[Illustration: “A FORTUNE HIDDEN HERE!” SHE THOUGHT.
“Two Girls and a Mystery.” Page 76]
Two Girls and a
Mystery
OR
The Old House in the Glen
BY
MAY HOLLIS BARTON
AUTHOR OF “THREE GIRL CHUMS AT LAUREL HALL,”
“NELL GRAYSON’S RANCHING DAYS,” ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED_
NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Books for Girls
By MAY HOLLIS BARTON
12mo. Cloth Illustrated
THE GIRL FROM THE COUNTRY
Or Laura Mayford’s City Experiences
THREE GIRL CHUMS AT LAUREL HALL
Or the Mystery of the School by the Lake
NELL GRAYSON’S RANCHING DAYS
Or a City Girl in the Great West
FOUR LITTLE WOMEN OF ROXBY
Or the Queer Old Lady Who Lost Her Way
PLAIN JANE AND PRETTY BETTY
Or the Girl Who Won Out
LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE
Or the Old Bachelor’s Ward
HAZEL HOOD’S STRANGE DISCOVERY
Or the Old Scientist’s Treasure Box
TWO GIRLS AND A MYSTERY
Or the Old House in the Glen
(_Other volumes in preparation._)
CUPPLES & LEON, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
TWO GIRLS AND A MYSTERY
Made in the U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ALL ABOUT MONEY 1
II. IN THE DITCH 11
III. AN EXTRAORDINARY LEGACY 18
IV. THE LUCKY RING 25
V. LIGHTS AND NOISES 33
VI. GERRY’S NEWS 41
VII. GETTING AWAY 50
VIII. ROSA LEE 58
IX. A PITIFUL APPARITION 65
X. THE OLD HOUSE IN THE GLEN 70
XI. BAB OPENS A DOOR 79
XII. PATTERING FEET 87
XIII. IN THE DARK 95
XIV. GORDON’S DISCOVERY 104
XV. THE LUCKY RING DISAPPEARS 112
XVI. GOOD MEDICINE 118
XVII. THE HINDU 126
XVIII. A HIDDEN LETTER 134
XIX. A GRIM WARNING 142
XX. THE SAPAJOU 147
XXI. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR 155
XXII. BAB LOSES HER INHERITANCE 167
XXIII. THE SECRET STAIRWAY 182
XXIV. BAB REGAINS HER INHERITANCE 192
XXV. THE FAIRY GODDAUGHTER 198
TWO GIRLS AND A MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
ALL ABOUT MONEY
Barbara Winters had been reading in the alcoved window seat, half
hidden from the rest of the cozy living room. It was really an exciting
book, borrowed from one of the girls at school. But, alas, Barbara had
fallen asleep just in the most exciting part of it.
She was roused, how much later she could not tell, by the sound of
familiar voices.
Drowsily, half asleep, she listened for a moment before realizing that
the conversation was not intended for her ears. Then it was impossible
to escape without betraying the fact that she had overheard. Still half
drugged with sleep, Bab lay still.
That was where her misery began!
Grandmother and grandfather were talking. Bab had lost her mother and
father at a time when she was too young even to remember them. Since
then, Grandmother and “Gran” had filled that tragically empty place in
the little girl’s life. How well they had filled it and how happy they
had made her, only Bab knew.
Her eyes widened with horror as she listened.
They, Gran and her grandmother, were talking of money. They had not, it
appeared, enough to make ends meet. Gran’s voice sounded dreadful when
he said that--so old and weary and terribly discouraged. Tears were in
Bab’s eyes as she fought with a desire to fling her arms about him.
The war was in some way responsible for this change in the old
gentleman’s fortunes. Bab gathered that they might even--unbelievable
calamity!--be forced to give up their pretty home.
“We must keep this from Bab at all costs,” finished Gran. Bab knew,
without seeing him, that he was polishing his glasses, a thing he
always did when upset about anything or uneasy in his mind. “So gay and
light-hearted. We must keep her so.”
