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

by Julia K. Duncan

  For some reason none of the girls was sleepy that night, and after going upstairs they all assembled in Bobby and Betty’s room to talk. Libbie could not keep her mind off the bride.

  “I wonder how I’d look in a lace veil,” she said, seizing the fluted muslin bedspread and draping it over her head. “It must be lovely to be a bride!”

  “You’ve been reading too many silly books,” scolded Bobby. “Anyway, Libbie, you’re too fat to look nice in a veil. Better get thin before you’re old enough to be married, or else you’ll have to wear a traveling suit.”

  Libbie eyed her scornfully and continued to parade up and down in her draperies.

  “Betty would look pretty in a veil,” said Louise suddenly. “Come on, girls, let’s stage a wedding. Libbie won’t sleep all night if she doesn’t have some romantic outlet. I’ll be the father.”

  She seized a pillow and stuffed it in the front of her dressing gown so that it made a very respectable corpulency.

  “I’ll be the mother!” Esther began to pin up her hair, a dignity to which she secretly aspired.

  “I’m your bridesmaid, Libbie,” announced Betty, catching up the bride’s train and beginning to hum the wedding march under her breath.

  “If you _will_ be silly idiots, I’m the minister,” said Bobby, mounting the bed and leaning over the foot rail as if it were a pulpit.

  The bride stopped short, nearly tripping up the devoted bridesmaid.

  “I don’t think you should make fun of ministers,” she said, looking disapprovingly at her cousin. “It’s almost wicked.”

  “I’d like to know how it’s any more wicked than to pretend a wedding,” retorted Bobby wrathfully. “Weddings are very solemn, sacred, serious affairs. Mother always cries when she goes to one.”

  Betty began to laugh. She laughed so hard that she had to sit down on the floor, and the more the two girls glared at each other, the harder she laughed.

  “I don’t see what’s so funny,” resented Bobby, beginning to snicker, too. “For goodness sake, don’t have hysterics, Betty. Mother will hear you and come rapping on the door in a minute.”

  “I just thought of something.” The convulsed Betty made a heroic effort to control her laughter and failed completely. “Oh, girls,” she cried, wiping her eyes, “here you are bickering about the bride and the minister, and not one of us thought of the bridegroom. We left him out!”

  Louise and Bobby rolled over on the bed and had their laugh out. Libbie collapsed on the floor, and Esther leaned against the bureau, laughing till she cried.

  “They say the bridegroom isn’t important at a wedding, but I never heard of ignoring him altogether,” gasped Bobby, and then they were off again.

  They made so much noise that Mrs. Littell tapped on the door to ask why they were not in bed, and when Bobby told her the joke, she had to sit down and laugh, too.

  “I’ll send you up some sponge cake and milk if you’ll promise to go right to sleep after that,” she told them, kissing each one good night all over again. “Libbie shall at least have the wedding cake, if she can’t have a wedding.”

  CHAPTER XV

  OFF TO INVESTIGATE

  Drip! drip! drip!

  Betty listened sleepily, and then, as she raised herself on one elbow to hear better, she knew the noise was made by the rain.

  “If that isn’t too provoking!” Bobby sat up with an indignant jerk and surveyed Betty across the little table at the head of the beds. “I thought we’d all go down to Mount Vernon today, and now it’s gone and rained and spoiled it all. Oh, dear! I don’t think I’ll get up”; and she curled down in a dejected heap under the white spread.

  “Well, I’m going to get up,” announced Betty decidedly, springing out of bed with her accustomed energy. “Rainy days are just as much fun as sunny ones, and there’s something I have to do today, weather or no weather.”

  “She’s a dear,” said Louise warmly, smiling as the sound of Betty’s carolling came to them above the sound of running water in the bathroom. “Mother says she likes her more and more every day. I wish her uncle would never write to her and she’d just go on living with us all the time.”

  “And go to school with us in the fall. That would be nice,” agreed Bobby reflectively. “But, of course, Betty’s heart would be broken if she never heard from her uncle. However, we’ll be as nice to her as we can, and then maybe she will want to stay with us anyway, even if he does send for her.”

