CYNTHIA HAS AN IDEA
"It's no use, Cynthia. We've come to the end of our rope!" Joyce sat
back on her heels (she had been rummaging through a box of old trash in
the kitchen of the Boarded-up House) and wiped her grimy hands on the
dust-cloth. Cynthia, perched gingerly on the edge of a rickety chair,
nodded a vigorous assent.
"_I_ gave it up long ago. It seemed so hopeless! But you _would_
continue to hunt, so I've trotted around after you and said nothing."
More than three weeks had elapsed since the finding of the old newspaper
and the definite settling of the date. Filled with new hope over this
find, the girls had continued to search diligently through the neglected
old mansion, strong in the belief that they would eventually discover,
if not the missing key, at least a trail of clues that would lead to the
unraveling of the mystery. The mystery, however, refused to be
unraveled. They made no further discoveries, and to-day even Joyce
expressed herself as completely discouraged.
"There's just one thing that seems to me thoroughly foolish," Cynthia
continued. "It's your still insisting that we keep from mentioning the
Boarded-up House to outsiders. Good gracious! do you think they're all
going to suspect that we're inside here every other day, just because
you happen to speak of the place? If you do, it's your guilty conscience
troubling you!" Cynthia had never spoken quite so sharply before. Joyce
looked up, a little hurt.
"Why, Cynthia, what's the matter with you? One would think I'd been
doing something _wrong_, the way you speak!"
"Oh, I didn't mean it that way," explained Cynthia, contritely. "But you
don't know how this remembering _not_ to speak of it has got on my
nerves! I catch myself a dozen times a day just going to make some
innocent remark about the B. U. H., generally at the table, and then I
stutter and blush, and they all ask what's the matter, and I don't know
what in the world to answer! Now I have an idea. Perhaps it isn't worth
anything; mine generally aren't! But it's this: why wouldn't it be a
good scheme to get the older folks to talk about this house, without
letting them know you have any special interest in it--just start the
subject, somehow? I notice folks are liable to talk quite a long while
on most any subject that's started. And they might have something to say
that would interest us, and we _might_ get some new clues. And I don't
see any reason why they should connect us with it, specially."
Joyce considered the subject in thoughtful silence.
"I believe you're right," she said at last. "It is silly to continue
keeping so 'mum' about it, and we might get some good new points.
Anyhow, in the detective stories Sherlock Holmes didn't keep everything
so quiet, but talked to lots of outside people, and got ideas that way,
too. Why didn't I think of it before! Good old Cynthia! You had the
right notion that time. Come, let's go home now. I'm tired and sick of
this dusty grubbing, and we're not going to do any more of it!"
* * * * *
Next morning, Joyce came flying over to Cynthia's house half an hour
before it was time to start for high school. She seemed rather excited.
"Come on! Do hurry, Cyn! I've something important to tell you."
"But it isn't time to start yet," objected Cynthia, "and I'm only half
through breakfast. Tell me here!" Joyce gave her a warning glance before
turning away.
"Oh, later will do," she remarked casually, and strolled into the
sitting-room to chat with Mrs. Sprague. This was sufficient to hasten
Cynthia, who usually loved to linger cozily over her morning meal. She
had her hat and coat on and her books under her arm inside of seven
minutes, and the two girls hurried away together. They were no sooner
down the steps than Joyce began:
"Last night an idea came to me, just through some remark that Father
happened to make. It's queer we never thought of it before. There's a
real-estate agent over the other side of the town--Mr. Wade--and he
ought to know everything about all the property here. That's his
business. Let's go to his office and ask him about the old house. He
doesn't know us, and won't suspect anything. We'll go this afternoon,
right after school!"
"But there's a meeting of the Sigma Sigma Society this afternoon,"
Cynthia remonstrated, "and they're going to give that little play. I'm
crazy to see it!"
"I don't care!" cried Joyce, recklessly. "What's the meeting of an old
literary society compared to an important thing like this?"
"But we could do it just as well to-morrow."
"I can't wait till to-morrow, Cynthia Sprague!" And that settled the
matter. They started on their expedition that very afternoon.
