened girls entered the police station, he was leaning on the desk in earnest conversation with the officer on duty. The few questions which were put to Patricia and her friends were answered so promptly and frankly that they made a most favorable impression; and in twenty minutes, Patricia, was driving back to the woods with a pleasant young policeman sitting beside her. The mechanic and the coroner followed in a small truck.

“There is something!” cried Katharine, as they approached the scene of the jolting, and the headlights showed a dark bundle toward one side of the road. Patricia shuddered as she saw that it was the figure of a man. As soon as she had come to a stop, the policeman leaped out and bent over the prone figure. With the help of the coroner he rolled the body onto its back, and made a hasty examination while the white-faced, trembling girls watched from the car.

“You ran over him all right,” called the officer.

Patricia gave a frightened gasp and clutched the wheel tightly to save herself from succumbing to a wave of dizziness which swept over her.

“But,” he continued, “you didn’t kill him. Somebody evidently stabbed and left him here. His partner, no doubt. Probably took whatever he had on him, too.”

Patricia breathed a prayer of thanksgiving.

“I thought so,” continued the officer, as he hastily ran his fingers through the pockets of the dead man, and found nothing. “Cleaned out.”

“We’d better get him on the truck and take him to the morgue,” said the coroner. “Give us a hand, Jones,” to the mechanic. “Drive ahead a little, lady, and give us more room.”

Patricia moved on a few feet and discovered that there was not space enough in that particular spot to turn around; so she proceeded slowly until she came to a place where the trees were a little farther back from the road.

“Think you can make it?” inquired Jane, lowering the window to watch the tree trunks on her side of the car.

“By going off the road a bit; it looks fairly level here.”

It took some maneuvering to get the car headed in the opposite direction, and Patricia’s arms ached before the feat was finally accomplished. Suddenly she stopped the machine, opened the door, and jumped out.

“What on earth is the matter now?” called Jane, sliding over the driver’s seat and sticking her head out of the open door.

Patricia, who was stooping over something a few feet ahead, in the glare of the headlights, made no reply.

“Don’t tell me there’s another man!” wailed Anne, covering her face.

“No, no!” assured Katharine, patting Anne soothingly. “Nothing so big as that. What did you find, Pat?” as the girl ran back to her companions.

“Look!” she cried, stumbling into her seat, and holding up a glistening object.

“A watch!” exclaimed the girls in chorus.

“Yes, and it’s Mrs. Brock’s grandfather’s watch!” Her words fairly tumbled over one another in her excitement. “At least it answers to the description given in the papers.”

“Oh, Pat, you lucky girl!” ejaculated Jane, hugging her.

“It was right under the headlights. The man’s pal must have dropped it!”

“Heavens! Maybe he’s still around here!” shuddered Anne, as a dire thought occurred to her.

“Never thought of that!” admitted Patricia, starting the car again.

“Never fear!” asserted Katharine. “A criminal may return to the scene of his crime, but he never stays there.”

“Better go back and tell the men, Pat,” advised Jane sensibly.

In a minute or two the girls were tumbling out of the car, all talking at once to the officer who was standing in the road waiting for them to return. The body had been placed in the truck, and the coroner and Jones were ready to start off.

“One at a time!” pleaded Policeman Tyne, covering his ears with his big hands.

The other three girls stopped immediately, and allowed Patricia to tell the story without interruption.

“Must have lost this when he dodged into the woods,” remarked the coroner, who, with Jones, had left the truck and rejoined the group.

“Suppose perhaps he’s keeping under cover not too far from here,” said the officer.

“Going in the woods to look for him?” inquired the coroner.

“Not the least use in the world,” offered Jones promptly. “You’d never find your way around in there at night. It’s bad enough in the daytime. I got lost in there once. You’d just be a target for him, officer,” he added, as Tyne hesitated.

“He’s probably miles away by now, anyhow. We have no means of knowing when the crime was committed. We’ll go back, I guess, and I’ll make my report; then all surrounding towns and roads will be watched. Ready, girls?”

“Congratulations, Pat!” said Anne, generously, as they started off. “I’m awfully glad that you’ll get the reward.”

“I don’t know—” began Patricia doubtfully, watching the road closely.

“You will,” said the policeman. “You found it. Of course it will be held up for a while until after the investigation, but then you can claim it. Maybe there’ll be a reward for that fellow, too,” nodding toward the truck. “I’m pretty sure he’s Crack Mayne.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Patricia. “He’s—” then stopped abruptly.

“He’s what?” demanded Frank Tyne suspiciously.

Patricia forced an unsteady laugh, then told the story of Jack’s and her adventure in the woods. The man shook with amusement over the trooper’s mistake.

“So they took you for ‘Angel’ and your friend for Crack!” he chuckled. “Wait till I tell the boys that story.”

“Who on earth is ‘Crack’ and what did he do?” demanded Katharine.

“He’s an A-1 burglar, Miss. Wanted for lots of jobs, but he’s so d— blamed clever that nobody’s been able to lay hands on him. They say he comes of a good family; sort of black sheep, you know. Somebody said he has a sister living in Granard; of course that may be just talk. He was in town a couple of times last winter; that we know.”

“Lock up your class pin, Anne,” laughed Jane, as Anne’s eyes grew bigger and bigger.

“Yes, he might try the dorm next,” giggled Patricia.

“I have a horror of burglars. Imagine! Waking up to find one in your room. Ugh!” shuddered Anne.

“But he’s dead, you geese!” Katharine reminded them.

“That’s so,” sighed Anne with such evident relief that they all laughed.

“I’ll bet that’s who Craig was looking for,” thought Patricia, as she made the turn into Millersville for the second time.

“How much do you suppose it will be?” asked Katharine suddenly.

“What?”

“The reward, of course.”

