The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls

by Julia K. Duncan

  “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 th
oughtfully, 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.”