Harry Townsend was not aware of the chain of suspicion that was
tightening around him; but he was too clever not to use every
precaution. Once or twice he had come across the small, dark detective
who was making investigations in Mrs. Erwin's house--the large, blond
man, named Burton, had kept in the background--but knowing that the
servants had been under suspicion, he supposed that the search was being
made on their account. He knew of no act of his own that could possibly
implicate him in the robberies. He came and went among Mrs. Erwin's
guests, and was on a friendly footing with their most fashionable
friends at Newport. He had seen no one else during his visit, as the
whole world was privileged to know.
The only act that the detective, Rowley, was able to report to his
superior was that Mr. Townsend mailed his own letters. In Mrs. Erwin's
household it was the custom of her guests to place all their mail in a
bag, which the butler sent to the postoffice at regular hours; but Mr.
Townsend preferred to mail his own letters. This act occasioned no
comment. Other guests, writing important business letters, had done the
same thing.
"And Townsend has mailed only letters," continued Rowley in making his
report. "Not a single package, even of the smallest size, has gone out
through the postoffice. The jewels are still in Newport."
Mr. Townsend had already begun to discuss with his hostess the
possibility of his soon having to leave her charming home. "I have
presumed on your hospitality too long," he said to Mrs. Erwin, several
times. "When the famous Casino ball is over I must be getting back to
New York."
To Gladys he explained: "My dear Gladys, my holiday time must end some
day. I shall be able to see you often when you go back to Kingsbridge. I
am going into a broker's office as soon as I get back to New York. I
have been loafing around in Europe for the last two years, but I have
decided that, even if a fellow has money enough to make him fairly
comfortable, work is the thing for the true American!"
To-day Harry Townsend walked to the post-office alone. He carried three
letters. One of them was to a steamship company engaging passage to
Naples for "John Brown." The steamer was due to sail the following
Wednesday. The other two letters had New York addresses. When they
arrived at their first destination, they were to be remailed to other
addresses. A tall, blond man, who happened to be lounging in the
postoffice at the time Mr. Townsend entered it, observed that the young
gentleman was anxious to know when the letters would be delivered in the
city.
The letters posted, Townsend walked over to the Casino courts, where Bab
and Ruth were playing tennis. He had promised Gladys to join her there.
He still had some investigations he desired to make. But he walked
slowly. Clever fingers must be directed by a clever brain, whether their
work be good or evil. No matter how well he knew he could depend on his
wonderful fingers to do their share of the work, the "boy Raffles"
always thought out carefully the plan of his theft before he tried to
execute it.
On Monday night, at the Casino tournament ball, he planned to make his
final theft. This accomplished, he could leave Newport feeling he had
reaped a rich harvest, even in the summer season, when harvests are not
supposed to be gathered.
Harry Townsend, alias half a dozen other names, had seen the jewel he
most coveted for his final effort. It was a diamond tiara belonging to
one of the richest and most prominent women in Newport. His schemes were
carefully laid. He was waiting for Monday night.
At about three o'clock, on this same Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Post and
the Countess Bertouche stopped in a small automobile for Grace and
Mollie. They had no one with them except the chauffeur.
It took them some time to drive through the old town of Newport. The
ladies descended at the old Trinity church, to investigate it, and the
girls were much interested in the ancient jail. There, they were told,
was once kept a woman prisoner who complained because she had no lock on
her door.
Mollie and Grace were not ardent sightseers. It was really the thought
of the haunted house that had brought them on their pilgrimage. But Mrs.
Post and the countess insisted on poking their way down the Long Wharf,
with its rows of sailors' houses and junk shops. Both girls were
dreadfully bored, and secretly longed to be on the tennis courts with
Bab and Ruth. Yet the thought of the haunted house buoyed them up.
Mrs. Post was a collector. If you have ever traveled with one, you will
understand that it means hours and hours of looking through dirt and
trash in order to run across one treasure that a collector regards as
"an antique."
