AN INVESTIGATION
The official bulletin board was located near the head of the stairs which
led down to the dining room in Horton Hall. Space in front of it was at a
premium after meals; for everybody was anxious to keep in touch with
campus news. On the day following the fire, an even larger group of
students than usual crowded into the shallow ell where the board hung.
“Look, Pat!” cried Anne, pointing to the top notice. “The following
students are requested to meet the Dean in her office at two o’clock:
Patricia Randall
Frances Quinne
Katharine Weldon”
Patricia read the notice slowly. Although she knew an investigation would
surely be made, nevertheless her heart sank to her very shoes when she
saw her fears realized quite so soon. Turning away abruptly, she pushed
out of the crowd and started for the door.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Anne, who followed and caught up with her
on the street.
“Nothing,” replied Patricia quickly; “or—that investigation.”
“But why get all ‘het up’ over that? Simply tell what you know.”
“But that’s just it; I _don’t_ know.”
“Know what?” questioned Anne, linking her arm through that of her friend,
and pressing close to her side. “Tell me all about it; you’ll feel
better.”
“I’m not sure that I should,” began Patricia doubtfully.
“Oh, shucks! What’s a friend for? I’ll guess then. You know more about
the fire than you told Dolly?” hazarded Anne, watching Patricia intently.
“You don’t need to admit it; I can tell just by looking at you. We’ll
walk over to the park so no one will interrupt us, and then you can
unburden your mind. I’ll bet you didn’t sleep a wink last night. You look
like nobody’s business.”
Up and down the deserted paths of the little park they paced briskly, for
the wind was cold, while Patricia told her story.
“If I were you,” said Anne, when Patricia had finished, “I wouldn’t
advance any information; just answer the Dean’s questions. If she doesn’t
ask you whether you had any suspicions who the man was, you’ll be all
right. In any case, don’t worry about it.”
In spite of the comfort derived from confiding in Anne, the morning
seemed endless to Patricia, who alternately longed for and dreaded the
arrival of two o’clock. Promptly on the stroke of the hour, the three
girls from Arnold Hall were admitted to Dean Walters’ sunny, spacious
office. Hardly were they seated in the chairs given them by Miss Jolly,
the Dean’s secretary, when Mrs. Vincent walked in.
“The Dean will be in in a few minutes,” murmured Miss Jolly, placing
another chair for the latest arrival. As she spoke, the door to an inner
room opened, and a dignified, grey-haired woman crossed the room briskly
to seat herself behind a large flat-topped desk, facing her callers.
“It is most distasteful to me,” began the Dean without preamble, “to be
obliged to question you regarding last night’s catastrophe. Arson is a
serious matter, and you will do much harm if you try to shield anyone, or
by withholding any detail which might help discover the culprit. So I ask
that you be perfectly frank with me, and regard what is said in here as
strictly confidential. Mrs. Vincent, I’ll hear first whatever you can
tell me.”
Nervously the chaperon of Arnold Hall told the events of her evening,
passing rapidly over the fact that she had left Patricia practically
alone in the house, and dwelling at some length on her own indisposition.
The Dean’s face betrayed no indication of her thoughts, nor did she make
any comment when Mrs. Vincent had finished her story.
Little chills began to run up and down Patricia’s spine as she awaited
her turn next; but Dean Walters turned slightly in her chair in order to
face Frances more directly, and began to question her rapidly as to her
whereabouts the previous evening; in what condition she had left her
room; whether she or Katharine ever smoked there; if her or her room
mate’s clothing and belongings were insured, and so on. Patricia shivered
still more as she realized that the Dean intended to question them rather
than to listen to their stories. Frances was so frightened that she
stumbled and stuttered through her replies, and finally burst into
nervous tears.
“There is no reason for you to be so disturbed, Miss Quinne,” said the
Dean calmly; “I do not accuse or suspect any one of you; but I must
obtain all the information I possibly can, not only in order to apprehend
the culprit, if possible, but to satisfy the insurance inspectors. Miss
Weldon, can you add anything to the facts your room mate has just given
me?”
“No, Dean Walters,” replied Katharine promptly, “except that early in the
evening as we were dressing for dinner, our lights kept jumping, going
out and then coming on again, you know.”
“Did you try the bulbs to see if they were screwed in tight?”
“No, we didn’t, because it was late and we were in a great hurry.”
“Have the lights ever acted that way before?” inquired the Dean
thoughtfully, resting her chin in her hand, and fixing her keen blue eyes
on the girl’s face.
“A couple of times within the last week.”
“Why did you not report them?” The question came a bit sharply.
“Just carelessness, I suppose,” admitted Katharine frankly. “We never
bother about things until they are entirely out of commission. You see
we’re always just getting back from somewhere, or going out to something;
so we really don’t have much time.” Katharine grinned in a friendly
manner at the stern woman behind the desk; nothing could disturb or
subdue Katharine. Dean Walters made a few notes on a small pad, then
turned to Patricia.
“Tell me exactly where you were last night, and every detail of your
evening.”
Slowly and coherently Patricia furnished the desired information, and
then paused, hoping with all her heart that she would not be questioned
further. False hope.
“You say you were in your room for a short time before the fire broke
out. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary then?”
Patricia flushed up to the roots of her hair, opened her lips, and then
closed them again.
“I see that you did,” commented the Dean quickly. “Let me have all the
facts, please.”
