CHAPTER XI
WHILE THE ORCHESTRA PLAYED
Saturday night came, and when Dale Meredith called, three visions ofloveliness awaited him. Pauline wore peach-colored satin that trailednearly to the floor. Irene’s new yellow dress with matching slippers ofgold was truly appropriate for this occasion, and Judy looked like asea nymph in a pale shade of green that made people wonder about thecolor of her eyes.
“It’s going to be a perfect evening,” Irene sighed ecstatically. “Eventhe moon came out to shine on the roof garden.”
It was all that Dale had described—palms, cut flowers, waiters inlong-tailed coats who moved noiselessly between the tables, and acircle of floor for dancing. Colored lights played on the dancerstinting them with rainbows. To her surprise, Dale asked Judy for thefirst dance.
“Oh, no,” she replied quickly. “Really, I’d rather you danced with theother girls. You see, I can watch the lights while I’m sitting here.When I’m home again I won’t be able to watch lights on a roof garden.And I can always dance.”
Afterwards Judy felt almost sorry she had refused. The orchestra wasplaying beautifully, magic to any young girl’s feet. Now and then asoloist would sing the number as it was played. Judy listened, at firstwatching Dale and Irene, then Dale and Pauline as they moved in and outamong the crowd of dancers. Finally, not watching anybody, she just satthinking.
It had been a queer day. Strangely enough, Emily Grimshaw had not oncementioned the missing poetry. She seemed to take it for granted thatneither Dale nor Judy were responsible. But she had gone about her workwith a harassed expression and a droop to her shoulders that Judy hadnever noticed before. An opportunity came, and she had asked about JoyHoliday. She had found out something, too, and now as she sat alone atthe table she puzzled as how best to tell Dale Meredith. At first shehad planned to tell Irene but, on second thought, she had decided thatit might be better for Irene not to know some of the things EmilyGrimshaw had said.
“You must dance this one,” Dale urged her as the music began again.“Pauline is dancing with a friend of mine who just came in——”
“And I haven’t had a chance to finish this ginger ale,” Irene added.
Dale was curious to hear what she had found out. Judy could tell thatas soon as he spoke to her alone.
“Her Majesty’s grouch gone?” he asked.
“A sort of depression has taken its place,” Judy explained as she swunginto step. The floor was like glass and shone with their reflections.She could see Irene sitting next to the circle of light, sipping herginger ale. There was another girl reflected on the floor beside her.Judy pointed it out to Dale—that golden reflection on the polishedfloor.
Just then the orchestra struck up a new tune. Soon the soloist joinedin, singing the latest popular song:
My own golden girl, there is one, only one, Who has eyes like the stars and hair like the sun. In your new yellow gown you’re a dream of delight. You have danced in my heart on bright slippers tonight ...
“It sounds as if he meant Irene,” Dale whispered. “She’s a ‘goldengirl’ tonight.” He glanced again at her reflection as the orchestraplayed on:
I’ll enthrone you my queen in a circular tower Where frost may not blight my most delicate flower. And from this hour on, you belong all to me Though you drown in my love as a bird in the sea.
Irene looked up just as the music stopped. She smiled, and Dale’s eyessmiled back at her.
“Her hair is like the sun,” he said dreamily and half to himself.
“Yes,” Judy replied. “And her dress and slippers are golden. You’dalmost think the song was written for her. It must have been writtenfor someone very much like her, and whoever wrote it loved that someonedearly.”
“What was the poet’s name?” Dale asked.
Judy thought a minute. “It was Sarah Glynn—or Glenn. I don’t quiteremember. I used to think the song was written by a man until MissGrimshaw showed me the original manuscript. It’s one of the missingpoems, you know.”
“And you didn’t find out a thing about it?”
“Yes, one thing.”
Dale’s face glowed with interest. “You did? What?”
“That Emily Grimshaw believes Irene’s name is Joy Holiday. I can’tconvince her otherwise. And she is sure Joy Holiday took the poems. Youknow it’s ridiculous. Irene isn’t anybody but herself and wouldn’t haveany use in the world for the faded old poetry. Besides, she said shedidn’t take them, and I believe her.”
“Keep on believing her,” Dale advised as he ushered Judy back to thetable. “My own opinion is that your beloved employer has worked a screwloose somewhere in her upper story.”
Judy giggled, partly from excitement. But the thought would be lessentertaining when she was catering to the old lady’s whims at theoffice.
On the way home they discussed the mystery. When questioned, Ireneseemed glad to contribute scraps of the missing poetry for the othersto puzzle over. It was remarkable how much of it she remembered, andDale was charmed with the soft tones of her voice as she recited.
When the word “Joy” came up for the fifth time Judy stopped her toexclaim, “That must mean Joy Holiday, the girl Emily Grimshaw thinkstook the poetry.”
“Then she must have been ‘Golden Girl,’” Irene said unexpectedly.
Dale turned to her in surprise. “That’s right! We never thought ofthat. I’m glad to see you so interested in it; I thought at first youweren’t keen on detecting.”
“I’m not,” Irene admitted. “It’s the poetry I like.”
Judy shuddered. “Those creepy poems! I’d rather read a good murdermystery any day. At least there’s always a solution. What do yousuppose this poet means when she says ‘Better to crumble in a tower offlame than sit with ghosts...’? Could the ghosts be memories, too?”
“They could be,” Irene said thoughtfully. “It’s queer, but _GoldenGirl_ mentions a tower.”
“So it does!” Dale exclaimed, growing excited. “It looks as thoughthere might be some connection. Do you know, girls, we may find thesolution to this whole mystery in that poetry!”
“I have some of the typewritten copies. I’ll hunt through them forclues,” Judy promised.
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