The girls laughed a bit hysterically; for the events of the afternoon and evening had been a severe strain on the nerves of everyone. The truck turned down a side street, and as they reached the station the officer got out without waiting for Patricia to come to a full stop.

“Good luck, girls!” he cried, as he slammed the door.

“I’m hoping,” said Patricia soberly, as she put on speed, “that the reward will be enough to help me come back here next year.”

“Why, you’ve just got to come back!” declared Anne emphatically. “We can’t possibly get along without you.”

“I should say not!” agreed Katharine, reaching forward to pinch Patricia’s ear affectionately.

“I do hope you’ll get enough to be of considerable help,” said Jane earnestly.

“Time will tell,” replied Patricia, a bit shakily.

It was wonderful of the girls to be so anxious to keep her in the dear old Gang! She had known, of course, that they liked her; but she had never realized how much until she saw how shocked they were at the possibility of her not being able to return next September.

The rain stopped, and traffic was light; so they were able to make good time all the rest of the way. It was about eight-thirty when they drew up in front of Arnold Hall.

“Let’s walk down to the Coffee Shoppe and get some supper before we go in,” proposed Katharine. “If the girls once get hold of us we’ll never get out again; and I’m starved.”

“A good idea,” agreed Jane.

“Are you going to tell the Gang all about our adventures?” inquired Anne, as they walked the short distance down the street.

“Why, I thought so,” replied Patricia. “Why not?”

“Just as well,” counseled Jane. “They’ll see it in the papers, or hear it some way; and they would think it queer that we said nothing about it.”

“There’s Rhoda!” exclaimed Katharine, as they entered the restaurant. “Let’s go and sit with her. She looks lonesome.”

“Hello, Rhoda,” said Jane, sliding into the seat beside the surprised maid, while the other three girls squeezed into the seat on the opposite side of the table. “Haven’t finished, have you?”

“No; just beginning.”

“Good!” approved Anne. “Eat slowly until we get our supper.”

Rhoda obediently laid down her knife and fork, while the girls ordered; then she asked: “Did you miss your supper at the Hall?”

“I’ll say we did!” said Katharine fervently.

“We had the most exciting time!” cried Anne.

“And Rhoda,” interrupted Patricia, leaning across the table to whisper confidentially—“Just think; I found Mrs. Brock’s watch!”

“Miss Randall!” gasped the maid. “Wherever—”

“Listen!” And Patricia plunged into the story, aided by various comments from her companions. Rhoda’s eyes widened, and a deep flush crept across her face as the tale reached the discovery of the dead man.

“How—awful!” she faltered. “What—what did he look like?”

“We didn’t look at him,” responded Katharine; “but the officer thought—” she broke off abruptly, silenced by a sharp touch of Patricia’s sturdy shoe.

“We were scared to death,” interrupted Patricia hurriedly, “and glad to have a chance to leave the scene for a few minutes. And wasn’t it lucky that I had to go farther on to turn around?” Rapidly, excitedly, she proceeded to the finding of the watch.

“Now let’s eat,” proposed Katharine, when Patricia paused for breath at the end of the tale.

Rhoda merely played with her food, and drank two cups of strong coffee, while she waited for the girls to finish their meal. Then they all strolled slowly back to the Hall together. The moon had come up, and was shining through the lacy foliage of the trees, making delicate patterns on the walks.

“Why the kick?” whispered Katharine to Patricia as they fell back of the others, to let some people pass in the opposite direction.

“We don’t know for sure who the man was,” said Patricia; “and it seems to me it’s better not to mention names. Let that come out in the papers first.”

“You’re probably right, Miss Prudence,” laughed Katharine; “but don’t go quite so heavy on the kicks hereafter.”

There was bedlam in Arnold Hall when the girls told their story to the Alley Gang and Mrs. Vincent in the big parlor. Students from the second floor hung over the stair railings to listen in; and before the subject was exhausted, Ted Carter, Craig Denton, and Jack Dunn walked in. Then everything had to be gone over again.

Suddenly the outside door was flung open impatiently, and Mrs. Brock walked in and stood viewing the crowd.

CHAPTER XX

THE REWARD

For an instant nobody spoke or moved; then Mrs. Vincent got up and crossed the room to greet the unexpected visitor.

“Won’t you come in and sit down, Mrs. Brock?” she asked, pulling forward a rocking chair which Katharine had just vacated.

“Not going to stay, thank you,” was the crisp response. “Just came after my watch.”

“How the dickens did she know that it had been found?” whispered Anne to Frances, who was standing beside her on the opposite side of the room.

“Can’t imagine,” began Frances; then stopped short, as Jane, who had heard the question, looked back and formed the one word “Rhoda” with her lips.

“Well, where is it?” demanded the old lady, looking at Patricia as if she suspected her of having sold it for old gold.

“It’s at the police station in Millersville, Mrs. Brock,” replied Patricia.

“That’s fine!” commented the old lady sarcastically. “Whatever possessed you to let it out of your hands?”

“Why, I had to,” faltered Patricia, somewhat timidly. This fierce old lady was enough to intimidate a far bolder person than Patricia.

“Had to! Had to!” began the caller, when Jack spoke up in order to shield Patricia a little.

“The police take charge of all articles until after a case is settled.”

“Oh, they do, do they? And who are you?”

“Jack Dunn,” replied the boy, flushing at the bluntness of the question.

Mrs. Brock gazed at him fixedly for a full minute; then wheeled about and started for the door.

“Won’t you stay a while, and have a cup of tea with us?” asked Mrs. Vincent hospitably.

“No, thanks,” was the curt reply. “I get tea enough at home.”

The door opened and closed, and she was gone.

“Did you ever!” exclaimed Katharine.

“Never!” responded Jane promptly.

