“I don’t know how I happened to fall,” she said, trying to laugh. “I’m not usually so careless.”
“There were some wet leaves on one of the steps,” explained her rescuer, bending his head protectively over her.
It was a fine shaped head, topped by wavy brown hair flung back from a broad, very white forehead. The hands on her arm were shapely, and the fingers long and slender. A thoroughbred, thought Patricia.
“If you’ll tell me where you were going,” he continued, motioning his companions peremptorily away, “I’ll walk along with you.”
“Oh, I don’t want to trouble you further,” protested Patricia. “I’m quite all right now.”
“You’re shaking like a leaf,” contradicted her escort gently, falling into step beside her, as they started across the campus. “Let’s sit down over there a while,” he added, as they approached a stone bench under a tree near the Fine Arts Building; “or have you a class now?”
“No, not until three-thirty.”
“What year are you?” he began, as soon as they were seated. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”
“I’m a Sophomore, and my name, by the way, is Patricia Randall.”
“Mine is Jack Dunn,” said the boy, as simply as if his name were not known the length and breadth of the campus.
“I’m afraid you are not very observing,” remarked Patricia.
“Why?”
“Because we are in the same Shakespeare class, and have been all this term.”
“Oh, well, we’re seated alphabetically. I’m down in the front of the room, and you must be in the back. So that lets me out.”
Three-thirty arrived long before they finished exchanging personal bits of information, and Jack left Patricia at the door of her classroom with a promise to see her again very soon.
“How in the world did you get hold of him?” whispered Jane excitedly, as Patricia took her seat.
“Tell you later,” promised Patricia, as Professor Yates glanced in their direction.
After the class was over, the girls managed to get away from the rest of the crowd; so, as they walked slowly across the campus, Patricia told the story of the fall and its consequences.
“You’re a lucky girl!” sighed Jane, as she finished.
“To have broken no bones?” inquired Patricia innocently.
“Yes, just that,” replied her companion, with exaggerated emphasis. “Broken hearts not taken into account.”
“I suppose the girls will razz the life out of me,” commented Patricia, after a short pause.
“Don’t tell them anything about it, then. I shan’t mention it.”
“But suppose some of them saw us together?”
“That’s all right. If they don’t know how you met him, it will give them something to think about.”
That evening Patricia was keenly aware of curious eyes fixed upon her as she stood in front of Arnold Hall talking to Jack Dunn. He had stepped up to her just as she was following Jane and Anne to the post office after dinner. The girls obligingly hurried on and left the two together, but Patricia’s cheeks were red with the knowledge that they were talking about her as they went back to the dorm.
“I was wondering if you’d go to see Arliss with me,” began Jack. “He’s on at the Plaza, and we’d be just in time for the early performance.”
“I should like to see it,” replied Patricia slowly; “but—yes, I’ll go. I’m pretty sure Jane will sign the Black Book for me if I don’t go in.”
“The Black Book?” repeated Jack in puzzled tones.
As they started downtown, Patricia told him all about the Arnold Hall customs and rules, and answered his questions regarding the identity of several of the Alley Gang.
“You see,” he said, “I don’t know many of the girls here; for I came only this year, transferred from Floynton University—”
“And I from Brentwood,” interrupted Patricia. “Isn’t that funny?”
“We ought to be friends, then, both strangers in a strange land. Shall we?”
“I don’t mind.”
After leaving the movie, they strolled slowly back to College Hill, chatting as if they had known each other always.
“Will you come in?” asked Patricia, as they reached Arnold Hall.
“Like to, but you see I’m in training and not supposed to be out too late; besides I have some boning to do yet.”
“I don’t see when you ever get any studying done; you’re in classes all morning as well as part of the afternoon, and on the athletic field until dark.”
“It doesn’t leave me much time, and I’ve just got to make good here.”
“You mean in order to keep on the team?”
“Of course; but there’s another reason too. You see, my dad isn’t well enough off to send me to Granard himself; and, well, when you’re indebted to somebody else for a big chance, why, you’ve just got to make good.”
“I know just how that is; for I’m in the same position myself,” replied Patricia impulsively.
“You are?” questioned Jack. “Then you would understand.”
“Good evening,” said a smooth, low voice behind them, and they turned to face Norman Young.
“How are you?” replied Jack briefly, while Patricia murmured a response to the newcomer’s greeting.
“Clarice in?” queried Norman as he turned and went up the walk toward the house.
“I don’t know,” replied Patricia.
“I don’t like that fellow,” observed Jack, as the door closed upon Young.
“You don’t? Why?”
“Queer acting guy. Never caught him in anything; in fact I don’t know him very well, but I don’t trust him. Comes out and sits on the side lines to watch practice quite often, and he gives me the jitters. You know him well?”
“No, I don’t. I was introduced to him at Mrs. Brock’s house. He’s her secretary.”
“Who’s Mrs. Brock?”
Briefly Patricia told him of their contact with the eccentric inhabitant of Big House.
“She must be crazy!” declared Jack, as she finished her story. “You’d better not have anything to do with her. Say, what does she look like?” as a sudden idea occurred to him.
Patricia described her as well as she could.