It was a bleak, raw day, and they found Mr. Wade huddled over a red-hot
stove in his little office. He stared at them in some surprise as they
entered.
"Pardon me," began Joyce, always the spokesman, "but I'd like to ask a
question or two about the old boarded-up house on Orchard Avenue." Now
the agent was apparently not in the best of spirits that day. Business
had been very dull, he had two children at home sick with measles, and
he himself was in the first stage of a cold.
"I don't know anything about it!" he mumbled crossly. "It ain't in the
market--never was!"
"Oh, we don't want to _buy_ it or _rent_ it!" explained Joyce, politely.
"We only wanted to know if you knew the owners, where they live and what
their names are."
"No, I don't!" he reiterated. "Tried to find out once. It's some estate.
Business all transacted through lawyers in New York, and they won't
open their heads about it. Plain as told me it was none of my affairs!"
"Then perhaps you could tell us--" Joyce was persisting, when the agent
suddenly interrupted, turning on her suspiciously:
"Say, what do you want to know all this for? What's the old place to
you, anyhow?"
"Oh, nothing--nothing at all!" protested Joyce, alarmed lest their
precious secret was about to be discovered. "We only asked out of
curiosity. Good day, sir!" And the two girls fled precipitately from the
office.
"I was going to ask him the name of the lawyers," Joyce explained as
they hurried away. "But it wouldn't do any good, I guess, if we knew. We
couldn't go and question _them_, for it's plain from what the agent said
that they don't want to talk about it. My, but that man was cranky,
wasn't he!"
"I think he was sick," said Cynthia. "He looked it. Well, I suppose we
will have to give it all up! We've tried just about everything."
Suddenly she stopped and stood perfectly still, staring blankly at
nothing.
"Come on!" urged Joyce. "Whatever is the matter with you, standing here
like that?"
"I was just thinking--seems to me I remember something about the first
day we got into the B. U. H. Didn't you tell me that you knew the house
was left furnished, that somebody had told your father so?"
"Why, _of course_!" cried Joyce, excited at once. "I certainly did, and
what a stupid I am not to have thought of it since!" And she herself
stopped short and stood thinking.
"Well, what is it?" demanded Cynthia, impatiently. "Who's stopping and
staring now?"
"The trouble is," said Joyce, slowly, "that the whole thing's not very
clear in my mind. It was several years ago that I heard Father mention
it. Somebody was visiting us when we first moved here, and asked him at
the table about the old house next door. And Father said, I think, that
he didn't know anything much about it only that it was a queer old
place, and once he had met an elderly lady who happened to mention to
him that she knew the house was left furnished, just as it was, and she
didn't think the owners would ever live in it again. I don't know why I
happened to remember this. It must have made quite an impression on me,
because I was a good deal younger and didn't generally listen much to
what they were saying at table."
"Well," announced Cynthia, still standing where she had stopped, and
speaking with great positiveness, "there's only one thing to do now, and
that is, find out who the old lady is and hunt her up!"
"I suppose I can find out her name from Father--if he remembers it--but
what then? I can't go and scrape up an acquaintance with a perfectly
strange person, and she _may_ live in Timbuctoo!" objected Joyce.
"It's the only thing left, the 'last resort' as they say in stories,"
said Cynthia. "But, of course, you can do as you like. You're
engineering this business!"
"Well, I will," conceded Joyce, not very hopefully, however. "I'll lead
Father round to talking of her this evening, if I can, and see what
comes of it."
Joyce was as good as her word. That evening when she and her father were
seated cozily in the library, she studying, her father smoking and
reading his paper, while her mother was temporarily out of the room, she
began diplomatically:
[Illustration: "Do you know any real elderly people, Father?"]
"Do you know any real elderly people, Father?" He looked up with a
quizzical expression.
"Well, a few. Most people do, don't they? What do you inquire for,
Duckie? Thinking of founding an old people's home?" he asked teasingly.
"Oh, no! But who are they, Father? Do you mind telling me?"
"Mercy, Joyce! I can't think just now of all of them!" He was deep in a
preelection article in his paper, and wanted to return to it.