Even when Mrs. Post was through with her search she decided that it was
not yet sufficiently late for them to visit the haunted house. "I told
the caretaker not to meet us there until a quarter of seven. We shall
want only a few minutes to go through the old place; but, of course, we
must see it under conditions as romantic as possible." Mrs. Post then
ordered the chauffeur to take them for a drive before driving them to
the haunted house.
Mollie and Grace were unusually quiet, so they noticed that the Countess
Bertouche had little to say during the afternoon. She seemed tired and
nervous. When Mrs. Post asked her questions about her life abroad, after
she married, the countess replied in as few words as possible.
At exactly the appointed time the automobile delivered its passengers
before the door of the house they sought. It was an old, gray,
Revolutionary mansion, three stories high, with a sloping roof and small
windows with diamond-latticed panes. It was quite dark when the girls
entered the ghostly mansion, following Mrs. Post and the countess, who
were led by a one-eyed old caretaker carrying a smoky lamp. There was
just enough daylight shining through the windows to see one's way about,
but the corners of the vast old house were full of terrifying shadows.
"Let us not stay too long, Mrs. Post," urged the countess. "I am not
fond of ghosts, and I am tired." But Mrs. Post was the kind of
sight-seer who goes on to the end, no matter who lags behind. She led
the party up the winding steps, peering into each room as they went
along. The house was kept furnished with a few rickety pieces of old
furniture.
When they reached the second floor, the caretaker announced that the
middle bedroom was the sleeping apartment of the haunted lady. The
little party searched it curiously. There was no sign of the ghostly
inhabitant; no perfume of mignonette.
"I don't see anything unusual about this room," said the countess,
suppressing a sigh, "except that it has the most comfortable chair in
the house. I shall sit here and rest while you take the two girls over
the other part of the building."
The three left her. The woman dropped into a chair, and a worn, nervous
look crossed her face.
As Mollie ascended the attic stairs behind Grace she called out, "If you
will excuse me, Mrs. Post, I shall go down and join the countess."
An imp of mischief had entered Mollie. Wrapped up in her handkerchief,
carefully concealed in her purse bag, was a handful of mignonette, which
she had gathered from Mrs. Ewing's garden only that morning. Mollie
meant to impersonate the "spirit lady." Suddenly she had decided that
the countess was the best one upon whom she could try her joke.
Creeping down the stairs as quietly as a mouse, Mollie stole into the
back room, adjoining the one where the countess sat. Had she looked in,
she would hardly have played her naughty trick. The woman who sat there
was a very different person from the gay society lady they had been
meeting everywhere in the last few weeks. This woman looked weary and
frightened. But Mollie was thinking only of mischief.
Silently she took the mignonette out of her bag and crushed it in her
hand. There was a sudden fragrance all about her. Then she slipped her
hand slyly through the open doorway and dropped her bunch of mignonette
into the room where the countess was sitting. There was no response. The
countess had not detected the odor of the flowers and Mollie was deeply
disappointed.
Faintly, however, the countess began to be aware of the fragrance of a
subtle perfume; but she was thinking too deeply of other things to be
conscious of what it was. Besides, the growing darkness was making her
nervous.
Mollie gave up in despair. Her effort with the mignonette had plainly
proved a failure. The countess refused to be frightened by the
suggestion of the ghost.
"Countess!" said Mollie, appearing suddenly in the open doorway. She
certainly expected no result from this simple action; but the countess,
who thought she was entirely alone, was dreadfully startled. She rose,
with a short scream of surprise, and started forward. Her foot catching
in a worn old rug, she stumbled. Mollie was by her side in a second,
trying to help her to rise.
"I am so sorry to have frightened you!" the child said penitently. "Wait
a minute, you have dropped something." Mollie picked up a square chamois
skin bag. In her excitement and embarrassment she caught hold of the
wrong end of it. Out of it tumbled a purse, and--Mollie saw it as plainly
as could be, though it was nearly dark in the room--Mrs. Cartwright's
diamond butterfly!