“Not a word about the reward, either,” lamented Anne.

“Hope she doesn’t forget all about it after she gets the watch back,” remarked Frances.

“Why, Frances,” interposed Patricia reprovingly.

“Well, she’s so queer, who can tell what she’s likely to do.”

“Let’s forget about her and have that tea you mentioned a minute ago, Mrs. Vincent,” suggested Ted.

“And while you’re getting it ready, we’ll run out and get some cakes or something to go with it,” proposed Craig. “Come along, fellows.”

Mrs. Vincent good-naturedly waived the ten-thirty rule, and the rest of the evening passed happily. So exhausted was everyone by excitement and merriment, that heads were hardly on the pillows when their owners were sound asleep. Only Rhoda tossed restlessly, and fearfully awaited the morrow.

Monday morning’s paper contained a full account of the discovery of “Crack” Mayne on a lonely detour by several Granard students who were returning to college after a week end out of town.

“Bless his heart!” cried Patricia, as she read rapidly through the article.

“Whose!” inquired Anne. “Crack’s?”

“No; Craig’s. I begged him to keep our names out of the paper, but I was afraid he wouldn’t. You know reporters just can’t help using everything they can get hold of.”

“He owed you something, I should think, for telephoning him the story right away for his paper. He got a—what do they call it?”

“Scoop!” said Patricia, smiling at the recollection of Craig’s fervent, “You darling girl!” when she had called him up from the Hall as soon as they got in the night before. “He was especially sporting about it, since he was on the trail of Crack himself when we met him at home.”

“He was? Now if he’d only come with us instead of going by train!”

“That’s what he said.”

The evening paper was not so considerate, and the names of all the girls were mentioned, along with the finding of the famous watch by Patricia Randall who would, the paper stated, receive the reward offered by Mrs. Brock. All four girls would share in the $500 reward offered for the capture of the burglar.

“Capture is good!” jeered Katharine, as the Gang was poring over the paper in Jane’s room. “Anybody could capture a dead man.”

“Well,” said Frances belligerently, “if Pat hadn’t run over him you’d never—”

The rest of her remark was drowned by a burst of laughter; for Frances’ hostility was as funny as that of a small kitten who arches her back at imaginary foes.

A couple of days later, when the Gang came in from lunch, Rhoda handed Patricia an envelope.

“This was left for you this morning,” she explained.

“Thank you, Rhoda,” said Patricia, smiling in her usual friendly fashion; but there was no answering smile on the maid’s grave face.

“What’s the matter with Rhoda?” asked Anne, as they went on down the hall to Patricia’s room.

“I don’t know; she isn’t a bit like herself, and sometimes she looks as if she’d been crying. I wish I knew what’s troubling her.”

“Yes; perhaps we could do something.”

But what was disturbing Rhoda would never be revealed to the inmates of Arnold Hall. Little did they suspect that “Crack” Mayne was their maid’s brother; that he had been the one to rob Mrs. Brock of her money and jewelry; and that, maddened by his sister’s refusal to give him access to the Hall, he had, in a spirit of revenge, set fire to it. That was information which Rhoda would keep strictly to herself. Sorrow for her brother’s violent death was tempered by relief that no longer need she shiver with fear each night as she wondered where he was and what he was doing.

“Open it quick,” begged Anne, when they were safely inside Patricia’s room.

Tearing open the envelope, she drew out a sheet of note paper upon which was written in an old-fashioned cramped hand: “The promised reward for finding my watch.” Inside the double sheet were laid five ten dollar bills.

“Congratulations!” cried Anne, jumping up from the bed and flinging open the door. “Girls,” she called to the corridor at large, “Pat’s got her reward!”

From all the rooms on that floor flocked various members of the Gang to gather joyfully around Patricia, exclaiming over the crisp new bills as happily as if they were the property of each individual there.

“You’ll have to go over and thank Mrs. Brock, Pat,” declared Katharine mischievously.

“I shall express my gratitude in a very formal, but sincere, note,” replied Patricia, tucking the bills into her hand bag.

“How are you going to spend it!” inquired Clarice, who was wandering restlessly around the room, examining articles on dressers and desks.

“I’m not sure. Probably lay it aside for a while.”

“You might donate it to the scholarship fund, and then this house wouldn’t have to take part in the annual entertainment to raise money for it,” suggested Lucile.

“Don’t you do it!” was Frances’ prompt veto. “Spend it on yourself.”

“Speaking of our stunt for the 25th, we’ve got to have a meeting and decide what we are going to do,” declared Jane firmly.

“Let Pat and Jack do that dance they put on the other night,” suggested Anne.

“The very thing! It could be part of a ballet,” agreed Katharine.

“Will you?” asked Jane, as Patricia looked doubtful.

“If Jack will; but maybe he won’t want to.”

“Why not?” demanded Betty.

“I don’t know; but you can never tell what ideas a fellow has about that sort of thing.”

“Well, I hope he agrees to it; for you’re both a peach of a dancer,” commented Katharine.

“Kay! Your English!” objected Frances.

“I don’t care. You know what I mean.”

“Ask Jack today, will you, Pat?” asked Jane. “Then we can build up the rest of our stunt around you two. We’ll need some of the other boys, too; so Jack need not fear being conspicuous.”

“I’ll see him after Shakespeare class,” promised Patricia.

She was as good as her word, and reported to the committee that evening that Jack had accepted, after much urging. Rehearsals began immediately amid great secrecy; for each group tried to keep its contribution to the entertainment a secret until the night it was presented. Besides Patricia, only Anne, Katharine, Hazel and Frances of the Alley Gang were to take part, with Jane as director of the Arnold Hall production.

