CHAPTER XXI
A Bold Stroke
With great difficulty Arden concentrated on her French literature. Daudet’s “My Old Mill,” seemed very silly and unnecessary. Who cared about a sleepy French town, drowsing under a provincial sun? A real present-day mystery story would have been much more interesting and to the point.
Twice Mademoiselle cautioned Arden to pay more attention and finally called upon her to translate aloud. Arden arose and stumbled through two paragraphs which she had known perfectly the night before.
“That will do, Mees Blake,” drawled the gentle Frenchwoman. “Eet is obvious you have not prepared ze assignment. You will please geeve me a written translation, tomorrow morning, of today’s work.”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” gulped Arden and sat down.
The events of the last few days were too much for even the conscientious Arden. She simply could not put her mind on the lesson but sat looking as though all that mattered in her life was the charming essay the girls were studying. In reality, however, Arden’s mind was far away from the little mill town.
While her classmates went on with their somewhat halting translations, Arden decided on a bold stroke. In her free period, directly after mathematics, she would go alone over to town and hurry to the police station. There she would inquire as to the latest developments of the Pangborn case. If there was nothing to be learned no one would be the wiser for her daring escapade. For escapade it was, viewed in the fact that she was campused: forbidden to leave the precincts of Cedar Ridge.
Suddenly Arden felt something of a thrill go through her.
“I’ll do it!” she exclaimed impulsively and half aloud. Then she looked very foolish as her classmates stared wonderingly at her.
“Mees Blake, you are behaving very strangely today,” said the French teacher. “Please compose yourself.”
Arden shook her head as if in compliance and smiled weakly.
“I wonder what that gardener, Anson, was talking about?” she mused. “I’m sure he knows what strange mystery is in the orchard, anyway.” Mentally she reviewed the startling happenings since she and her chums had come to Cedar Ridge. It was all so puzzling. On wings of thought Arden flew over to the little stone building in town—Police Headquarters. Boldly entering, she announced to the officer in charge her solution of the baffling case of the missing heir and claimed the reward and then, in triumph, presented it to the dean for the repair of the swimming pool so Sim would remain in college.
“All a daydream, though,” murmured Arden.
As the bell rang, marking the end of the French period, Arden recovered herself with a start. Quickly gathering up her books and papers, she hurried to her class in mathematics.
This was worse than the preceding session. Now she was absolutely unable to concentrate in the least. Her poor brain whirled with visions of geometric figures punctuated with policemen in the disguise of gardeners. She flunked miserably and heard, with a sigh of relief, the ringing of the bell for which she had waited so impatiently.
When the mathematics class was dismissed, Arden left hurriedly, for once getting away without Sim or Terry. She took a short cut across the hockey field and crawled through a hole in the hedge after a hasty and fearsome glance backward to observe if anyone might be observing her.
“Not yet, anyhow,” she sighed with relief.
This route brought her much nearer her destination.
Arden hastened along the peaceful main street of the suburban town still clutching her books. In front of a two-story building of mellowed red bricks, partly overgrown with dull green and bronzed ivy, she stopped. Two bright green lamps on each side of the doorway were in readiness to leap into emerald illumination of the sign POLICE HEADQUARTERS which caught and held her attention.
“Dare I go in?” she mused.
She dared. Gathering together all her courage, she opened the heavy door, its knob of bright brass, and entered. Inside a rather large bare room all was serene. The dark wooden floor was scrubbed immaculately clean. Behind a heavy desk of light oak, around which high lights played on a glaring brass rail of heavy proportions, a man was reading a paper. Arden could see him around one end of the desk, his two thick-soled shoes elevated and his hands holding the paper.
“Ah—a-hem!” she coughed when, after several seconds, he did not seem aware of her presence.
With a rustle of surprise the paper was lowered, displaying a red-faced middle-aged man who looked considerably startled. When he noticed Arden he lowered his feet from the desk and tried to look business-like.
“I didn’t hear you come in, young lady,” he began. “What can I do for you?”
“Good-morning,” Arden replied. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” To gain time to think, she remarked about the beauty of the morning.
“Very nice day,” agreed the chief, for it was the head of the small country department whom Arden had intruded upon: a fact she observed when he donned his cap, officially, and buttoned his gilt braid-encrusted coat, which gaped wide open. He arose and stood at attention behind the desk, smiling as he asked:
“Is there something I can do for you?”
“Well—yes. That is—you see—” Arden was quite flustered. But gaining control of herself she began again:
“I am at school—Cedar Ridge. The college, you know.”
The chief nodded helpfully, and a little look of wonder came over his face. It was seldom he came in contact with the college girls.
“I saw a circular in the post office, across from the college,” went on Arden. “It was about a man named Harry Pangborn, who is missing and—”
“Oh, yes,” interrupted the chief, very interested now. “The Pangborn poster—the place is full of them. Missing person posters. We put them up in public places and sometimes forget to take them down.”
Arden felt something of a chill.
“Oh!” she gasped. “Are they so old, then?”
