Arthur found Louise developing hysteria, while Beth, Patsy and Helen
Hahn were working over her and striving to comfort her. Uncle John, the
major and big Runyon stood gazing helplessly at the dolorous scene.
“Well? Well?” cried Mr. Merrick, as Weldon and young Hahn entered. “Any
news?”
Arthur shook his head and went to his wife, bending over to kiss her
forehead.
“Be brave, dear!” he whispered.
It needed but this tender admonition to send the young mother into new
paroxysms.
“See here; we’re wasting time,” protested Runyon, his voice reaching
high C in his excitement. “Something must be done!”
“Of course,” cried Patsy, turning from Louise. “We’re a lot of ninnies.
Let us think what is best to do and map out a logical program.”
The others looked at her appealingly, glad to have some one assume
command but feeling themselves personally unequal to the task of
thinking logically.
“First,” said the girl, firmly, “let us face the facts. Baby Jane has
mysteriously disappeared, and with her the two nurses.”
“Not necessarily with her,” objected Rudolph. “Let us say the two nurses
have also disappeared. Now, the question is, why?”
A shriek from Louise emphasised the query.
“Don’t let’s bother with the ‘why?’” retorted Patsy. “We don’t care why.
The vital question is ‘where?’ All we want, just now, is to find baby
and get her back home again to her loving friends. She can’t have been
gone more than four hours—or five, at the most. Therefore she isn’t so
far away that an automobile can’t overtake her.”
“But she can’t walk, you know,” squeaked Runyon. “Baby didn’t go alone;
some one took her.”
“True enough,” observed Uncle John. “You’re wrong, Patsy. We must try to
decide who took baby, and why. Then we might undertake the search with a
chance of success.”
“Whoever took baby went on foot,” persisted Miss Doyle. “The only four
automobiles in the neighborhood are now standing in our driveway and in
the garage. This is a country of great distances, and no matter in what
direction the baby has been taken an auto is sure to overhaul her, if we
don’t waste valuable time in getting started.”
“That’s right!” cried Arthur, turning from Louise. “The theory agrees
with old Miguel’s suspicion about Inez, and—”
“What suspicion?” cried half a dozen.
“Never mind that,” said Rudolph, with a hasty glance toward Louise;
“let’s be off, and talk afterward.”
“We men must decide on our routes and all take the road at once,”
proposed Rudolph.
“It’s pitch dark,” said Runyon.
“Would you like to wait until morning?” demanded Rudolph, sarcastically.
“No; I want to rescue that baby,” said the big fellow.
“Then take the north road, as far as Tungar’s ranch. Stop at every house
to inquire. When you get to Tungar’s, come back by the McMillan road.
That’s a sixty mile jaunt, and it will cover the north and northwest.
Take Mr. Merrick with you. Now, then, off you go!”
Runyon nodded and left the room, followed gladly by Uncle John, who
longed to be doing something that would count. The others soon heard the
roar of the motor car as it started away on its quest.
Then it was arranged for Arthur to drive back to Escondido to make
inquiries and to watch the departure of the evening train, the only one
to pass the station since baby had been missing. He was to carry Major
Doyle with him and return by another route. Hahn promised to cover with
his own car the only other two roads that remained to be searched, and
he figured that they would all return to the house within two or three
hours, when—if still there was no news—they might plan a further pursuit
of the fugitive baby.
Helen Hahn had promised not to leave Louise until baby was found, and
before starting Arthur assisted his wife to her room, where he left her
weeping dismally one moment and screaming for little Jane the next.
Sing Fing had sent a maid to announce dinner, but no one paid any
attention to the summons.
After the three automobiles had departed, Patsy and Beth remained in the
nursery and left Helen and a maid with Louise. Once alone, Miss Doyle
said to her cousin:
“Having started them upon the search, Beth, you and I must take up that
pertinent suggestion made by Mr. Hahn and face the important question:
‘Why?’”
“I’m dying to be of some use, dear,” responded Beth in a disconsolate
tone, “but I fear we two girls are quite helpless. How can _we_ tell why
the baby has been stolen?”
“Has she been stolen?” inquired Patsy. “We mustn’t take even that for
granted. Let us be sensible and try to marshal our wits. Here’s the
fact: baby’s gone. Here’s the problem: why?”
“We don’t know,” said Beth. “No one knows.”
“Of course some one knows. Little Jane, as our friend Bul Run reminded
us, can’t walk. If she went away, she was carried. By whom? And why? And
where?”
“Dear me!” cried Beth, despairingly; “if we knew all that, we could find
baby.”