“There are loads of better actors than we are among the girls upstairs,” was Jane’s reply to Frances’ protest at not having all the Gang in the affair. “And it’s only right to use as many as we can. They think we’re too prominent in the house as it is, and it wouldn’t look well to keep the whole show to ourselves. They have exactly as much right to be in it as we have.”

Frances pouted, flounced out of the room, and disappeared for the rest of the evening.

“What’s the matter with her?” inquired Betty, who had collided with Frances in the doorway.

“Peeved because the whole Gang isn’t to be used in our act.”

“I must confess I thought you had your nerve with you to leave Clarice out,” commented Betty, helping herself to a piece of candy from a box on Jane’s dresser.

“I suppose I have brought down Mrs. Vincent’s disapproval on myself; but while I have nothing against Clarice personally, it seems to me hardly fitting for a girl who is always behind in her studies, and who has been quite so talked about, to represent Arnold Hall in the big entertainment of the year.”

“Jane always stands by her guns,” remarked Anne admiringly, as she shook out the costume she was working on.

“How well I know that,” laughed Ruth. “I have yet to see her back down from any stand she has taken.”

“Well, I hate people who are always changing their minds,” admitted Jane, gazing critically at a poster she was making for the entertainment. “Make a decision, and then stick to it. That’s my motto.”

Nemesis, the goddess of vengeance, who the ancient Greeks believed listened to the boasts of mortals and promptly punished them, must have made a heavy mark against Jane’s name just then.

CHAPTER XXI

PAT’S SACRIFICE

“But, Dean Walters, she does not seem really bad.”

“There have been many complaints of her, Mrs. Vincent, and her actions are causing most unfavorable comment outside as well as inside college circles. It is not desirable for the institution to retain such a girl.”

“It seems to me that the crowd she was in with for a while is largely responsible. I feel quite sure that Clarice was not entirely to blame in that last affair.”

“Might it not have been better to have verified your suspicions at the time, and brought them to my attention, instead of waiting until now to mention them?”

“Well—she—she naturally would not wish to betray her friends—and I—I—”

“Be that as it may, one more escapade will automatically sever Miss Tyson’s connections with Granard College. I leave it to you to make my decision known to the young lady.”

Patricia drew a long breath of relief as the two women left the library alcove next to the one in which she had been an unwilling eavesdropper.

Not long ago, a noisy party on the top floor, one night when the chaperon was at a concert, had brought a shower of complaints from private houses surrounding Arnold Hall. Exactly who else beside Clarice had attended the spread, no one knew; for she was the only one who owned up when the matter had been made the object of a very solemn house meeting a couple of days later. The affair had crystallized Clarice’s standing in the Hall; for the law-abiding students felt that the honor and reputation of their house had been tarnished. Secretly they wished that the ringleader might be sent to room elsewhere, but gossip whispered that the chaperon was especially interested in Clarice by reason of a long-standing friendship with one of the girl’s relatives.

Patricia was sure, however, that underneath the veneer of lawlessness, the girl was fine and true. She was the only one who had “owned up” and she wouldn’t divulge the names of the other culprits. Too bad she got in with that crowd of girls who roomed outside of the dormitories. They were less hampered by rules and regulations, and gladly welcomed Clarice with her generous allowance and her readiness for all kinds of fun. She was always easily led by anyone who was friendly toward her, and on several occasions she had been taken advantage of by the crowd. It was a pity that a girl who was capable of doing good work, and possessed of qualities which, if developed, would make her amount to something, should be playing around with those idlers who had come to college principally for a good time. Somebody really ought to rescue her.

“I suppose I might undertake the job,” thought Patricia reluctantly. “Clarice responds to flattery and petting like a pussy cat. Yet even if I wanted to (which I really don’t) I haven’t the time. It would mean constant attention, and would probably ruin my standings.”

Patricia shook herself, as if to be rid of the whole troublesome business, and resolutely opened her book. Next day’s assignment was difficult, and required perfect concentration.

“One more escapade—sever connections—”

Bother! Why need those relentless words ring in her ears? It was the duty of Mrs. Vincent, as chaperon, to advise and guard the girls under her care. Inefficient little Dolly! The only methods she knew how to use were reprimands and warnings, neither of which would do in this case. The redemption of Clarice must be effected by one who would win and hold her affection; who could, and would, detach her from the outside crowd, and unite her to the girls from Arnold Hall.

Patricia gave up further attempts to study, and sat arguing with herself until a bell rang and the janitor came in to close the building. With a start she packed up her books, hurried out, and walked briskly across the campus in the direction of the Hall. The girls, unless special permission had been granted, were expected to be in the house at ten o’clock, and it was within a quarter of that hour. A passing automobile forced her to pause at the corner where a street light clearly revealed the faces of the occupants of the car: Clarice and Bert King!

Quick anger filled Patricia’s heart. How could anyone, with any sense at all, go right out on top of a warning? She could not have obtained permission, because all her privileges had been used up. Calender Street led directly out to Driftwood Inn, where there was a dance every Thursday night. Evidently that was their destination. No use bothering one’s head about a girl who was quite so reckless. A sheer waste of time and energy!

Thursday night? This was the evening that the chaperons played bridge at the Faculty Club. Possibly Mrs. Vincent had gone directly there from the library. In that case, very likely she had not yet seen Clarice. That put a different face on the matter. Poor Clarice! Rushing so gayly away to the Inn for a good time, she would return to find herself expelled. Hardly fair; yet the Dean had said distinctly that one more escapade, and she always kept her word. In view of her recent reprimand, Mrs. Vincent would not be likely to spare Clarice this time.

Mechanically Patricia entered the Hall and walked down the empty corridor to her own room. She was alone tonight; for Betty had gone home for the week end a day early. Mechanically she undressed, her brain busy creating and discarding ways and means of shielding the truant.