“Some are. What did you want to know?”
“That one about Harry Pangborn.” Couldn’t the chief have heard the name at first?
“Yes,” he answered, without much encouragement.
“It says a thousand dollars reward,” Arden reminded him.
“Just a moment.” He smiled at her from behind his heavy desk, a safe breastwork, and went to a filing cabinet. Running his fingers along the tops of a row of cards he brought out one that had a poster fastened to it. “Is this the one?” he asked, holding it out to Arden.
“That’s it!” she answered. “I’m sure I’ve seen that man’s face somewhere around here—in town, perhaps. Don’t you know anything about him?”
“Hum! No, not much. That’s rather an old and dead case. We haven’t much to go on about him. I don’t think you’ve seen him. If he was around here any place, you can be sure we’d have apprehended him and claimed the reward ourselves.”
“Oh,” murmured Arden, rather dismayed. “Then you don’t think there’s a chance that I might have seen him?”
“There’s a bare chance, of course. But you want to make pretty sure before you turn a man in as a person missing and for whom a reward is offered. False arrest or detention is rather a serious charge, you know.”
“Yes, I know; that is, I suppose it is.”
Dispirited, Arden looked down at her dusty oxfords. Another of her cherished plans had fallen through. She took a long breath and, looking at the chief again, remarked:
“Well, thank you—very much. I must get back to class now.” She turned to leave.
“Just a moment!” called the chief rather sharply. “Why are you so interested in this man?”
“Oh, of course.” Arden smiled disarmingly. “Only just so I might claim the reward if I found him and have our college pool repaired. The swimming pool, you know. It’s broken.”
“Yes?” encouraged the chief.
“Yes. It seemed like a good way to get the money. A friend of mine is awfully disappointed that she can’t swim. I m
ean she can swim, but with the pool broken she can’t, and so I was trying to help and—and—”
Arden was at the end of her resources. She turned and fled—beat a most undignified retreat as she told herself later. But the chief was not so easily disposed of.
“Just a moment!” he called rather sharply, and came out from behind the desk.
“Oh!” gasped Arden to herself. “Is he going to arrest me—detain me for questioning just because I have asked about the poster? If he does—what a terrible disgrace on top of what has already happened to me!”
But the chief was kindly sympathetic and soon had drawn from Arden all the story. She told him everything, about Sim’s failure, her late return, about being campused and having to hide in the packing case. At this last the chief could not restrain a smile.
“So that’s why I wanted to find this man and claim the reward,” finished Arden. “You see?”
“Oh, yes, I see,” admitted the chief, going back behind his massive desk. “And I’m sorry. I can’t help you any. We don’t know where this missing young fellow is any more than you do. But don’t forget I’ll always be here if you need me, and I’ll help you all I can.”
Arden murmured her thanks, promised to remember, and, bidding him good-bye, left the building. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Standing for a composing moment on the sidewalk in front of police headquarters, Arden looked up and down the quiet street.
“Oh, my heavens!” she suddenly exclaimed. “Here comes Toots Everett!”
And indeed it was. Toots, with her hair freshly finger-waved, was walking briskly in Arden’s direction.
Without waiting to greet her, Arden cut across the street and hurried back to the college.
CHAPTER XXII
Arden Admits It
The clatter of dishes and the clink of glasses vied with the chatter of eager young voices as the girls began their evening meal at Cedar Ridge. The dining room was brightly lighted, and each table, seating twelve students, was fully occupied.
Arden and her friends began passing the food among themselves.
“Gold fish again!” announced Jane Randall as the waitress put a large dish of creamed salmon in the center of the table.
“And boiled potatoes and beans,” Terry added before that number of the bill of fare was in evidence.
“What do you guess for dessert?” Jane asked Terry. “Library paste or pie?”
Terry considered a moment, during which time Sim, on her left, held a heavy white plate beneath her nose.
“Library paste—always on Tuesday,” Sim finished, giving the college slang name to cornstarch pudding of a pale yellow hue. “I could do nicely with some extra food tonight.”
“Good idea, Sim,” remarked Mary Todd. “What do you say we raid the kitchen later?”
“Fine!” agreed Sim. “We’ll get Arden, Terry, Jane, Ethel, you, and me. That makes a good-sized party.”
“You come for us, Mary,” Terry suggested. “Knock on our door when you’re ready to go, and we’ll have a feast.”
“All right. It’s settled.”
It was quite possible in that noisy room to be talking to one girl at the head of the table while the girl at the other end knew nothing of the conversation. So it was very surprising and equally diverting when Elizabeth Kilmore, sitting some distance away from Terry and her chums, announced forcefully:
“Gather round! I have some choice gossip!”
“Let’s have it!” begged Sim. “Brighten up our lives a little.”
“I got it from an upper-class girl who got it from somebody else who had it from some other individual along the grapevine route,” said Elizabeth, “that a freshman has been arrested.”
“No!” gasped two or three girls in a chorus.
“Never!” murmured others.