“Exactly. So let’s try to acquire the knowledge.”
She went into Mildred’s room and made an examination of its contents.
The place seemed in its usual order, but many of Mildred’s trinkets and
personal possessions were scattered around.
“Her absence wasn’t premeditated,” decided Patsy. “Her white sweater is
gone, but that is all. This fact, however, may prove that she expected
to be out after dark. It is always chilly in this country after sundown
and doubtless Mildred knew that.”
“Why, she used to live here!” cried Beth. “Of course she knew.”
Patsy sat down and looked at her cousin attentively.
“That is news to me,” she said in a tone that indicated she had made a
discovery. “Do you mean that Mildred once lived in this neighborhood?”
“Yes; very near here. She told me she had known this old house well
years ago, when she was a girl. She used to visit it in company with her
father, a friend of old Señor Cristoval.”
“Huh!” exclaimed Patsy. “That’s queer, Why didn’t she tell us this, when
we first proposed bringing her out here?”
“I don’t know. I remember she was overjoyed when I first suggested her
coming, but I supposed that was because she had at last found a paying
job.”
“When did she tell you of this?”
“Just lately.”
“What else did she say?”
“Nothing more. I asked if she had any relatives or friends living here
now, but she did not reply.”
“Beth, I’m astonished!” asserted Patsy, with a grave face. “This
complicates matters.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Because, if Mildred knows this neighborhood, and wanted to steal baby
and secrete her, she could take little Jane to her unknown friends and
we could never discover her hiding-place.”
“Why should Mildred Travers wish to steal baby?” asked Beth.
“For a reward—a ransom. She knows that Arthur Weldon is rich, and that
Uncle John is richer, and she also knows that dear little Toodlums is
the pride of all our hearts. If she demands a fortune for the return of
baby, we will pay it at once.”
“And prosecute her abductor, Mildred, afterward,” said Beth. “No, Patsy;
I don’t believe she’s that sort of a girl, at all.”
“We know nothing of her history. She is secretive and reserved.
Mildred’s cold, hard eyes condemn her as one liable to do anything. And
this was such an easy way for her to make a fortune.”
Beth was about to protest this severe judgment, but on second thought
remained silent. Appearances were certainly against Mildred Travers and
Beth saw no reason to champion her, although she confessed to herself
that she had liked the girl and been interested in helping her.
“We have still Inez to consider,” said she. “What has become of the
Mexican girl?”
“We are coming to her presently,” replied Patsy. “Let us finish with
Mildred first. A girl who has evidently had a past, which she guards
jealously. A poor girl, whose profession scarcely earned her
bread-and-butter before we engaged her. A girl whose eyes repel
friendship; who has little to lose by kidnapping Jane in the attempt to
secure a fortune. She was fond of baby; I could see that myself; so she
won’t injure our darling but will take good care of her until we pay the
money, when Toodlums will be restored to us, smiling and crowing as
usual. Beth, if this reasoning is correct, we needn’t worry. By
to-morrow morning Arthur will receive the demand for ransom, and he will
lose no time in satisfying Mildred’s cupidity.”
“Very good reasoning,” said Beth; “but I don’t believe a word of it.”
“I hope it is true,” said Patsy, “for otherwise we are facing a still
worse proposition.”
“Inez?”
“Yes. Inez isn’t clever; she doesn’t care for money; she would not steal
Jane for a ransom. But the Mexican girl worships baby in every fibre of
her being. She would die for baby; she—” lowering her voice to a
whisper, “she would _kill_ anyone for baby.”
Beth shivered involuntarily as Patsy uttered this horrible assertion.
“You mean—”
“Now, let us look at this matter calmly. Inez has, from the first,
resented the employment of Mildred as chief nurse. She has hated Mildred
with a deadly hatred and brooded over her fancied wrongs until she has
lost all sense of reason. She feared that in the end baby Jane would be
taken away from her, and this thought she could not bear. Therefore she
has stolen baby and carried her away, so as to have the precious one
always in her keeping.”
“And Mildred?” asked Beth.
“Well, in regard to Mildred, there are two conjectures to consider. She
may have discovered that Inez had stolen baby and is now following in
pursuit. Or—”
“Or what, dear?” as imaginative Patsy hesitated, appalled by her own
mental suggestion.
“Or in a fit of anger Inez murdered Mildred and hid her body. Then, to
escape the penalty of her crime, she ran away and took baby with her.
Either one of these suppositions would account for the absence of both
nurses.”
Beth looked at her cousin in amazement.