There was little doubt about Clarice’s ability to enter the house and get to her room unseen and unheard. That she had accomplished before by secret methods of her own. The greatest danger lay in room inspection, recently inaugurated. Every night, now, Mrs. Vincent made a tour of rooms about eleven o’clock to see if any of her charges were missing. In all probability, after the Dean’s recent hint that she had not been sufficiently on the alert, tonight would be the time for greater thoroughness than usual.

If there were only someone who could be placed in Clarice’s bed until after the ceremony had been concluded. No one of the girls, of course, would risk a demerit by absence from her own room, especially for Clarice; they disapproved of her too strongly.

Her own hair was almost exactly the shade of Clarice’s. There seemed no way except to sacrifice herself to the cause, and she rebelled against it.

“It is being deceitful, and that is wrong,” admonished an inner voice.

“It’s being very charitable,” contradicted another little voice. “By doing this, you’ll give Clarice a chance to complete her year’s work.”

“And next year,” came back the sneering suggestion, “she’ll act just the same as ever.”

“No such thing! You are going to help her keep away from undesirable companions, and develop her real self.”

The fact that she might not be back next year herself was entirely lost track of in the conflict between the opposing impulses.

When she was all ready for bed, Patricia opened her door quietly, paused to listen, then slipped noiselessly along the corridor to Clarice’s room. Cautiously turning the knob, she slipped into the dark room. Safe so far. Rolling herself in the bed clothes, she turned her face to the wall and burrowed deep into the pillows. Shaking with excitement, and too much disturbed to sleep, she lay listening to the trolley cars and automobiles which passed and repassed on the busy street, and to the little movements and noises inside. She heard Mrs. Vincent come in and go directly to her own room. Finally the clock in the hall sounded its soft chimes, then gave forth eleven measured strokes. Like a cuckoo, Mrs. Vincent promptly emerged from her room and crossed the hall to the table where the register lay. Presently, Patricia heard her put down the heavy book and start along the corridor. Now she was at Lucile’s door; now Anne’s; then Patricia’s own. A pause. Quick step around the room. Return to the register. Silence. Then the steps re-crossed the hall and stopped at Clarice’s door. The knob turned softly. Patricia held her breath. Suppose, after all, she should be caught, and Clarice’s absence discovered! The ray of a little flash light wavered over her head, darted about the room, and—disappeared. Half an hour later, Mrs. Vincent was in bed, fast asleep; then Patricia crept noiselessly back to her own room.

The students had just returned from breakfast the following morning, when Mrs. Vincent called Patricia into her room.

“Miss Randall,” she began, without preamble, “did you have permission to go out last night?”

“No, Mrs. Vincent.”

“You were not in your room at room inspection.”

Patricia was silent. The chaperon looked surprised.

“Where were you?” she asked at last.

“That I am not at liberty to tell you; but I can truthfully say that I was not doing anything of which I should be ashamed.”

“You realize, of course, that I shall have to report this to the Dean?”

“Yes, Mrs. Vincent.”

Baffled, rather annoyed, and wholly puzzled, the chaperon dismissed her.

By dinner time that evening the whole college seethed with the report that Patricia Randall had been required to withdraw from participation in the spring entertainment which was to be given the following Saturday. Little groups were gathered here and there excitedly discussing the astounding news.

“My dear, Patricia was out without permission last night—”

No one knew where!

“Her room was empty at inspection.”

“Dean Walters and Mrs. Vincent are furious because they couldn’t get her to say where she was.”

“Jack Dunn’s terribly upset, because they say she had one of the most important dance numbers with him!”

“Yes, and nobody else knows how to do it; and it’s too late to coach anyone.”

“It is a shame! That part will just have to be omitted.”

“What do you suppose possessed Patricia, of all people, to start breaking rules, and then be so secretive about it?”

In the little reception room of Arnold Hall sat the object of their discussions.

“I feel just as bad as you do, Jack,” she was saying to the serious-faced youth opposite her; “and I’d explain if I could; but I really can’t. The worst of it is cutting you out of the dance.”

“What about yourself?”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter—much.”

Patricia was examining the pleats in her skirt, laying each one carefully into its exact crease. If only she wouldn’t feel so like crying every time she talked about the entertainment. She had never been in anything as large as this before, and was looking forward to inviting some people down from home. How glad she was that she had held up the invitations!

“There is a way,” she continued, as soon as she could control her voice, “that the dance could be given just the same, if you will only agree.”

“I won’t make a solo of it, because it would be a complete frost. Anyhow, I don’t want to go on without you. I need you for inspiration,” he added, with a mischievous grin.

“It’s nice of you to put it that way, but your desire to make the affair a success should furnish enough ‘inspiration.’ The omission of that dance leaves an awful gap in the performance.”

“Don’t I know it?” gloomily.

“Well, then, ask Clarice Tyson to take my place.”

As if shot, the boy sprang from his chair. If Patricia had hurled a bomb at his head, he couldn’t have been much more shocked.

“Nothing doing!” he exclaimed violently.

“Hush! Don’t get so excited. Sit down and listen to me.”

The look of mingled astonishment and disgust on his face was so funny that Patricia almost had to laugh. Just in time, she succeeded in choking back her amusement. This was not a time for mirth; the case required diplomatic handling.

“In the first place, Clarice is perfectly familiar with that dance; and since she is a born dancer, she won’t embarrass you by ignorance and awkwardness.”

“She’ll not have a chance to,” muttered the boy.

“Don’t say that,” pleaded Patricia. “Jack, we’ve been good pals for some time now; can’t you do this for me, if we must put it on a purely personal basis? There is a special reason why I very much want to place Clarice before the public in a new role and under different auspices. Your position in the college is so solid, your reputation so—so irreproachable, that what you do or sponsor meets with the complete approval of the Powers-that-Be.”