  “What are you two plotting?” asked Betty gaily, emerging warm and rosy from her vigorous tubbing. “Do you know, I’ve just remembered that I promised to show Libbie how to make mile-a-minute lace before breakfast? I hope there is time.”

  “What on earth do you want to make lace for?” demanded the practical Bobby, as her cousin appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleepy eyes. “It’s too early to begin on Christmas presents.”

  Libbie was not at all confused in her ideas, and she had a very clear reason for wishing to add this accomplishment to her rather limited list.

  “It’s for my hope-chest,” she informed Bobby with dignity, and not even the shout of laughter which greeted this statement could ruffle her. “You may think it’s funny,” she observed serenely, “but I have six towels and three aprons made and put away all ready.”

  “My aunt!” sighed Bobby inelegantly, shaking her head. “You believe in starting young, don’t you? Why, I’m fourteen, and I’ve never given a thought to a hope-chest.”

  Here Esther, the early riser of the family, created a diversion by coming in fully dressed and announcing that Mammy Lou was willing to teach as many girls as cared to come after breakfast how to make beaten biscuit.

  “Take Libbie,” giggled Bobby, whose sense of humor was easily tickled. “She’s collecting stuff for her hope chest and I should think biscuit recipes would be just the thing. Do you want to learn to cook, Betty? Esther has a kitchen hobby and rides it almost to death.”

  “I do not!” retorted Esther indignantly. “Do I, Louise? Mother loved to cook when she was a girl, and she says she likes to see me fussing in the kitchen.”

  Betty was showing Libbie how to hold her crochet hook, and now she looked up from her pupil.

  “Why, I’d love to learn to make those wonderful biscuits Mammy Lou makes,” she said slowly, “but I really have to go into Washington today. That is, if it will not upset any one’s plans? I can easily walk to the trolley line, and I won’t be gone longer than a couple of hours.”

  A trolley line ran about half a mile from the house, and to Betty who had frequently walked ten miles a day while at Bramble Farm, this distance seemed negligible.

  “Let me go with you, Betty?” coaxed Bobby. “Carter will take us in the machine. I won’t bother you, and if you have personal business to attend to, I’ll wait for you in the library or some place. Cooking and making lace drives me wild, and if you leave me at home as likely as not I’ll pick a quarrel with some one before the morning is over.”

  “Worse than that, she’ll insist on singing while I’m trying to practice,” said Louise. “I’m three or four days behind with my violin, and a rainy morning is a grand time to catch up. Do take her with you, Betty.”

  “Why, goodness, she will be taking me,” insisted Betty. “Of course you know I’ll love to have you, Bobby. As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you to go with me because it is a strange place and your father said not to go alone. Only I didn’t want to disturb any plans you might have made for today. I’ll tell you about it on the way,” she added noting the look of growing curiosity on Bobby’s face.

  After breakfast the girls scattered to their chosen occupations, and Mrs. Littell settled herself to read to her husband on the glass enclosed piazza that extended half way across the back of the house. The car was brought round for Betty and Bobby and, commissioned to do several small errands in town, they set off.

  “Now where are we going?” demanded Bobby bouncing around on the seat cushions more like a girl o
f seven than fourteen. “Do tell me, for I’m simply devoured with curiosity.”

  So Betty briefly outlined for her a little of Bob’s history and of what she knew Lockwood Hale had told the poorhouse master. She also explained how she had obtained the old bookshop man’s address from the bride they had met in the Monument the day before.

  The rain came down steadily, and the country road was already muddy, showing that it had stormed the greater part of the night. Carter was a careful driver, and the luxurious limousine had been substituted for the touring car so that the girls were protected and very comfortable. Quite suddenly Carter brought the car to a stop on a lonely stretch of road just above a sharp turn.

  “Goodness, I hope he hasn’t a puncture,” said Bobby. “I was so interested in listening to you I never heard anything. What’s wrong, Carter?” she called.