“The very same!” ejaculated the boy, when Patricia paused.
“The same—what do you mean?” inquired the girl, looking at him with a puzzled expression.
“I was walking along Craig Street, right back of the campus, you know, one day about two weeks ago, when I noticed a little woman ahead of me drop a small bag. Apparently, she didn’t notice her loss; for she kept right on. I picked up the pocketbook, hurried on, and gave it to her. She looked at me sharply with the most piercing brown eyes I have ever seen—”
“That’s she!” interrupted Patricia. “Those eyes fasten themselves on you just like tiny crabs.”
“I presented the bag and told her where I found it. She said curtly: ‘So you’re really honest. I didn’t think anybody was, any more.’ It made me mad, so I merely said: ‘That is one of the things upon which I pride myself,’ bowed and hurried on. I wouldn’t swear to it, but I thought I heard her laugh. Must be cuckoo.”
“She’s certainly queer, to say the least,” agreed Patricia. “I think I’d better go in, now. Thanks for the movie; I enjoyed it.”
“Wait a minute,” urged the boy, laying a hand on her arm. “You’re going to see the Greystone game; aren’t you?”
“Yes; Frances and I are going to drive down together.”
“I’ll get your tickets, then. I’d like you to be where you can get a good view, since you’ve never been to a real big game before.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Patricia gratefully, as she started up the steps. “Good night.”
“Bring them to you in Shakespeare class Friday,” called Jack, just as Norman and Clarice came out onto the porch.
Shortly after the street was ag
ain deserted, a masculine figure slipped out of a thick clump of shrubbery near the dormitory, and, keeping well in the heavy shadows which edged Arnold Hall on one side, slunk off into the darkness.
CHAPTER VIII
JACK OR TUT?
“Will somebody stop that bell!” called Patricia frantically one afternoon a week later.
She and Anne were in their room, trying to cram for a test in French.
“No!” shouted Clarice and Hazel simultaneously. “We want to wear out the battery before tonight; and the coast is clear now.”
Patricia gave her door a shove which made it close with a bang, and stuffed her fingers into her ears, while Anne did likewise. Presently the door flew open again to admit Mary.
“What’s the idea?” she exclaimed, viewing the two girls with alarm.
“That awful bell!” replied Anne briefly, withdrawing her fingers from ears. “What do you suppose Clarice and Hazel are up to?”
“I’m not sure, but I think they’re planning to step out tonight.”
“Rose Troy?” queried Anne.
“I suppose so,” said Mary anxiously.
Rose Troy was not a student at Granard, but at one of the college affairs to which outsiders were admitted, she had met Hazel and Clarice, taken a fancy to them, and subsequently invited them to her home several times. She entertained lavishly, and some of the girls were frankly envious of the favored two; others strongly disapproved of the growing intimacy.
“But what’s the bell got to do with it?” inquired Patricia.
“You poor innocent!” retorted Mary. “If the bell won’t ring when the back door is opened—and they find some way to have said back door opened for them—Doll can never tell what time the girls come home.”
“I wish Hazel hadn’t gotten so intimate with Clarice all of a sudden,” mused Anne. “I wonder how it happened.”
“Birds of a feather,” began Mary.
“Don’t say that. Hazel is just like Clarice!” protested Anne vehemently.
“Wait till I finish,” countered Mary calmly. “I was going to say that they both love a good time, and both let their studying go until the eleventh hour; furthermore, Hazel is terribly restless this year. I can’t make out just what is the matter with her, and Clarice is a kind of outlet.”
“Rose Troy’s attentions are very bad for both of them, I think; and perhaps partly explains their intimacy,” said Anne.
“How?” inquired Mary bluntly.
“Well, they have a common interest in which the rest of us have no part, and Rose’s parties are somewhat stimulating, I imagine; more sophisticated than ours. Rose has lots of boy friends, you know.”
“Ought we to do anything, about tonight, I wonder,” mused Anne.
“No!” replied Mary promptly. “What right have we to object if those two silly kids want to run the risk of getting into trouble?”
Suddenly the bell stopped ringing, and quiet settled down upon the house, just as Mrs. Vincent entered the front door, with her shadow, Ivan Zahn.
“But,” persisted Patricia, still puzzled, “how will they manage to get in without Dolly’s knowledge?”
“Oh, Clarice, on some pretext or other—she’ll know how—will ask for permission for both of them to stay out an hour later than usual. Doll will give it, and go to bed at the regular time. Then, with the back door key, which I suppose they will secure during the early evening, they will be able to get in and go to bed without anyone being the wiser.”
“Clarice certainly has some stand-in with Dolly,” observed Anne.
“She works hard enough for it,” retorted Mary.
“What do you mean?” inquired Patricia.
“Oh, Clarice is always sending Doll flowers, or candy, and naturally it makes an ‘imprint’; as of course it’s intended to.”
