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 m
e. 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—”
The Second Girl Detective Megapack: 23 Classic Mystery Novels for Girls Page 71