  “There’s a little dog in the road, Miss Bobby,” said Carter slowly and distinctly, as he always spoke. Bobby had once declared that she did not believe a fire would shake Carter from his drawling speech. “A puppy, I guess you’d call it. I’ll have to move it to one side before we can drive past, because it is in the middle of the road.”

  Bobby leaned out to look.

  “It must be hurt!” she cried. “Bring it in here, quick, Carter. Why, it’s just a tiny puppy, Betty,” she added; “a black and white one.”

  Carter, mingled pain and reproach in his face, brought the dog to them, holding it gingerly away from him so as not to soil his coat.

  “It’s very muddy, Miss Bobby,” he said disapprovingly. “Your mother won’t like them nice gray cushions all stained up.”

  “Well, couldn’t you lend me your handkerchief, Carter?” suggested Bobby gently. “I’ll wipe him off. There now, he’s all right. My handkerchief’s so small it wouldn’t have done one of his paws.”

  Carter, minus his handkerchief, started the car and they rounded the curve. The puppy seemed to be all right except that he was wet and shivering, and Bobby and Betty had decided that he was very young but otherwise in perfect health when the car stopped again.

  “There’s another one of ’em, Miss Bobby,” groaned Carter. “You don’t want this one, do you?”

  The girls thrust out their heads. Sure enough, another black and white puppy lay abandoned in the roadway.

  “Certainly, we’ll pick it up,” said Bobby indignantly. “Do you suppose we’re going to go past a dog and let it die in the rain? Bring it here, please, Carter.”

  The old man got down stiffly and picked up the dog. This time he handed over a second handkerchief with a ludicrous air of “take-it-and-ruin-it.”

  “That’s the last handkerchief I have with me, Miss Bobby,” he announced feelingly, watching his young mistress mopping water and mud from the rescued puppy.

  “Well, there won’t be any more puppies, Carter,” Bobby assured him cheerfully.

  But they had not gone twenty rods when they found another, and, after that, a few rods further on, a fourth.

  “Here’s where we use our own handkerchiefs,” giggled Bobby. “And what are we going to do with a car full of dogs?”

  The problem was solved, however, before they crossed the bridge into Washington. On the hill leading to the bridge they overtook a small colored boy weeping bitterly. Bobby signaled Carter to stop, and leaning out asked the child what the matter was.

  “I done lost my dawgs!” he sobbed. “We-all is moving, and I had ’em in a basket with a burlap bottom. I done tol mammy that burlap was rotten.” He held up the basket for them to see the hole in the cloth tacked across the bottom. “I was going to sell them dawgs for fifty cents apiece when they was bigger,” he finished with a fresh burst of grief.

  His joy when the girls showed him the puppies and explained how they had found them was correspondingly noisy. He had an old gingham apron with him, and into this the dogs were unceremoniously bundled and securely knotted. Betty and Bobby each gave him a shining ten-cent piece, and a blissful boy went whistling over the bridge, his world changed to sunshine in a few brief minutes.

  The car threaded a side street, turned twice, and brought up before a quaint old house with a basement shop tucked away under a bulging bay-window.

  “This is Hale’s bookshop, Miss,” said Carter respectfully to Betty,

  CHAPTER XVI

  WHAT HALE HAD TO TELL

  The door of the bookstore opened with a loose old-fashioned latch, and one fell down two steps without warning into a long, narrow room lined with books. Betty went first, and Bobby, stumbling, would have fallen if she had not caught her.

  “Gracious! I’m a little bit scared, aren’t you?” Bobby whispered. “It seems like such a spooky place.”

  It was certainly very quiet in the shop, and for a few moments Betty thought they must be alone. Then some one stirred, and, looking down the room, they saw an old man bent over a book open on a table near a dusty window. He wore big horn spectacles and was evidently extremely nearsighted, for he kept his face so near the book that his nose almost touched the pages.

  “That must be Mr. Hale,” said Betty. “I wonder if it’s all right to interrupt him?”

  “I should say the only way to make him understand you’re here, would be to go up and take that book away,” rejoined Bobby.

  “He can’t be very anxious to sell anything, or he’d pay more attention to his store,” giggled Betty.