“Baloney; but I’m beginning, I think, to see through your scheme.”

“And you will do it?” Eagerly the girl leaned forward and waited for his reply.

“I can’t take her by the hand and just drag her onto the stage with me Saturday night,” objected Jack irritably.

“Of course not. Tell Jane you know a girl who is well able to take my place, and ask if you may substitute her. Jane is so busy and worried over the affair that she’ll be delighted, and probably will ask no questions.”

Jack considered the question gravely, while Patricia watched his face hopefully.

“Will you, Jack?” she begged. “Please say you will.”

“All right,” he agreed gruffly. “I’m not at all keen, I must confess, at appearing so publicly with the celebrated Clarice; but if you say so, it must be done. Probably will cause a tempest in a teapot, but—”

“I’ll take care of that,” cried Patricia joyfully; “and thanks a lot. I’ll do something big for you some day.”

Jack drew from his pocket a small note book and scribbled a few lines on one of its pages.

“What are you doing?” asked Patricia curiously.

“Just making a note of that promise.”

At that moment the clock struck half past ten.

“I must get out of here before I’m put out,” said Jack, getting up and starting for the hall. At the outside door, he paused.

“By the way, Pat, how does Clarice happen to know that dance?”

“I taught it to her this afternoon,” was the startling reply, as Patricia closed the door.

On her way to her own room, she stuck her head into Jane’s.

“Jack knows a girl he can get to sub for me Saturday night,” she said. “Will it be all right?”

Jane jumped up with a sigh of relief. “I’ll say so!” she ejaculated. “Oh, boy! How worried I’ve been at the idea of leaving out that dance!”

“I’m so very sorry to have made all this trouble for everybody,” faltered Patricia, with tears in her eyes; “but I just couldn’t help it.”

“Don’t, dear!” whispered Jane, putting both arms around the girl. “The Gang’s back of you, whatever you do.”

“It’s good of you to say that, especially when I can’t clear myself.”

“Maybe later on something will happen to clear things up for you,” suggested Ruth.

Pat looked at her quickly, wondering if the girl suspected anything; but Ruth, who was placidly combing her hair, smiled at her in the mirror so innocently that her fears were allayed.

“Pat’s shielding some one,” declared Ruth, after Patricia had gone. “We’ll have to find out who it is.”

“Oh, Ruthie,” groaned Jane, distractedly, “don’t suggest my doing anything until after this blamed entertainment is over.”

Ruth said no more, but she made up her mind that Pat must be cleared.

CHAPTER XXII

CLARICE

Rehearsals for the ballet in which Jack and his partner were featured had ended before Patricia was banned; so it was not until Saturday night that Jane discovered who the sub was to be.

“What is she doing here?” whispered the harried director to Frances, who had sufficiently recovered from her annoyance to help with the make-up.

“Who?” inquired Frances, busy laying out grease, paint, and powder.

“Clarice. She’s out there on the stage as large as life. We can’t have any unnecessary people back here.”

Just then Jack approached his partner, and as they practiced a couple of difficult steps together, the awful truth dawned upon Jane. Though usually slow to anger, her temper suddenly flared up at the trick which had been played on her.

“I think that’s just contemptible!” she exclaimed, rapping a brush sharply on the table.

“What on earth is the matter?” inquired Ruth, who had just entered with an armload of costumes.

“For Pat and Jack to have given Clarice a part in the dance without telling me.”

“But,” said Ruth, “you didn’t ask Pat who was to take her place. I wondered at the time.”

“I never dreamed of its being Clarice! I thought it was some friend of Jack’s.”

“I have an idea,” cried Frances. “It isn’t for nothing Pat’s turned over her boy friend to Clarice. It’s my opinion that it is Clarice Pat is shielding.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Ruth.

“I just have a hunch, and I’m going to ferret out the truth.”

“What’s the use of that now?” asked Jane.

“Lots of use; for it would restore Pat to the good graces of—”

“But we couldn’t go out and squeal on someone else,” objected Jane.

“For cats’ sake, girls, stop talking and get busy,” pleaded the harassed director. “We’ll never be ready for the curtain at eight-fifteen.”

It was not until the very end of the long program that the Arnold Hall girls went on. A series of dances made up the scene, which was in a forest. The dance specialty by Jack and Clarice was just over when little Sylvia, the niece of Dean Walters—as a lost princess—danced to the front of the stage.

Excited by the crowd, she flung out her arms and fluffy skirts as she came forward. A sudden whirl brought her up against a torch held by one of the woodsmen, and in an instant she was ablaze. Like a flash, Clarice upset a huge jar of daisies and rolled the child back and forth on the soaked rug. While the curtain was hastily rung down, Clarice picked up the child and tried to soothe her. The fluffy dress was a wet, charred rag, but Sylvia was unharmed.

“Darling,” choked Dean Walters, snatching the child, “it was the quickest—” she began. Then turning to Clarice, she said, “Come in to see me tomorrow.”

“Isn’t it lucky I had to give up the part!” said Pat to Jack. “I should never have known what to do. And since the kiddie wasn’t harmed, how wonderfully it will help to reinstate Clarice.”

Frances, who was in the woodsmen’s hut just back of them, heard no more; but this much was enough.

“Clarice,” cried Mrs. Vincent, “are you burned at all?”

“Not a bit,” replied the girl, a bit shaky, now the excitement was over.

“What ever could I have said to Albert—to your father—if any harm had come to you!”

“Well, none did,” said Clarice, starting for the dressing room.

“She’s tired and excited,” said Jane kindly, as the chaperon’s lips quivered and her troubled eyes followed the progress of her favorite across the stage.

