_Rhoda helped them to scramble up the rough stones, slippery with moss._
THE MYSTERY OF
ARNOLD HALL
By HELEN M. PERSONS
Author _of_
“Finding the Lost Treasure,” etc.
THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY
Akron, Ohio New York
Copyright, MCMXXXIV
The Saalfield Publishing Company
_Printed in the United States of America_
CONTENTS
I Pat’s Chance 5
II Anne 16
III “Hill Top” 27
IV The Alley Gang 37
V Moss 48
VI A Meddler 59
VII A Fall 71
VIII Jack or Tut? 84
IX A Tough Proposition 95
X Jack in Danger 103
XI Aunt Betsy to the Rescue 115
XII On Duty 123
XIII A Fire 131
XIV An Investigation 139
XV Under Arrest 149
XVI A Picnic 159
XVII A Robbery 177
XVIII A Week End 188
XIX A Weird Experience 200
XX The Reward 214
XXI Pat’s Sacrifice 222
XXII Clarice 235
XXIII Solutions 242
THE MYSTERY OF
ARNOLD HALL
CHAPTER I
PAT’S CHANCE
“Will you go, Patricia?” called Mrs. Randall from the living room, one
cool evening late in August, as the doorbell rang imperatively. “I’m
starting a fire in the grate.”
From the dining room across the hall, where she had been putting away the
last of the supper dishes, hurried a tall slender girl, whose short wavy
yellow hair and big brown eyes were set off to perfection by a green
jersey dress. Expecting to see one of the neighbors when the door was
opened, she was startled into an involuntary gasp as a messenger thrust
forward a special delivery letter, inquiring curtly—“Miss Patricia
Randall?”
“Y—es.”
“Sign here.”
Patricia signed his book, closed the door, and walked slowly into the
living room staring down at the unexpected missive in her hand.
“What is it, Pat?” inquired her mother, glancing up from the hearth rug
where she knelt trying to coax a blaze from a bed of charcoal and paper.
“A special delivery letter—for me.”
“For you?” repeated Mrs. Randall in surprise. “From whom?”
“I don’t know,” replied her daughter, frowning in a puzzled fashion.
“Well, open it and find out. Don’t stand staring at it like that,” urged
her mother briskly.
Patricia sank into a low tapestry chair beside the fireplace and tore
open the envelope. As she drew out the single sheet it contained, a slip
dropped from it onto her lap. Still holding the folded letter she picked
up the slip and exclaimed:
“A cashier’s check for a _thousand dollars_!”
“Pat!” cried Mrs. Randall, reaching for the yellow paper to read it for
herself. “Look at the letter, quick, and see who sent it!”
“It’s only a line. ‘For Patricia Randall to spend on a year at Granard
College.’ Oh—why—Mums!”
Patricia flung herself on her mother so suddenly that Mrs. Randall lost
her balance, and the two fell in a heap on the rug.
“Mary! Patricia!” ejaculated a horrified masculine voice from the
doorway. “What in the world—”
“Oh, Dad!” cried the girl, springing up and giving a helping hand to her
mother. With scarcely more effort than that of her daughter Mrs. Randall
regained her feet, and they stood facing Mr. Randall’s astonished gaze.
“Just look at this!” Patricia thrust the magic papers into his hand.
“Isn’t it marvelous?”
Mr. Randall read the brief message, turned the check over and over as if
to discover its sender by inspecting it from all sides, and then looked
inquiringly at his wife and daughter.
“Is this a joke of some kind?”
“Joke!” retorted Patricia in disgust. “I should say not! A messenger just
brought it, special delivery.”
“Strange, very strange,” commented her father, shaking his head. “Do you
know anything about it, Mary?” addressing his wife, with a suspicious
look.
“I most certainly do not. Do you?”
“You ought to know that I don’t. Where would I get that much money?
Didn’t we send Pat here to Brentwood College last year because we
couldn’t afford to send her away?”
“Keep your shirt on, Dad!” laughed Patricia. “Keep your shirt on, and say
I may go.”
“I—I don’t know what to say,” replied the puzzled man, sinking heavily
into his favorite chair, and pulling his pipe out of his pocket.