"But can't you think of just a _few_?" she implored.
"Well, you are the queerest child! There's Grandfather Lambert, and your
Great-aunt Lucia, and old Mr. Selby, and--oh, I can't think, Joyce!
What's all this foolishness anyway?" Joyce saw at once that she was
getting at nothing very definite along this line and determined on a
bold move.
"Well, who is the old lady that you spoke of once, who, you said, knew
something about that queer old boarded-up house next door?"
"Now, why in the world didn't you say so at once, without first making
me go through the whole list of my elderly acquaintances?" he laughed.
"That was your Great-aunt Lucia."
"_What!_" Joyce almost shouted in her astonishment.
"Why, certainly! What's queer about that? She used to live in New York
City, and knew all the best families for miles around. When we first
moved here, next to that ramshackle old place, I remember her telling me
she'd known the people who used to live there."
"Who were they?" demanded Joyce, eagerly.
"Oh, I don't remember their name! I don't know that she ever mentioned
it. She only said she knew them, and they'd gone away rather suddenly
and left their house all furnished and never came back. Now _do_ let me
finish my paper in peace, Duckie dear!"
Joyce said no more, and turned again to her studies; but her brain was
in a whirl, and she could not concentrate her thoughts on her work.
_Great-aunt Lucia!_--of all people! And here she had been wondering how
she could ever get to know some stranger well enough to put her
questions. But, for that matter, there were difficulties in the way of
questioning even Great-aunt Lucia. She was a very old lady, a confirmed
invalid, who lived in Poughkeepsie. For many years she had not left her
home, and the family seldom saw her; but her father paid a visit to the
old lady once in a while when he was in that vicinity.
Joyce then fell to planning how she could get into communication with
this Great-aunt Lucia. She couldn't _write_ her inquiries,--that
certainly would never do! If she could only visit her and get her to
talk about it! But Joyce had never visited this relative in her life,
and never particularly wanted to, and it would appear strange to seem
suddenly so anxious to see the old lady. This, however, was obviously
the only solution, and she began to wonder how it could be arranged.
Very prudently, she waited till her father had finished his pipe and
laid aside his paper. Then she commenced afresh, but casually, as though
the idea had just entered her mind:
"Great-aunt Lucia must be a very interesting old lady, Father!"
"She is, she certainly is! I was always very fond of her. My! how she
can talk, and the stories she can tell about old times!" said Mr.
Kenway, waxing enthusiastic.
"Oh, I _wish_ I could visit her!" exclaimed Joyce.
"Well, you certainly may, if you really want to. I've always wanted her
to see you since you've grown so, and I've proposed a number of times
that you go with me on the trip. But you've always refused to be
separated from your precious Cynthia, and I couldn't think of
inflicting _two_ youngsters on her." Joyce remembered now, with a good
deal of self-reproach, how many times she had begged off from
accompanying her father. It had not seemed very interesting then, and,
as he had said, she did not want to leave Cynthia, even for two or three
days. She realized now that she had not only been a little selfish about
it, but had plainly missed a golden opportunity.
"Oh, Father," she cried in real contrition, "I was mean to refuse you! I
didn't realize that you _wanted_ me to go. I thought you only did it to
give me a good time, and, somehow, it didn't seem like a good
time--then! When are you going again? And won't you take me?"
"I haven't been there in two years," he mused. "I _ought_ to go again
soon. The old lady may not live very long, she's so feeble. Let's see!
Suppose we make it the week-end before election. I'll write to her
to-morrow that we're all coming, you and Mother and I."
"Oh, but, Father!" exclaimed Joyce. "Couldn't we go sooner? That's
nearly a month off!"
"Best I can do, Duckie dear! I simply can't get away before. What's your
hurry anyway? First you won't be hired to go and see her, and then you
want to rush off and do it at once! What a funny little daughter it is!"
He kissed her laughingly, as she bade him good night.
But Joyce slept little that night. She was wild for morning to come so
that she could tell Cynthia, and wilder with impatience to think of the
long dragging month ahead before the visit to Great-aunt Lucia, and the
solution of the mystery.