IN THE SHADOWS
"Cleo, come here," Grace beckoned her chum, as Mary and Madaline
started for a fishing trip to the little brook that capered through the
Cragsnook lands, at the foot of an ambitious group of hills. "I am
just so anxious to talk to you," Grace almost implored.
"And I am just dying to talk to you," declared Cleo, "so we ought to
have a lovely time. Come on for a walk down to the stone bridge. No
one is going that way at this hour."
"Because lovers are scarce around here, I suppose," Grace guessed, "for
twilight, lovers and stone bridges are always combined in the movies."
"Then we will be the lovers," proposed Cleo. "Come along, darling,"
and she twined her arm around the shoulders of her friend, in sincere
affection, if in pretended affectation.
"I know what you are going to say," Grace began. "It's about Mary's
secret."
"Of course," admitted Cleo. "I have been breathless with excitement
since she told us. Grace, do you see what may have happened? Just
what _may_ have, of course."
"You mean she may belong to people in America who would love to know
about her?"
"Yes, that is an easy guess. But why should Professor Benson deny her
identity?"
"He is also denying his own. Why does he do that?"
"And there is not the slightest possibility he could ever have
committed a crime. No man with his personality is ever a criminal."
"No, indeed," vouched Grace, quite unconscious of posing as an expert
on character.
"It's very mysterious," went on Cleo, "and when Mary mentioned the name
Dunbar to him he seemed to recall it somehow. I asked him if he ever
knew anyone named Dunbar, and he passed it off on his brain playing
queer tricks on him. But all the same he did seem to have a memory of
it."
"Now, Cleo Harris, don't you dare go getting Mary in your family,"
ordered Grace, jokingly. "It would be just Cleoistic to have it turn
out that way. No, Mary is going to be a princess, to suit Madaline
this time. Let's sit down here on the bridge and try to figure it all
out," she proposed.
The broad stone coping over the little stream offered an attractive
resting place for the self-appointed delegates, and the twilight hour a
most opportune time for their conference.
"I am going to do two things first----" began Cleo.
"Oh, I wouldn't," mocked Grace. "I would do one thing first, the other
way would be woozy."
"Now you know what I mean, and this isn't a grammar test," pouted Cleo.
"Well, then, first, I am going to write to Uncle Guy. He knows so much
about detective work--all writers do, you know, and I feel he could
help us solve the mystery. I am going to send him that picture we took
the other day, so he can see what Mary looks like."
"I think that is really a brilliant idea, Cleo," said Grace, seriously.
"There might be some reason for Professor Benson noticing the name
Dunbar. Even if I do take the risk of you getting in a claim, still, I
have to be fair," and she squeezed the arm that lay over her own. "I
think the pictures are splendid. I sent one to Margaret. Somehow I
feel a little lonely for Margaret, don't you?"
"Yes, it would have been lovely for her to share all this, but perhaps
they may come to New York before the season is over. Let us hope so.
Now, for my second big idea: I am going to make inquiries at the New
York museum about exploring parties. They may have records of the
scientific men who went to the tropics for orchids, and I may be able
to solve some of the mystery that way."
"Say, Cleo," said Grace, dimpling and making pretty faces at the
slanting rays dipping into the brook from the early nightfall, "I do
believe you are related to your Uncle Guy, the writer, for you have
such original ideas. However did you think of that?"
"Oh, it is not original, really, Grace. I saw an account of a report
of such an expedition in one of Uncle Guy's magazines, and that gave me
the idea."
"But it wouldn't give me such an idea in a thousand years," admitted
Grace. "However would you go about it?"
"I'll try to get some dates and other facts from Mary, and then I'll
just write a letter. Maybe I will ask you to do the writing, as your
hand is much better than mine."
"Oh, I'll be glad to help out even as your secretary, but suppose we
accidentally betray Mary's secret--then what would happen?"
"I have thought of that," Cleo reflected, "and I have decided, since
Professor Benson and Mary are both so good, nothing but good can
eventually be discovered about them. Even a lot of mistakes can't be
really held against one, and I am hoping there won't even be mistakes,
but glories to unfold. Isn't it exciting! Aunt Audrey is just
fascinated with Mary, and is going to paint her as soon as things
straighten out, and I for one can feel the tangles putting out into a
straight line right now. Here they come, with their fish poles. Don't
they both look like a picture? Mary is so quaint, and Madaline is such
an adorable baby. Come on, and see the fish they didn't catch."
"We did, too, catch something," declared Madaline, when all four girls
met on the bridge. "We caught a lovely big fat turtle. Just see!"