Reluctantly Patricia told about the man she had seen, and his odd
actions.
“Describe him,” ordered Dean Walters, making notes rapidly.
“I—I didn’t see his face,” began Patricia.
“Do as well as you can, then, with his general appearance, clothing,
etc.”
As Patricia proceeded, hesitatingly, with the description, Frances gave a
little gasp which, though immediately suppressed, did not escape the
quick ear of the attentive woman.
“Had you then, or have you now, any ideas as to the identity of that
man?” inquired the Dean.
“I’d—really—rather not say,” faltered the girl.
“Neither the information nor your part in it will be made public. I am
waiting, Miss Randall,” as poor Patricia still hesitated.
“He looked to me like Mr. Young, Mrs. Brock’s secretary; but it doesn’t
seem possible for him to be mixed up in such an affair.”
A dead silence followed; then Dean Walters picked up her telephone.
“Assistant Registrar, please,” she requested curtly, tapping nervously
with her pencil as she waited for the connection. “Mr. Billings? This is
Dean Walters. Please get in touch with Norman Young at once and send him
to my office.”
No one spoke or moved as all tensely awaited the arrival of the new
participant in the inquiry. In ten minutes Miss Jolly admitted the blond
youth, clad in his customary grey clothes, and carrying a soft grey hat.
“Sit down, Mr. Young,” directed the Dean, indicating a chair. “We are
trying to get some information regarding last night’s fire at Arnold
Hall; and I wondered, since you live so near to it, if you could add
anything to the facts I already have. I understand you sometimes cut
through the yard to get to Mrs. Brock’s house. Did you happen to do so
last evening?”
“Yes, I did,” replied the boy frankly, “about half past eight, or maybe
nine o’clock.”
Patricia trembled. So it _had_ been he. Quietly she wrapped her coat more
closely about her so no one would notice that she was shaking violently.
“Where were you going?” inquired the Dean.
“Home, to work on my assignments for today,” answered Norman, letting his
glance travel along the row of girls at his left. No one of them,
however, met his eyes.
“Did you notice anything unusual about the dormitory?”
“Only that it was dark.”
“How did you happen to notice that?”
“The path which is always well lighted from the windows on that side was
so dark that I involuntarily looked up to see what was the matter,”
responded the youth glibly, gazing directly, and Patricia thought
somewhat defiantly, into the Dean’s eyes.
“Were you out again that night?”
“Yes, Dean; I went over on an errand—for Mrs. Brock.”
“Through the dormitory yard?”
“Yes.”
“And when did you return?”
“I don’t really know the exact time, but it was after the Fire Department
had reached the Hall; I could not get through the crowd to go home.”
“How, then, did Mrs. Brock get in touch with you to deliver her message
to Mrs. Vincent?”
“After watching the firemen for a while, I went around the block and
entered Mrs. Brock’s house just in time to prevent her going over to the
Hall herself.”
“Why didn’t you want her to go?” demanded Dean Walters sharply.
“Well, she is an old lady, and it was a cold night for her to be out, and
late for her to be out alone.”
“What was your ‘errand’ for Mrs. Brock, and where did it take you?”
“That I am not at liberty to disclose; it is my employer’s business,” was
the decided response.
Dean Walters opened her lips to speak, then abruptly closed them again. A
moment’s silence followed; then, turning toward Mrs. Vincent and the
girls, she said curtly: “You may go. Your testimony was quite
satisfactory. Mr. Young will remain.”
Single file, like Indians, the four women left the office, descended a
short flight of stairs, passed through a doorway at the foot, and were
out upon the street. Then everybody drew a long breath of the frosty air
and began to speak.
“Wasn’t it terrible?” demanded Frances. “I acted like a fool.”
“Oh, forget it!” advised Katharine. “You were nervous; we all were.”
“Not you,” contradicted Patricia. “I envy you your poise upon all
occasions.”
“What do you suppose the Dean will do about Norman Young, Mrs. Vincent?”
asked Frances.
“I imagine she may get in touch with Mrs. Brock,” replied the chaperon
somewhat irritably; for she felt she had not made the best of impressions
upon the Dean. It was advisable for her to have that lady’s goodwill; for
the appointments as chaperon in the various dormitories were made yearly,
and Mrs. Vincent had reasons of her own for wishing to remain at Arnold
Hall at least two years longer.
Several days passed, and the girls still gossiped among themselves about
the investigation; for the officials were strangely silent upon the
subject. No statement had been made public, and the students were
consumed with curiosity.
“Mrs. Vincent,” said Katharine one night when the chaperon came to her
room to borrow a hat, “what did the Dean find out about the fire? We’re
dying to know.”
“I believe that upon the advice of Mrs. Brock, the whole affair has been
dropped,” answered Mrs. Vincent, trying on Katharine’s hat before the
mirror, her mind more upon what she was doing than upon what she was
saying.
“What on earth—” began Katharine.
“I don’t know any more,” interrupted the chaperon quickly. “I’m not sure
I should have told you that much. Don’t quote me, please.”
“I won’t,” promised Katharine good-naturedly, “but may I tell the girls
without saying where I got the information? They’re all wondering.”
“Perhaps it would be well to do so; then maybe they’ll drop the subject.”
A couple of weeks later, the Dean announced in chapel one day that
defective wiring had evidently caused the fire in Arnold Hall, and asked
the girls in all dormitories to be very careful in their use of
electrical appliances.