“Yes.” Dear grandmother’s voice was soft and anxious. “This shadow must
not touch her. She is only a child.”
After that Bab would not, for the world, let them know that she had
overheard. She lay very, very still until they went into the dining
room. Then a swift rush across the room and upstairs to her own room
where she might ponder, undisturbed, this dreadful thing she had heard.
Was it only an hour before that she had been so gay and care-free? Then
there had not been a heavier worry on her mind than as to how she would
spend the summer vacation!
Gran’s tired voice; grandmother’s unfailing thought of her!
Something hard and painful rose and rose in Bab’s throat until she was
forced to bury her face in the pillow on her bed and stifle her sobs in
it.
“It isn’t fair--they’re so old! I must find some way to help them!”
After a long time she went to bed and fell into a restless sleep. She
dreamed all night of houses that got up and ran away, foundations and
all, when they saw her coming.
It was not at all a pleasant experience, and Bab was glad when the sun
climbed over the horizon and drove all the houses back into the mists
of unreality where they belonged.
It was a wonderful morning, clear and cool, with the dew sparkling
frostily on the grass. The flowers in the old-fashioned garden back of
the house smiled their sweetest, but Bab was in no mood to appreciate
them.
“I’d rather it would rain,” she thought whimsically. “Then I’d have a
better excuse for moping.”
Ten o’clock found her sitting listlessly in the porch swing wondering
what she could do.
One thing was certain, she _must_ make some money.
“I must, must, must!” she cried, vehemently pounding her clenched fist
into a cushion. “I must--but how?”
Her glance instinctively sought the house next door--the big white
house with the beautiful grounds and gardens.
“I’d like to tell Gordon about it,” she thought wistfully. “But I
couldn’t do that, of course. Gran wouldn’t want me to tell any one.”
Gordon Seymour was the boy who lived in the big white house. He and Bab
had been playmates since Bab was six and Gordon eight.
The Seymours were rich. Gordon’s father had not only made a substantial
success in his practice of law, but he had inherited a considerable
fortune as well.
The shining windows of the big white house seemed to look with a
patronizing air upon the modest cottage of the Winters. The Seymour
gardens had been the fair-haired little Bab’s playground; Gordon
Seymour, her playmate. She thought, with increasing wistfulness, that
it would be nice to tell Gordon her troubles.
As though just thinking of the lad had conjured him out of the air,
Gordon appeared at that moment, coming through the garden. He vaulted
lightly over the railing of the porch and grinned at Bab.
“Hello!” he said. “Why the awful gloom?”
“Gordon is still brown, but he is no longer little,” mused Bab, eying
him soberly. “He’s in his seventeenth year and tall for his age.”
Gordon Seymour had deep blue eyes that looked as though they were
laughing even when the rest of his face was sober. His hair was fair
and thick and burned to an odd, sandy color by constant exposure to the
sun. He had a set of fine even teeth that looked almost startlingly
white in contrast to the brown of his skin.
Not at all bad looking, as Bab herself sometimes admitted and as any
one else in Scarsdale would have said without an instant’s hesitation.
Yet now Bab frowned at him.
“I’m not gloomy,” she said finally, and sighed to prove it. “I--I’m
just trying to think!”
Gordon looked alarmed.
“You don’t do it often, do you?” he asked. “It’s a bad habit, Bab.
Honest, it is!”
Bab frowned again, though a dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth.
“If all you can do is insult me, you’d better run along, Gordon
Seymour,” she said, adding, with apparent innocence: “You _were_ going
somewhere, weren’t you?”
Gordon laughed and got to his feet.
“There’s one thing I don’t need--and that’s a kick!” he said. “I’m off
to the post-office now. Want to come along, Bab?”
“_I_ don’t expect any letters,” returned Bab pensively. “No, you run
on, Don. I may be along later.”
After a while she did go for a walk, but it was not to the post-office.
And because she had hoped to escape possible visitors at the house and
be alone for a little time with her own confused, unhappy thoughts, she
must, it seemed, encounter Gerry at the very beginning of her walk!