It was indeed a lovely turtle she set down on the rough country walk,
and, perhaps scenting the damp grass near the brook, Mr. Turtle
promptly crawled off to possible seclusion and hoped for safety. Even
turtles have preferences, and do not always appreciate the personal
attention of Girl Scouts. They seem to prefer the company of hop toads
and toad stools.
"Oh, I'll lose him!" cried Madaline; "and I wanted him for Michael's
garden. He would chase all the other little eating bugs and worms,
wouldn't he, Mary?" and down the side of the bank, running to the
brook, Madaline pursued the recalcitrant reptile. But the hill was
very steep, the stones loose, and the sand slippery, and Madaline began
to slide.
"Oh, look out, Madie!" yelled Grace. "You'll slide right in the brook!"
But it was too late. Madaline had no chance to "look out." All she
could do was to slide, and that she kept at, rolling stones and tossing
sand down in a perfect avalanche.
"Oh! oh! oh!" screamed Mary, digging her heels deep in the loose bank
in an attempt to follow the sliding figure ahead. "You'll go right in
the brook and it's deep. We're so near the dam!"
"And you'll be in with her," screamed Cleo--"Madaline, grab that bush,
never mind the old turtle!"
But Madaline had now reached the bottom, and feet first she struck the
water, just as Mary grabbed her skirt and held on tight enough to keep
her from sliding in further.
"Oh, my!" cried Madaline, trying to back out. "I thought I was gone."
"You were!" insisted Grace, who had come to the edge by way of a safer
track through bushes instead of on an avalanche. "You almost
frightened us to death! Just see how swift the water is here."
"I don't want to see it. The earth is swift enough for me," declared
Madaline, shaking the water out of her slippers, which fortunately had
not fallen off in the water. "I have been both fishing and turtle
hunting to-night, and all I got was--wet," she groaned. "And my nice
clean gingham! Whatever will Jennie say!"
"Nothing, dearie, don't you mind," soothed Cleo. "We are so glad to
see you safely landed we can even forgive the turtle. It was a
perfectly foolish thing to do, to fall in the brook at this hour, with
not even a boy scout to perform a daring, dashing rescue. Madie, I'm
surprised at your lack of judgment. Think how Mally Mack would have
loved to pull you out by the hair!"
"And carry you home in his manly arms!" chimed in Grace. "What a
chance wasted!"
"And think of rolling our little fat girl on a big bumple barrel----"
But Madaline had recovered her poise and posture, not to mention
proclivities, and, taking to the better foot-hold on the clumps of
grass along the bank, a little farther from the bridge, she managed to
scamper after both her tormentors. Mary was also in the race, and on
reaching the road safely even the turtle was forgotten.
"Am I all mud?" asked Madaline, shaking her skirts.
"No, really you are not," Mary assured her. "It is only your slippers
and stockings, and it is so dark they won't show. But I hope my pretty
dress is not soiled. I was foolish to put it on for fishing, but I was
so proud I wanted to try it."
"Oh, come on. It's getting dark and Aunt Audrey is having company,"
said Cleo. "Madaline, you will have to change your shoes, of course,
then we can come out again, and go for a walk. It's all right to go
toward the village, but we must turn our backs on the mountains with
sundown. Mary-love, when may we go up to the studio to do some
exploring?" she changed the subject. "You know you said you wanted to
look over Reda's things and send them to her, if you knew where she
might get them?"
"Yes, I have been anxious about that," said Mary, falling in step with
Cleo, while Grace went ahead with Madaline. "I would so like to know
about Reda. I wonder where she is?"
"Wouldn't she go to friends?" Cleo asked.
"Oh, those men would frighten her, and you remember what that woman on
the mountain road said about police the other day," and Mary shuddered
as she recalled the maid's careless speech about the police looking for
the gypsy woman. "I feel so helpless sometimes," the child sighed.
"But please don't, Mary," Cleo spoke up. "You have no idea how much we
girls have done already in difficult matters. Why, I wouldn't be
afraid to go to New York with Aunt Audrey and look for Reda, if you are
worried about her," Cleo volunteered.
"Oh, I wouldn't have you think of such a thing," Mary quickly replied
with something like fear in her voice. "I hope Mrs. Dunbar is not
taking any trouble about her?"
"No, indeed. Aunt Audrey is so busy with her pictures I don't see what
she does when Uncle Guy is home, and he wants any attention," Cleo
remarked. "Mary, I wondered if we might not pack up Reda's things?
She won't come back now, surely, and I think you might feel better to
be sure her folks would not come around for anything. Have you any
address we might send to?"
"No, but she kept papers. I could understand them if we could find
them. Perhaps we better look to-morrow. Here we are home, and the
girls have gone in already. I guess we must have crawled slower than
Madaline's turtle."