“Did you ever know anybody to act so quickly?” demanded Mrs. Vincent proudly. “Most people didn’t know what had happened. I guess the Dean won’t be quite so ready to—” Realizing suddenly that she was saying too much in her excitement, she stopped abruptly and hurried off the stage.

The following day, Jane, Anne, Frances, and Ruth were sitting on a bench in Reservoir Park, facing the west. A beautiful sunset was dyeing the sky a brilliant crimson and gold. They had gone for a walk after dinner, and now were resting and discussing the events of the preceding evening.

“It’s very clear to me,” Frances was saying emphatically, “that the Dean must have decided upon something drastic regarding Clarice; that Pat knew about it, and got into trouble helping her out.”

“And then thought it might show the Dean that the girls liked and trusted the real Clarice if she had a big part in the show,” continued Anne, tracing a pattern in the dust of the path with a small twig.

“I know that she, herself, taught Clarice that dance,” contributed Ruth, who was industriously pulling a daisy apart, meanwhile saying to herself, “‘He loves me; he loves me not.’ Clarice told me so when I pressed the question last night as to where she had learned it.”

Jane, who had been listening silently with thoughtfully knitted brows and a puzzled expression in her honest grey eyes, now sprang up and faced the three on the bench.

“I think I have it!”

“What?” demanded Ruth in alarm. “Not measles!” In one of the dormitories there was a mild epidemic of that disease of childhood.

“Oh, no,” laughed Jane, “but listen! The night Pat was missing from her room, I was in the bathroom between ten-thirty and eleven. You remember, Ruthie, I told you that the salad we had at dinner made me feel sick?”

Ruth nodded.

“While I was in there, I heard someone cross the hall and go very softly into Clarice’s room—it’s right next to the bathroom, you know. It didn’t sound like Clarice, for she puts her heels down so hard; and the person was very quiet. At the time, I didn’t pay much attention, or try to figure it out; I was feeling pretty sick. But since you’ve been talking, this suddenly all came back to me. Do you know what I think? I’ll bet that Pat discovered Clarice was out for a good time somewhere, and took her room so her absence wouldn’t be noticed. Their hair is about the same shade, and in the dark it would be easy to—”

“Jane! Jane!” cried Anne joyfully. “I believe you have solved the puzzle.”

“Listen,” Frances broke in, “to what I overheard Pat say last night!” And she repeated what she heard of Patricia’s conversation with Jack.

“I’ll bet the Dean intended to drop Clarice if she got another demerit,” said Ruth, when Frances had finished.

“And it fits right in with what Dolly started to say last night,” said Jane, nodding with satisfaction.

“Now all we need to know is whether Clarice was out after hours last Thursday,” concluded Anne; “and when we get home, I’m going to ask her.”

“And if she was?” queried Jane.

“Then—I think—” replied Anne slowly, “that I shall tell her what we suspect. I was with Clarice quite a bit the first of last year, and got to know her fairly well. There’s more good in her than one would suspect, and she’s the last person who’d let anybody else take her punishments.”

“But, Anne,” protested Jane, as they rose to go. The brilliant colors of the sky had faded, and it was beginning to get dark. “Won’t you be undoing all that Pat tried to bring about?”

“No, for the Dean had a long talk with Clarice this afternoon, and they understand each other perfectly. I imagine that Clarice was quite frank about herself, for she told me the Dean was just lovely to her, and regretted their not having understood each other before. Clarice has pretty much of a crush, and she’ll do anything for a person she loves. You see, Clarice’s mother died a number of years ago, and Mr. Tyson has lived in boarding houses and hotels ever since. He adored Clarice, and simply spoiled her, until she became very headstrong. Then he decided to send her to college in the hope that its discipline and associations would sort of make her over—”

“But, Anne,” interrupted Jane; “if you knew all this, why didn’t you tell us before? We might have helped, instead of sitting in judgment on her so often.”

“I didn’t know all of it until this morning, and you’d never guess who told me. Dolly.”

“Dolly!” exclaimed the other girls simultaneously.

“You remember the break she made last night about ‘Albert’? Well, I think she wanted to explain that a bit; so she waited for me after church, and on the way home told me what I have just repeated to you. She met Mr. Tyson and Clarice at the seashore, somewhere in Massachusetts, a couple of years ago; and I guess, again last summer.”

“Then that’s why she’s so fond of Clarice,” remarked Frances; “and I’ll bet my last dollar she’s fond of ‘Albert’ too. Where does he live?”

“Boston.”

“Ah, ha! She gets a letter from Boston every week!” cried Frances triumphantly.

“How do you know?” demanded Jane.

“Have you forgotten that I bring down the mail at noon every day?”

Jane did not reply; for they were by that time at the door of Arnold Hall. As soon as they entered, Anne went in search of Clarice; and nobody saw either of them again that night.

CHAPTER XXIII

SOLUTIONS

The girls of Granard College had finished Monday night’s dessert of chocolate blanc mange, and were restlessly waiting for the signal to leave the dining room, when Clarice, who was sitting at the end of the Arnold Hall table, rose quietly and stood facing her companions.

“I’ve got something to say, girls,” she began abruptly, her big black eyes turned on one after another of the members of the Alley Gang, and coming to rest on Patricia. “Last Thursday night I stayed out after hours without permission. Accidentally Pat found it out—also, what I didn’t know at the time, that if I got another demerit I’d be dropped from college. Like the good sport she is, she occupied my bed until after inspection that night. You all know what a jam she got into, but I was so dumb that I didn’t put two and two together until last night.” Clarice’s fixed gaze here shifted from Patricia’s flushed face to Anne’s. The friendly smile which flashed to her from Anne’s red lips made her falter for a moment. Quickly, however, she recovered her poise, and continued. “I’ve seen the Dean, and explained the whole affair to her; as well as to Mrs. Vincent. And, Pat’s slate is clean.”