“I think,” said she, “you’d better go and get something to eat; or a cup
of tea, at least. This excitement is—is—making you daffy, Patsy dear.”
“Pah! Food would disgust me. And I’m not crazy, Beth. Dreadful things
happen in this world, at times, and Louise has a queer lot of people
around her. Think a moment. Our baby has disappeared. Her two nurses,
neither of whom are especially trustworthy, have also disappeared.
There’s a reason, Beth, and you may be sure it’s not any common,
ordinary reason, either. I’m trying to be logical in my deductions and
to face the facts sensibly.”
“Inez would be as careful of baby’s welfare as would Mildred.”
“I realize that. If I thought for a moment that baby was in any peril I
would go distracted, and scream louder than poor Louise is doing. Do you
hear her? Isn’t it awful?”
“Let us tell Louise these things,” said Beth, rising from her chair.
“What you call your ‘deductions’ are terribly tragic, Patsy, but they
reassure us about baby. Shall we go to Louise?”
“I think it will be better,” decided Patsy, and they left the nursery
and stepped out into the court. At the far end of the open space stood
huddled a group of men, all of whom bore lanterns. Patsy advanced to the
group and discovered them to be the Mexican laborers from the quarters.
Old Miguel advanced a pace and bowed.
“We search for baby—for Mees Jane—eh?” he said, questioningly, as if
desiring instructions.
“That is a happy thought, Miguel,” replied the girl. “The others are
scouring the roads in their motor cars, but the country needs searching,
too—away from the roads, in the fields and orchards. Send your men out
at once, and scatter them in all directions.”
Miguel turned and rapidly harangued his followers in the Spanish patois.
One by one they turned and vanished into the night. Only the old man
remained.
“Ever’bod’ love Mees Jane,” he said simply. “They all want to find her,
an’ ask me to let ’em go. Good. They will search well.”
In spite of the words there was a tone of indifference in Miguel’s voice
that attracted the girl’s notice. He did not seem in the least worried
or agitated, nor did he appear to attach much importance to the search.
Yet Patsy knew the aged foreman was one of “Mees Jane’s” most devoted
admirers.
“Where do you think baby is?” she asked abruptly.
“Quien sabe?” he answered, and then in English, “who knows?”
“Be sensible, Miguel! No one would hurt the dear child, I’m sure.”
His dark features wrinkled in an engaging smile.
“No one would hurt Mees Jane. I believe it.”
“But some one has carried her away.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Some time she come back,” said he.
“Now, see here, Miguel; you know more than anyone else about this
affair. Tell me the truth.”
He raised his brows, shaking his head.
“I know nothing,” said he. “I not worry much; but I know nothing.”
“Then you suspect.”
The old man regarded her curiously; almost suspiciously, Patsy thought.
“What ees suspec’?” he asked. “It ees nothing. To suspec’ ees not to
know. Not to know ees—nothing at all.”
The girl stamped her foot impatiently, for she caught Beth smiling at
her.
“What is Inez to you, Miguel?” she demanded.
Again he smiled the childlike, engaging smile.
“She ees to me nothing,” said he. “Inez is Mexican, but her family ees
not my family. Not all Mexicans ees—re—spec’—ble. Once I know Inez’
father. He drink too much wheesky, an’ the wheesky make heem bad.”
“But you like Inez?”
“She ees good to Mees Jane; but—she have bad tempers.”
Patsy thought a moment.
“Did you know Mildred Travers when she used to live near here?” she
asked.
Old Miguel started and took a step forward.
“Where she leeve, when she ees here?” he asked eagerly.
“I don’t know. Have you ever seen her?”
“No. She do not come to our quarters.”
“Wait a minute,” said Patsy, and ran up to her room, leaving Beth to
confront the ranchero and to study him with her dark, clear eyes. But
she said nothing until her cousin returned and thrust a small kodak
print into Miguel’s hand.
“That is Mildred Travers,” said Patsy.
Miguel held up his lantern while he examined the picture and both girls
observed that his hand trembled. For a long time he remained bent over
the print—an unnecessarily long time, indeed—but when he raised his head
his face was impassive as a mask.
“I do not know Mees Travers,” was all he said as he handed back the
picture. “Now I go an’ hunt for Mees Jane,” he quickly added.
They watched him turn and noticed that his steps, as he left the court,
were tottering and feeble.
“He lied,” said Beth, softly.
“I am sure of it,” agreed Patsy; “but that does not enlighten the
mystery any. I’m sorry we brought Mildred to this place. There’s just
one thing you can bank on, Beth: that in some way or other Mildred is
responsible for the disappearance of our precious Toodlums.”