"Child!" said the countess, angrily. "See what your nonsense has done!
This is the bag that I wear under my dress to carry my money and jewels.
It is always securely fastened. I suppose, falling as I did, I must have
broken the catch." She picked up the things quickly and thrust them into
her bag. It was so dark in the room she supposed Mollie had not seen
them. Then, holding the bag tightly in her hand, she went on downstairs,
Mollie after her, and joined Grace and Mrs. Post, who had preceded them
to the automobile.
"Well, did anyone see the ghost?" asked Mrs. Post. "You, Mollie, my
child, look as if you had seen something."
"Oh, no," denied Mollie; "but I am afraid I frightened the countess. I
threw some mignonette in the room, trying to make her think I was the
ghost, but she didn't notice it. Then, when I spoke to her to tell her
it was time to come downstairs, she was dreadfully startled."
Mrs. Post ordered the chauffeur to drive home first, as she and the
countess had a dinner engagement; the two girls being later taken to
Mrs. Ewing's.
The two women had barely left the car before Mollie put her lips near
Grace's ear and whispered: "Grace Carter, the Countess Bertouche has
stolen Mrs. Cartwright's butterfly! I saw it with my own eyes. She
dropped it out of a bag on the floor, when she fell down."
"Goose!" smiled Grace. "What are you talking about? Don't you suppose a
countess may have a jeweled butterfly of her own?"
"Not like that one," retorted Mollie, firmly. "I would know it among a
thousand. You needn't believe me, but it's as true as that my name is
Mollie Thurston. I am going to tell Ruth and Bab, as soon as I get home.
I know they will believe me."
"I do believe you, only I am so dumfounded I can't take it in," said
Grace.
"What on earth is the matter with you, Mollie?" asked Bab of her sister,
as soon as they had finished dinner. "You look awfully excited."
"Bab," whispered Mollie, "call Ruth and Grace right away. Don't let
anyone else come. Let's go down to the end of the garden. I have
something I must tell you, this minute!"
Grace had already found Ruth, and the two came hurrying along. "No,
Ralph," ordered Grace, "you can't come. This is strictly a girl's
party."
"Bab," began Mollie, "you will believe me, won't you? I do know what I
am talking about. This afternoon I saw the Countess Bertouche with Mrs.
Cartwright's diamond butterfly. She dropped it, right before my eyes,
out of the same kind of bag that Miss Sallie uses to keep her jewelry
in. What can it mean?"
"Ruth!" gasped Bab. "Bab!" uttered Ruth.
The two girls looked at each other in silence. Then Bab exclaimed: "It
took my Mollie to make the discovery, after all!"
"What are you talking about, Barbara Thurston? What discovery have I
made?" demanded Mollie.
"Ruth, do you think I had better tell the girls?" asked Bab.
Ruth nodded, and Barbara related the principal facts of the jewel
robbery. She also told the girls that she and Ruth suspected that Harry
Townsend had been the robber who frightened them at New Haven. "You
remember," Bab continued, "he was a guest at the hotel the same night we
were, and left early the next morning. If he had one of the rooms under
us, he could have climbed down the fire escape and into his own room
before anyone could discover him."
But Bab kept to herself that she and Ruth were expecting another
burglary, and that she, Bab, was to play a part in bringing the thief to
bay. Mollie and Grace would both be terribly frightened at the thought,
but it was just as well that they knew enough not to be surprised at
what was to follow.
Barbara went upstairs and wrote a note to the address in Newport that
the detectives had given to her. It told the story just recited by
Mollie.
"Ralph," requested Barbara, sauntering slowly through the hall, "will
you mail this at once with your own hands? Little Mollie has done the
deed, after all. She has found the woman who receives Harry Townsend's
stolen goods!"
Ralph took the letter with an exclamation of surprise and hurried off to
the post.