Clarice turned from the table, and before the astonished girls could move, had darted out of a side door which was directly behind her. Then pandemonium broke loose.

“Three cheers for Clarice and Pat!” cried Katharine, waving her arms excitedly.

An immediate and hearty response centered the attention of the entire dining room upon the Arnold Hall table; and as the girls left the building they were besieged by the other students to know the cause of the demonstration.

Although examinations loomed in the near future, no one could study in Arnold Hall that evening; everyone was too excited, and too happy, to settle down. The members of the Alley Gang roamed restlessly in and out of one another’s rooms, talking incessantly, while sampling the “eats” which had arrived in several boxes from home that day. Patricia had managed to get Clarice for a few moments alone in order to say some things which couldn’t be said in public.

“Please don’t, Pat,” protested the other girl. “I’m so far in debt to you that—”

“But, Clarice,” interrupted Patricia, putting her hand forcibly over her friend’s mouth to check further talk about indebtedness, “I want to know how things stand with you. You won’t be dropped?”

“No, everything’s all right. The Dean was lovely, and from now on I’m going to make good.”

“I’m so glad,” began Patricia, “and I know that you can.”

Just then Anne appeared, and announced that Rhoda had a telephone message for Patricia.

Sliding off the porch railing, on which they had been perched, the two girls followed Anne into the house.

“Mrs. Brock would like you to come right over, Miss Randall,” said Rhoda, when the trio presented themselves before the Black Book table where the maid was sitting.

“How exciting!” cried Anne. “What do you think she wants?”

“I’ll have to go and find out, I suppose,” sighed Patricia wearily. The strain of the week was beginning to tell on even her sturdy constitution, and she longed to go to bed.

“Come back as soon as you can,” begged Anne, going as far as the door with her, “and tell us all about it. We won’t have many more talkfests.”

“No; and it makes me just sick to think of leaving here the last of next week,” whispered Patricia sadly, dashing away a couple of tears.

“Never mind, old dear,” said Anne. “Maybe something will turn up to bring you back next fall.”

When the maid at Big House ushered Patricia onto a large screened porch, she was astonished to see Jack sitting beside a lamp whose soft light illuminated the entire veranda. After brief greetings had been exchanged, Mrs. Brock said abruptly:

“I have a story to tell you children.”

Her visitors exchanged amused glances over the appellation.

“I’ll make it brief; for I know that the reminiscences of old people bore the young. When I was a girl, about your age, I had two very dear chums: one was Mary Pierce.”

Patricia leaned eagerly forward in her chair at the sound of her mother’s maiden name, but Mrs. Brock continued without appearing to notice the girl’s surprise.

“The other,” she went on, “was Gertrude Neal.”

Here Jack started up in astonishment, as he, too, recognized the name of his mother. Again Mrs. Brock went on without a pause.

“That surprises you, for I seem much older than your mothers. As a matter of fact, I was several years older than the other girls, and a long illness a few years ago makes me appear much more ancient than I really am. But to go on with my story. We were very congenial, and almost inseparable.” A smile at some memory flickered across the woman’s face, completely transforming the immobile features with which her listeners were familiar. A look of regret and sadness almost immediately replaced the smile, as she continued:

“Unfortunately, it was too happy a friendship to last. We had a serious misunderstanding, in which I was mostly to blame. In fact the affair was the cause of considerable injustice being suffered by Mary and Gertrude. I’m not going into details—it’s over now, and they probably forgot all about it; but anyhow, we separated, and I have never seen either of them since. An aunt took me abroad, and one thing or another detained me there until last year. My return revived old memories and affections; yet my pride kept me from going directly to my friends. I felt, however, that I wanted to do something to make up, at least in part, for the trouble I had caused; so I decided to make you children a little gift and at the same time find out what you were like. I bought Big House because it was located so close to the college my father attended, then sent you the money for the year’s expenses.

“Rhoda, my secretary and companion, I managed to place in Arnold Hall as a maid, so she could give me all kinds of information about Patricia; and I hired a private detective, Norman Young, to do my secretarial work and at the same time spy on Jack. The game is played out now, and I hope the year has been as satisfactory to you as it has to me. Wait a minute,” as Patricia again tried to speak. “I have an offer to make. I’m going to get a car; for I find I cannot walk as much as I used to; and if Jack cares to take the position as chauffeur in return for his next year’s college expenses, I fancy we can come to a satisfactory agreement. The hours would not interfere at all with college work, and,” she paused and looked questioningly at the boy, “you won’t have to live with me.”

“Mrs. Brock, I don’t know what to say, except to thank you for all your kindness to me, and to accept gratefully your most generous offer. I—”

“All right then; that’s settled,” interrupted Mrs. Brock, turning toward Patricia. “I need someone to look after my library and read to me. If you could fit that work in with your college duties, I shall be responsible for your next year’s expenses. Of course you’ll live at Arnold Hall.”

“Mrs. Brock,” began Patricia; then much to everyone’s distress she burst into tears. “If you only knew,” she sobbed, “how much I wanted to come back here, and how afraid I have been that I couldn’t—”

“Then I’ll expect you both to report here on September 20,” interrupted Mrs. Brock, “four days before college opens. Don’t try to tell me how grateful you are. I guess I know. Good night.”

Patricia kissed the white face of the little woman, and Jack followed her example. Neither spoke until they were out on the street.

“Some fairy godmother!” exclaimed Jack.

“Oh, Jack, isn’t she wonderful?”

“And the best of all,” said Jack, “is that we’ll be here together again. You’ve become a sort of habit with me, I guess.”

Patricia smiled happily in the darkness. “And now,” she exulted as they reached Arnold Hall, “I must go in and tell the girls the joyful news.”