Of course, Gerry was her best girl friend, but even best friends can be
in the way sometimes.
Gerry’s full name was Geraldine Thompson. She was small and dark, with
the face of a gypsy and a gypsy’s adventurous spirit. And Gerry adored
Bab Winters.
Wending their way homeward after a long jaunt about town, Gerry
suddenly put a hand upon Bab’s arm and chuckled.
“There’s Charlie Seymour,” she cried. “He has a new car! Three
guesses--what is it?”
Charlie Seymour was Gordon’s cousin, but that accidental relationship
was the only bond between the two lads. Charlie was thin and tall
and dark-haired. His two years’ seniority gave him a certain air of
condescension toward his cousin that Gordon sometimes found amusing,
sometimes quite the opposite. Charlie was not popular with the young
people of Scarsdale, though conceit prevented his realizing that fact.
At present his hobby was racing cars, and one of this species was now
parked before the Winters’ house with Charlie himself lounging behind
the wheel.
Gerry called out impishly:
“What is it, Charlie? Or haven’t you named it yet?”
Charlie laughed.
“Not yet,” he said. “Thought I’d leave that to you girls.”
“To us?” Bab’s mirth bubbled up. “I’m sure we could never think of
anything to do it justice, Charlie.”
Charlie was offended.
“Well, if all you can do is to laugh----,” he said, and reached for the
gear shift.
Bab relented.
“Don’t be mad,” she wheedled. “It certainly is a fine car, built for
speed and--and everything. Don’t you think so, Gordon?” she added, as
the latter came hurrying up to them.
Gordon grunted something unintelligible--and probably uncomplimentary--in
response.
But Charlie suddenly recovered his good nature.
“Speed? I should say yes!” he chortled. “Jump in, girls, and I’ll give
you a sample.”
“We can die but once,” murmured Gerry, and climbed into the tonneau.
Bab followed and, after a moment of hesitation, Gordon slipped into the
seat beside his cousin.
Charlie released the clutch and the car jumped forward.
Bab and Gerry gripped the seat as the racer, cutout wide open, roared
up the street.
“Just like Charlie to make all the noise he can,” gasped Gerry.
It was certainly a fact that people turned to look curiously after the
weird contraption as it tore down the street. This appeared to please
Charlie. He even stepped on the accelerator a little harder.
Gordon fidgeted and fumed, but Charlie turned a deaf ear to his
protests.
They sped along past the outposts of the town and finally swung into
the state road. There was little traffic at this time of day, and so
Charlie Seymour thought it a fine chance to show the girls and Gordon
what his new toy could do in the way of speed.
For a while it was exhilarating. A powerful motor dwelt within the
incongruous body of the little car, and it purred along easily,
rhythmically, at fifty miles an hour, fairly eating up the road as it
sped along.
On, on, while the speedometer crept up--fifty, fifty-two, fifty-five----
“Better take it easy!” shouted Gordon, above the roar of the exhaust.
“Sharp turn ahead, ditch on both sides!”
Charlie’s narrowed eyes were fixed steadily on the road. He did not
glance at Gordon when he spoke--evidently had not, or wanted to pretend
he had not, heard him.
“Slow up, you idiot!” roared Gordon. “Do you want to murder us all?
“Slow up, I tell you!” he repeated, a moment later. “You can’t make
that turn----”
Gordon reached over to grasp the wheel but Charlie struck his hand away.
“Keep out of this!” yelled the boy at the wheel. “Who’s driving this
car, anyway?”
“I wish some one with sense were,” muttered Gordon, in reply.
The turn was now fairly upon them. Bab and Gerry, clinging together,
watched it with staring eyes.
“Slow down! Slow down!” shrieked Bab.
Charlie did slow down--but not enough.
Around the corner, bearing down upon them with terrific speed, came
another car.
“Oh!” moaned Gerry. “We’ll be killed! We’ll all be killed!”
The car was fairly upon them before they could swerve aside. Wild
shouts and screams, the shrieking of brakes----
Bab closed her eyes and waited for the crash.