  “I’ll wait here,” said Bobby hastily, as Betty moved toward the rear of the store. “I’d probably say the wrong thing anyway. Let me see, I’ll be reading this fat brown book. They all look alike to me, but this may be thrilling in spots.”

  Betty approached the motionless old man, whose lean brown forefinger traced the curious black characters in the book before him so slowly that it did not seem to budge at all.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said tentatively.

  No response.

  “I want to ask you—” Betty began again, a little breathlessly. “I want to ask you about a boy named Bob Henderson.”

  “Name’s Hale,” said the old man, without looking up and speaking in a cracked, hoarse voice. “Lockwood Hale, dealer in new and secondhand books. Just look around on the tables and you’ll likely come across what you want. I’ll wrap it for you when you find it. Just now I’m busy.”

  Betty looked desperately at Bobby, who was listening over the top of her book, and stifled a desire to laugh.

  “I don’t want a book,” she insisted gently. “I want to ask you a question. About Bob Henderson. You know you were interested in the records of the Oliver County almshouse, and you thought you might know something of his people.”

  The old man pushed his spectacles up on his forehead fretfully and regarded the girl impatiently from a pair of near-sighted blue eyes.

  “The books weren’t worth anything,” he told her seriously. “I spent near a day going over ’em, and there wasn’t a volume worth bringing back with me. Folks get the idea in their heads that a book’s worth money just because it is old. ‘Tain’t so—I could fill my tables and shelves with old trash and still not have any stock. Jim Turner don’t know a valuable book from a turnip.”

  Mr. Hale gave every indication of returning to the absorbing volume before him, and Betty plunged in hastily with another question.

  “You know a boy named Bob Henderson, don’t you?” she urged.

  “Yes, he was in here some time last week,” answered Hale calmly. “Was it Wednesday, or Tuesday—that load of old almanacs was delivered that same afternoon.”

  “Well, I’m a friend of his.” Betty almost stuttered in her eagerness to explain before the old man should be lost again in his book. “He worked on the farm where I spent the summer, and he told me about you and how anxious he was to see you and find out about his people. I’ve been anxious, too, to learn if he reached Washington and whether he is here now. Do you know?”

  Now that the shopkeeper’s mind was fairly detached from his printed page he seemed to be m
ore interested in his caller, and though he did not offer to get Betty a chair, he looked about him vaguely as though he might be seeking a place for her to sit.

  “I don’t mind standing. I mustn’t stay long,” she said hurriedly, afraid to let him fix his attention on outside objects. “Didn’t Bob Henderson say where he was going? Did he mention anything about leaving Washington?”

  “Well, now let me see,” considered the old man. “Bob Henderson? Oh, yes, I recollect now how he looked—a manly lad with a frank face. Yes, yes, his mother was Faith Henderson, born a Saunders. That’s what caught my eye on the almshouse record book. Years ago I traced the Saunders line for a fine young lady who was marrying here in Washington. She wanted a coat of arms, and she was entitled to one, too. But there was a break in the line, one branch ending suddenly with the birth of Faith Saunders, daughter of Robert and Grace. I never forget a name, so when I read the almshouse record and saw the name of this lad’s mother there I knew I had my chart complete. Yes, the boy was interested in what I could tell him.”

  Betty, too, was interested and glad to know that Bob had succeeded in finding the old bookseller and learning from him what he had to tell. But if Bob was still in Washington, she wanted to see him. He could doubtless tell her what to do in case she did not hear from her uncle within a few days—and Betty was growing exceedingly anxious as no answer came in reply to her telegram. And above all, she wanted to see an old friend. The Littells were kindness itself to her, but she craved a familiar face, some one to whom she could say, “Do you remember?”

  “Didn’t Bob say where he was going?” she urged again.

  “Going?” Mr. Hale repeated the question placidly. “Oh, I believe he went to Oklahoma.”

  Oklahoma! Betty had a sudden wild conviction that her thoughts had been so centered on that one locality that she was beginning to lose her mind and imagine that every one repeated the word to her.