About two o’clock next morning, Patricia was suddenly wakened by a flash of light. Wide awake in an instant, she waited tensely for the peal of thunder which she expected would accompany it—forgetting that the season for such storms was over. Electric storms were Patricia’s chief phobia; but no sound disturbed the stillness. Then the flash was repeated; again she waited, but again perfect quiet reigned. Just as she decided that one of the street lights must be blinking, a third time the light played on the wall, this time more slowly. With a fast-beating heart, she sat up, reached for her bathrobe, and stole softly to the window. On the path below, in the faint light from the street lamp, she could distinguish Clarice and Hazel. Evidently they could not get in, and had used a flash light to attract her attention. How to let them know that she saw them, without making any noise, was a problem which she solved by passing a handkerchief back and forth near the screen, hoping that its whiteness would be visible against the dark background of the room. Frantic gestures toward the back door answered her efforts. They must have forgotten the key. Creeping noiselessly toward her door, Patricia succeeded in opening it quietly and stealing down the hall without arousing anyone. Fortunately, the door into the narrow passage leading to the back entrance was open, and Patricia drew it carefully to behind her, in order to keep any sounds from the front of the house. With her heart in her throat, she turned the key, bit by bit, until the lock was released. With the same care, she opened the door wide enough to admit the two girls who were pressed close to its frame. As she was about to close it again, she noticed a bright light in Big House—in the room occupied by Norman Young. There was a slight jar as the door settled into place again, and the three girls stood silent, shaking with nervous chills, until they felt quite sure that no one had been wakened. Then, without a word, they all crept to their rooms.
“Come on up to the Coffee Shoppe with me for lunch, Pat,” begged Hazel the following noon, as they left the house with the rest of the crowd for Horton Hall. “I want to talk with you.”
In one of the cozy stalls at the back of the restaurant, after their order was filled, Hazel began bluntly:
“You’re a good sport, Pat. It was darned white of you to let us in last night, and never say a word about it.”
“Was the party worth the trouble?” asked Patricia, playing with the salt cellar nervously, and not knowing exactly what to say.
“To be frank, it was not. I never had such a fright in my life. Rose’s party was all right. We had fun, out, after the eats, one of the boys proposed driving out to Kleg’s—”
“The road house?” exclaimed Patricia.
Hazel nodded.
“Everybody seemed keen to go, so I wasn’t going to be a spoilsport. When we got there, we found a big crowd, and had trouble getting tables together. Luckily Clarice and I, and a couple of fellows you don’t know, got places in a back corner near a side door, like this.”
Hazel placed a piece of roll and a match on the table to show the exact relative location.
“We hadn’t been there half an hour when there was a raid—”
“Hazel!” gasped Patricia, with horror in her eyes and voice.
“While the first excitement was going on in the front room the two fellows who were with us hustled us quietly out of the side door, into Pete’s car, and brought us home. And were we lucky!”
“You don’t know how lucky,” said Patricia gravely. “Did you see this morning’s paper?”
“No, don’t tell me it was reported!”
“It certainly was—”
“Were our names in?” demanded Hazel breathlessly.
“Not yours or Clarice’s, but several of the men’s, as well as Rose’s and her sister’s. Only for a kind Providence, you and Clarice might have been included,” said Patricia severely, gazing sternly at the white-faced girl opposite her.
“I’m through!” declared Hazel finally. “This is the last time I’ll break the college rules; and—”
“And what about Rose?” added Patricia. “She’s not good for you, Hazel. You haven’t the time or money to go with anyone like that; and her ideals and standards are different from ours.”
H
azel looked at her plate and was silent so long, that Patricia began to feel as if she had been too frank.
“You’re right, I guess,” she said finally. “I’ll give her up, even though I suppose she’ll think I am an awful quitter.”
“Good for you!” commended Patricia heartily, beginning again on her lunch.
“Do you suppose, Pat,” asked Hazel, after a short pause, “that the college authorities will hear that Clarice and I were mixed up in the affair?”
“I don’t imagine so; the others were all outsiders, weren’t they?”
“Yes, but, Pats; at Kleg’s I saw Norman Young.”
“Did he see you?” inquired Patricia sharply, recalling Jack’s impression of the blond youth.
“I don’t think so; but you never can tell. He was at a table half way down the room; and Pat, who do you suppose was with him?”
“Couldn’t guess.”
“Rhoda!”
“Our Rhoda?” repeated Patricia, unbelievingly.
Hazel nodded.
“Don’t let’s say anything about it to anybody,” proposed Patricia after a minute’s thought. “It’s awfully queer, but since we can’t understand it, there’s no object in creating talk and making things unpleasant for Rhoda.”
“No, of course not. I like Rhoda.”
“We all do, and I guess she needs her job. She said something one day about some one being dependent on her.”
“Do you suppose Norman goes with her?” continued Hazel, scraping up the last of her chocolate pudding.
“I haven’t any idea. He’s been out with Clarice quite often of late. I hope she doesn’t hear about Rhoda.”
“I don’t think she saw them last night, and I didn’t mention it. But Clarice wouldn’t care, as long as she had somebody to step out with. It’s a case of some boy with her, not any particular one,” replied Hazel, getting up and dropping her purse just outside the stall.
At the same moment a youth, leaving the next stall, picked up the purse and handed it to her.
“Thank you,” murmured Hazel, glancing up at the man.
To her amazement and distress, she looked full into the pale grey eyes of Norman Young.
The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 61