“Do you suppose,” began Patricia, perching on the arm of her father’s
chair, “that Aunt Betsy could have gotten big-hearted and sent it?”
“Pat!” cried her mother derisively. “Of course not. She has all she can
do to keep Ted in college.”
“Be rather nice for me, having Ted at Granard,” mused Patricia, recalling
her cousin’s beguiling ways and good looks.
“And having Aunt Betsy there to keep an eye on both of you,” added her
mother.
“Some eye! She’ll probably never know I’m there,” laughed Patricia.
“Darling Ted takes up all of her time and attention.”
“You two women,” remarked Mr. Randall peevishly, “seem to have this
affair all settled.”
“Well, you see, darling, we felt quite sure you would let me go,” laughed
Patricia, ruffling up his hair. “You’re going to, aren’t you?” bending
down to look pleadingly into his eyes. “You know I’ve longed to go out of
town to college where I could live in a dorm. Not that I don’t like
living at home, but—”
“We understand,” interrupted her mother; “you need not be apologetic.”
“I wish we knew who sent the money, though,” said Patricia, frowning
earnestly. “It must be somebody who knows all about us, but I can’t think
of a soul who could or would do it.”
“I shall investigate, of course,” began her father, after some thought;
“but if nothing can be found out about the donor of this wonderful gift,
it seems to me that since the money has been sent to you for a special
purpose, and sent in such a manner, the only course open to us is to use
it as stipulated, and not make any further effort to discover its
sender.”
“Oh, but, Dad! It’s so tantalizing,” wailed his daughter.
“I know; but, Patricia, when you have a secret, you don’t like to have
anyone try to guess it, do you?”
“N—o.”
“This is the same thing. Just do your best to be worthy of such a
generous gift and wait for its sender to reveal himself when he chooses.”
“Your father is quite right, Pat,” agreed Mrs. Randall; “and I’d like to
add one more suggestion: that you do not discuss the matter with anyone
else but us. It’s romantic, and your inclination will be to let your new
companions in on the secret, but I think you will be wise if you keep it
to yourself; unless, of course, some unusual circumstance arises.”
Patricia thought soberly for a few minutes, then said with a sigh, “I
suppose you’re right, Mother.”
“Do you think you’ll have any trouble transferring your credits and
getting into the Sophomore class?” asked her father presently, after
another long pause, while each was busy with his own thoughts.
“I don’t think so. I’ll go to see the Dean the first thing tomorrow
morning, and I’ll have to write for a room—”
“And we’ll have to shop and sew,” added Mrs. Randall, almost as eagerly
as her daughter.
After Pat had gone to bed to lie awake anticipating all kinds of unknown
adventures, Mr. and Mrs. Randall had a long serious talk over the dying
fire.
“Then you feel satisfied to let her go?” inquired Mrs. Randall anxiously
as they finally rose to go upstairs.
“I don’t see how we can do any different. And who knows what this
opportunity may mean to Pat?”
“If I could only be sure that everything was all right, and that no harm
would come to the child,” sighed Mrs. Randall, running her fingers
through her hair, a habit when troubled over anything.
“Now, Mary, what harm could come to her? She’ll be living with lots of
other students under the direct supervision of the house chaperon and the
Dean; and Betsy is right near the college. But of course if you don’t
want her to go—”
“Oh, I _do_—at least I haven’t the heart to deprive her of the
fulfillment of one of her dreams.”
Mr. Randall locked the front door, put out the lights, and followed his
wife up the long stairway. At the door of their room Mrs. Randall paused,
grasped his arm and whispered cautiously, with an eye on Pat’s door, “I’m
willing to give Pats her chance, but, just the same, John Randall, I wish
she were going back to Brentwood. I have a presentiment that—”
“Oh, you and your presentiments!” ejaculated Mr. Randall, pushing her
gently but firmly ahead of him into their room. “Nonsense!”
The weeks that followed were very exciting ones for Patricia. Her days
were filled to the brim with shopping, sewing, making last calls on old
friends, and finally, packing. So many evenings were taken up with
farewell parties that Mr. Randall complained that he never saw his
daughter any more; that, as far as her parents were concerned, she might
as well have gone to college the night she received the money.