“Well, at any rate, she was seen coming out of police headquarters here in town this morning. What do you make of that?” asked the triumphant Elizabeth.
The girls looked at one another smilingly. Such exciting rumors did not often come their way. It was fun to speculate on the fate of such a student caught in the toils of the police. Ah!
Arden, as the echoes of this choice gossip went around the table, maintained a discreet silence. She had not yet told her roommates of her trip to town that morning, but she could readily understand, now, that when they were back in 513 she would have some explaining to do. But, for the time being, she decided to try to change the subject. So she remarked casually:
“It was probably nothing. Lots of people in this town look like college students. See how the natives try to copy our clothes.”
“Always belittlin’, Arden,” remarked Terry. “Can’t you let us enjoy the scandal? Heaven knows things have been pretty quiet around here of late.”
“If you ask me, more likely it had something to do with a minor traffic violation,” Arden continued. “You’re all very silly. Please pass the bread, Terry!”
Terry reached for the bread plate but, at the same time, shot Arden a quick appraising look. Arden took a slice and innocently asked for further plans of the night raid.
“We’ll call for you girls in 513 about half-past ten—after lights are out,” Jane said.
The others nodded assent. The dishes continued their barrage of sound, successfully concealing the plans from those not included in them.
As Sim had foretold, at the close of the meal large bowls of “library paste” made their appearance. Arden’s particular group decided to forego it and make something else, later, take its place. Forbidden sweets were always more tasty.
When the meal was at an end, the dean, suddenly and somewhat out of the ordinary, signaled for silence by tapping a bell kept for that occasional use at her right hand at the faculty table.
Immediately a hush descended over the noisy room. Miss Anklon arose and stood teeteringly and frostily in her place, having pushed back her chair to make room.
“A story has come to my ears,” she began, “to the effect that a student of Cedar Ridge was seen at police headquarters here in town today. It seems incredible to me. However, I wish the girl who has allowed herself to cause such a horrid rumor to circulate to come to me before twenty-four hours pass and explain herself.”
She gave the bell another “ding,” and the conversational flood was at once loosed again, but with new import.
So the dean had also heard the rumor. Worse and more of it!
Terry herded Arden and Sim through groups of chattering and surprised girls, at the same time whispering:
“Arden Blake, you know something about this! Come upstairs!”
Arden nodded silently. Sim objected to Terry’s bustling about and tried to hold back. But Terry, well versed in the art of telling her friends something without being overheard by others near by, soon had Sim tractable and under control.
Safe in the sanctuary of their room, Terry started in.
“Well, Arden, what did you do this time?”
“Oh, don’t be so smart, Terry! I didn’t do anything.”
But her face flushed.
“What do you know about the college student seen coming out of police headquarters?” demanded Sim. “Come on—come clean, as the detectives say—at least, in books.”
“I know all about it!” calmly replied Arden. “I am that girl!” she announced in her best stage manner. “I’ll tell you all about it,” and she did.
“Are you going to Tiddy?” Sim wanted to know.
“I think not—little one,” drawled Arden, still calmly but with firm decision, as her friends could tell by the look in her eyes. When Arden made up her mind, it was made up. “It would be useless to explain,” she continued. “Besides, I really didn’t do anything.”
“Well, if you’re found out, it might just as well be murder—we’ll all be sent home,” Terry decided.
“You’re right, Terry,” Sim agreed. “We ought all to leave for home before we suffer the ignominy of being sent.”
“Do you think Tiddy has any real evidence?” asked Sim.
“Let’s try to guess what we shall find to eat in the raid,” said Arden demurely.
“My dear roommate,” laughed Terry, “you are, without doubt, a peer in the art of changing subjects. But I do agree with you about the raid. We must all wear tennis shoes and carry flashlights.”
“Let’s get our work done quickly, then,” proposed Sim, “and wait, with what patience we may, for Jane,” and she swept her chums a bow in her latest amateur dramatic rôle.
With unusual willingness, the three girls began to open their books, look for pencils and paper, and soon the room was in silence as they labored at their lessons for next day.
CHAPTER XXIII
The Injured Chaplain
The three freshmen in 513 worked diligently and with a minimum of conversation. Now and then Arden inquired about the spelling of a word, or Terry put a question as to the correct ending of a Latin verb, but on the whole their time was well occupied.
At about nine o’clock the lights all over the dormitory building were dimmed for a moment, a warning that in five minutes more they would be extinguished in every room. Arden announced happily that she had finished her assignments.
“I have, too!” cried Terry. But Sim sighed deeply as she said:
“I just made it. But I think my math is all wrong.”
“Never mind,” soothed Arden. “Perhaps you’re a genius. Lots of them can’t do math for a cent.”
The lights went out suddenly, and the girls threw themselves on their beds to await Jane Randall’s knock, summoning them to the pantry raid.
Arden and her chums must have fallen asleep, for they were startled when, some time later, Jane, afraid of knocking too loudly on their door pushed it open and tiptoed in. She groped her way to Terry’s bed, shook her and hissed:
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