"And it's quite dark," said Cleo. "Mary," she whispered, "isn't that a
man over there behind that tree? See, he just stepped back from the
light. Let us talk as if we saw the other girls so he won't think
we're alone," she hastily muttered. Then in a clear voice she
called--"Wait a minute, Benny, I want you to carry this" (it was the
fishing rod). "Oh, all right," she kept on to the imaginary boy.
"Here it is," and with that both girls ran into the driveway and up to
the house like two frightened deer. At the porch they stopped
breathless. Mrs. Dunbar and two friends were sitting there.
"Well, what's the trouble, girls?" she asked. "Running away from the
new moon?"
"No, Auntie," Cleo replied, "but we thought we saw someone back of the
tree--a man, and when he saw us he seemed to hide. Where's Michael?"
"I'll call him if you are timid, but we are going to have some
gentlemen callers this evening. Maybe you are running away from one of
them," she said with a light laugh. "But you girls set such store by
Michael, I am afraid I shall have to have the garage moved up nearer
the house. Never mind, our good watchman will be home soon. Uncle Guy
will be in Chicago this week," she finished with an inflexion of
pleasure anticipated.
Cleo was just deciding she must get her letter off to her Uncle Guy's
hotel quickly, as she calculated wisely he would give more attention to
a letter than he would be able to give to conversation for some days
after his home-coming.
Leaving her guests for a few moments, Mrs. Dunbar touched the call
button for Michael, and when he came up the path Cleo and Mary went to
meet him. They told him the shadow story, of course, even offered to
go down the walk and point out the tree, but he declined their
assistance.
"Now, I'll tell you girls," he said, shaking his head as he always did
when uttering an important fact, "we have a special watchman guarding
this place and maybe it was him" (he might have said he, but grammar is
not so important to a handy man as are good tools, and Michael always
had these).
"Oh, a watchman!" exclaimed Cleo. "I'm so glad. Now, Mary dear, don't
you go climbing any more trees," she warned with a pinch for Mary's
elbow.
"No, you had better all behave," added Michael, "for our man is a
regular hawk for night watching. I had to introduce him to Shep; knows
his step clear down the road. Not that he makes a sound we can hear,
but a dog, you know--a dog has ears in his paws, and they hear sounds
for a long distance in the ground," he declared.
"I guess so," said Mary, simply, "for I have seen dogs listen to things
so far off. But the watchman--would he shoot anyone who came around?"
There was anxiety in her voice.
"Well, no," conceded Michael; "he wouldn't exactly shoot first shot; he
might fire that over a prowler's head. Why?"
"Oh, nothing," fluttered Mary, "except that my old nurse is odd and
doesn't know American ways very well. And if she should come around
looking for me, a watchman would not understand her, I'm afraid."
"Tell me what she looks like and I'll post Jim. He's a careful enough
chap, but you know, young ladies, we have had some trouble about here
lately."
Mary described Reda as best she could, and being assured the man behind
the tree was really some passerby and not a prowler, the girls went
back to the house to find Grace and Madaline.
The two latter could hardly wait to come down the stairs by steps, so
impatient were they to reach Cleo and Mary.
"Oh, look!" exclaimed Grace. "Here's a letter for Mary. We picked it
up out by the gate. It must have been left there just as we came
along. But we couldn't see that it was a letter until we got into the
light. Here, Mary," and she handed over a square, common business
envelope. "It is only addressed to 'Maid Mary,'" finished Grace.
"Come on up to our room, to my room," suggested Cleo, surmising the
letter might be better read privately. "Aunt Audrey has guests on the
porch."
"All right," agreed Mary, crushing the letter in her hands. "Come
along, girls. Whatever it is we may all know it, I don't want any
_new_ secrets; the _old_ ones are heavy enough burdens."
Up in Cleo's room, under the softly shaded light, Mary tore open the
envelope. She knew the hand was laboriously penned by some foreigner.
Then she read aloud:
"Reda is sick. She says you can't come here, but wants her things.
Send the box by express. Reda will come out when she can walk.
"Carmia Frantez."
An address was carefully spelled out, and there followed this
postscript.
"I go to school, and we don't want Janos to get our letters. Dominic
is going to take this out on the train; he is a good honest boy.
Answer to this house by the number I give here. Carmia."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mary, staring at her companions. "That must have been
the man we saw behind the tree. And this Carmia is a little girl I
have heard Reda speak of. Now what shall I do! Poor Reda!" she
sighed. "I hope she is not very sick."
"Let's go the first thing in the morning to pack her box," suggested
Cleo. "Then we can send it to her by express," and this plan was
promptly decided upon.