“But, dear,” remonstrated his wife soothingly, “all her friends want to
entertain for her, and she can’t very well refuse any of their
invitations.”
“Where is she tonight?” grumbled Mr. Randall.
“Carolyn is giving a dinner dance at the Club. Poor Carolyn! She’s quite
disturbed over having Pat go away. They have been such pals ever since
they were little.”
“Pat might ask Carolyn down for a week end some time this year. She and
her mother have been more than good to our girl. Besides, I don’t want
Pat to be so taken up with the new life and new friends that she will
cast aside all her old ties.”
“I don’t think she will, John. Of course just at first her whole mind
will be on Granard, but after the novelty wears off—”
“I’ve been thinking,” interrupted her husband, who evidently had his mind
on something else, “that it would be nice for Pats to have a little car—”
“John! How ‘galumptious’ as Pat says. Could we manage it?”
“I think so. We’ll have the money we expected to spend on her year at
Brentwood, and Everet Schuyler has a coach he’s very anxious to sell. If
I can drive any kind of a bargain with him, I think I’ll do it. Of course
don’t say anything to Pat. I thought we might drive down some week end,
and surprise her with it; and then come back on the train.”
“How did you ever happen to think of such a thing?” inquired Mrs.
Randall, knitting very fast on the green sweater she was making for her
daughter.
“Oh, I haven’t been blind to the fact that more than half of the college
girls here have some kind of a car, and I often wished I could get Pat
one. Never been able to, before, but now I guess we can swing it. It will
be a saving, too; for she can drive back and forth whenever she has a
vacation, and save carfare. And maybe, once in a while, she could come
home for a week end?” he added, hopefully.
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Randall smiled and leaned forward to pat his arm.
“Let’s go down to Schuyler’s now and look at the bus,” proposed Mr.
Randall ten minutes later.
“All right,” agreed his wife, laying aside her work and getting briskly
out of her easy chair.
If Patricia had not been so absorbed in her own affairs she would
certainly have wondered the next day what ailed her parents; for there
was such an air of suppressed excitement about them that vented itself in
significant glances and knowing smiles. The thrill of buying her ticket,
however, made Patricia oblivious to all else.
“Why don’t you take a sleeper,” asked her mother, “and get a good rest on
the way down? You’ve been up so late every night.”
“Nothing doing!” retorted Patricia decidedly. “When I travel I want my
eyes wide open so I won’t miss a single thing.”
Her positive decision recurred to her three days later as she snuggled
deep into her comfortable chair, with a sigh of satisfaction, a sigh
which was unceremoniously cut short by a very big yawn. The farewells at
the station had been exciting and gratifying, but yet something of a
strain. Almost all of her crowd had assembled to see her off, bearing
gifts of candy, fruit, books, and magazines; her mother had clung to her
till the very last minute, and her father had fussed about time tables,
porters, tips, and a dozen other things. It had seemed as if she were
being torn into a dozen pieces trying to pay attention to everybody. Now
the train was bearing her rapidly away from Dad and Mother and all the
dear old friends toward a new life at Granard.
“Perhaps I’d have been wiser to have followed Mother’s suggestion about
the sleeper,” she thought, as she tried to stifle another great yawn.
“Maybe if I take a little nap now, I’ll feel fresh for the rest of the
day.”
Turning her chair toward the window, and leaning back, her hands on the
broad arms, she was almost immediately floating in a delicious sea of
semi-unconsciousness which became deeper and deeper until she was
completely lost to the world about her. After a while, however, a most
persistent dream began to disturb her peaceful sleep, a dream about a
soft grey kitten whose silky fur she kept stroking, stroking until her
hand was tired; but yet she could not stop. After a time she began to
realize that she was dreaming, and made a desperate effort to free
herself from the world of sleep by closing her fingers sharply on the
little animal’s neck and giving it a shove.
Then with a sudden start at some movement close to her she sat bolt
upright and opened her eyes just in time to see a pair of long legs, the
ankles clad in grey silk socks, hastily removing themselves from the
ledge beside her chair.
“Good Heavens!” she thought, horror-stricken. “I do hope _those_ weren’t
the kitten!”