One other person had noticed, with even greater interest than had Ruth
and Bab, that the Countess Bertouche had failed to appear at the ball.
That person was the jewel thief, Harry Townsend. He was filled with a
silent rage. How dared she fail him this night of all others?
All the fellow's plans were carefully laid. The woman with the jewels he
coveted sat in the ballroom; large and slow witted, she would not be
quick either to discover her loss or to raise an alarm. And Harry
Townsend was on friendly terms with her. Once she decided to leave the
brightly lighted halls for the darkness of the grounds outside, lifting
the tiara would be an easy matter. But Townsend never kept the jewels he
stole in his possession ten minutes after their theft. How was he to get
rid of them to-night?
It was after midnight. Many of the guests had withdrawn to the veranda;
the lawns were filled with people walking about. Now Harry Townsend
stood back of a row of lights that cast a deep shadow. He was talking to
some acquaintances. The women were elegantly gowned, and one of them
wore a beautiful diamond tiara.
Bab was standing alone in the door of the girls' dressing-room. Miss
Sallie had called her in, after supper, to smooth her hair. The other
girls had been with her, but they had returned to join the dancers. Bab
was resting and thinking. Mollie and Grace knew nothing of what she and
Ruth had on their minds. The younger girls knew that Harry Townsend and
the Countess Bertouche were suspected as thieves, but they did not know
that the detectives were on the alert, and that the arrest might come
to-night.
Barbara was wondering if she ought to tell Gladys Le Baron what she
knew. After all, Gladys was her cousin; and, as she had told Ralph, the
other day, Bab felt that there ought to be a certain loyalty among
people of the same blood, even when they were not fond of one another.
To-night Gladys Le Baron had been more conspicuous with Harry Townsend
than ever before. Not only was she seen with him constantly, but she
wore an air of conscious pride, as if to say, "See what a prize I have
won!"
Gladys had passed Bab two or three times during the evening, but had
pretended not to see her. Now she was coming in at the dressing-room
door.
"Gladys," said Bab, timidly.
Gladys turned to her haughtily. "I would rather," she said, "that you
did not speak to me. We cannot have much to say to each other. Harry
Townsend told me"--Gladys spoke so passionately and with such deep anger
in her tones that Barbara stared at her aghast--"of the accusation you
made against him. He made me promise not to speak of it, but I will
speak of it to you. I want you to know that I shall never forgive you as
long as I live, and that I shall get even with you some day. You are
jealous and envious of me because we have more money, and because Harry
Townsend likes me. I want you never to talk to me."
"O Gladys!" said Barbara. She was angry and hurt, but she was more
frightened by the real feeling her cousin showed. Did she care for Mr.
Townsend so much? Gladys was nearly eighteen, and Bab knew that ever
since she was a girl of fourteen she had been brought up to think she
was a young lady.
"Gladys," said Bab, firmly, "listen to me! Be quiet. I cannot tell you
what I wish to say in this ballroom, to-night, among all these people,
but I have something to tell you that you simply must know. Do you
understand? Come to my house in the morning, and don't fail." Barbara's
tones were so new and commanding that Gladys could only stare at her in
silent amazement.
"Yes," she said, meekly; "I will come."
Bab's eyes were burning, and her cheeks stung with the shame of the
scene between herself and Gladys. In order to be alone in the fresh air,
she slipped out of the dressing-room door which opened into a side yard.
This yard had a double hedge of althea bushes which led into the back
part of the Casino grounds. At the same instant that Bab left the
dressing-room door, a man passed her on the other side of the hedge. He
was going into the back part of the garden.
The show grounds of the Casino were in a central court. In the rear,
back of the kitchens, was a long arbor covered with heavy grapevines.
The man Bab followed slipped into this arbor.
When Barbara glanced into it a second later--she dared not move quickly,
for fear of making a noise--there was no human figure in sight. "He has
gone on down through the arbor and slipped over the fence," she thought
to herself.
She was feeling her way along, trying to keep in the center path. The
night was dark, and there were few stars overhead.
Suddenly, Bab gave a little shriek of terror and started back. Crouching
in the darkness was a man. His back was turned to Barbara, and, if the
darkness was not deceiving her, he was digging in the earth.
But Barbara's shriek roused him. "You, again!" he cried. He leaped at
her, and, before she could call for help, his hand covered her mouth,
and her head was pressed back.
"Don't make a noise," another voice said quietly. "My instructions were
not to make a scene."
Townsend felt his own arms seized and drawn down to his sides. The big,
blond man, who had interrupted his tête-à-tête with Barbara earlier in
the evening, was again by his side. A smaller, dark man stood near him.
"Well, we have got you this time with the goods on you, or pretty close
to you," said the smaller detective, striking a match and looking down
at his feet. Just near where they stood, only partially concealed by the
dirt, which had been hastily dug up, something brilliant flashed and
sparkled.
"Did you think, Mr. Townsend," laughed Detective Burton quietly, "that
you were the only clever person in Newport? These jewels you have just
stolen are hardly worth the risk you ran. You might get about
twenty-five dollars for the lot. I suppose you didn't know, since it has
become the fashion to have a jewel thief in Newport, it has also become
the fashion to wear paste jewels." The man held the tiara in his hand.
"But I will restore them to the rightful owner," he said. "Mrs. Oliver
informed me they were gone, two minutes after you slipped them out of
her hair."
Townsend had not spoken. "Don't," he now said, with a shudder, "put
those handcuffs on my hands. I will go quietly. I see the game is
up--thanks to you!" He turned to Barbara with a snarl. But Ruth and Ralph
were standing close by her side.
Barbara was much shaken and frightened by her encounter, but she tried
to summon a little of her old spirit. "You do me too much honor, Mr.
Townsend," she answered quietly.
"Where is the Countess Bertouche?" asked Townsend stolidly.
"She is ready to leave Newport with you to-night. Only we persuaded her
to get ready a little earlier; indeed, we called upon her this
afternoon, while she was at the tournament, and were waiting for her
when she got back. She had two or three little trinkets in her
possession, which she was holding for you, that we wished to return to
their rightful owners. The lady will be able to travel as soon as you
are. We think it best not to have any excitement in Newport. By the
way," went on the detective--the three young people were listening
breathlessly--"the lady is not such a cool customer as you are. She
confessed that she was not a countess, but a poor newspaper woman out of
a job, whom you enticed down here to help you. She explained that you
had been mailing letters of instruction to her by sending them on to New
York and having them remailed to her here. A poor business it has been
for both of you, I am thinking."
"Ruth," said Barbara, quickly, "it's too awful! Let us go back to Miss
Sallie!"