A BUSY INVESTIGATOR
On Monday, Leslie, now elated by her newest plan, relented and called
Doris Monroe on the telephone. While she had been ready to condemn Doris
for going to the hop, nevertheless she had a thriving curiosity to know
what had happened at the dance.
The two girls met by appointment at the Colonial and in a far pleasanter
frame of mind than that of the preceding Thursday.
“I may go to New York,” Leslie announced, directly they had found a
table to suit their difficult fancy and seated themselves. “I’m
expecting a letter or a telegram from”—Leslie checked herself
abruptly—“from a dear friend,” she continued. “Even if I shouldn’t hear
from this friend I may go anyway.”
“And, of course, I can’t get leave of absence to go with you.” Doris
spoke pettishly, dissatisfaction looming large on her perfect features.
“We made a mistake in not going there at Thanksgiving. You could have
gone. It rained too hard for you to attend to any business about your
garage site.”
“That’s all you know about it,” Leslie indulged in one of her silent
laughs. “I was very busy in town on Thanksgiving morning. Don’t get New
Yorkitis, Goldie. We’ll go to little old N. Y. for the Easter vacation.
Maybe our house will be open then,” she predicted hopefully. She felt
signally cheered even by the remote prospect.
Leslie had already begun the composition of a letter to her father. She
wrote, crossed out and re-wrote. She had not yet evolved from her labor
the letter she hoped would soften her father’s unforgiving heart.
“When will you go to New York?” Doris showed signs of mollification. The
promise of an Easter vacation in New York with Leslie to show her the
metropolis was something to be gracious over.
“Don’t know. Not for a week. Perhaps not for two.” Leslie donned her
most indifferent air. She had volunteered as much as she thought wise to
Doris concerning her New York trip. “Tell me about the hop,” she said
craftily, switching the subject from herself to her companion.
“Oh, it was so, so.” Doris shrugged lightly. “My pale blue frock was
sweet. A lot of fuss was made over me. There wasn’t a Beauty contest.”
Her face registered disappointment. “Julia Peyton said she’d start one,
but she couldn’t make it go. The crowd was crazy to dance.”
“She is a big bluff, and her pal, red-headed Miss Carter is a stupid.
Look out for both of them,” was Leslie’s succinct criticism. She had
been introduced to the two sophs by Doris and had mentally decided
against both.
“They have been awfully sweet to me,” Doris returned half offended. She
did not enjoy having her admirers belittled. “So were Miss Page, Miss
Moore and the rest of that new sorority. Miss Page is charming. What a
pity she throws herself away on that horrid Sanford crowd. I was glad
they weren’t at the hop. I’d not have taken charge of the admission fee
if they had been.”
“You would if it had happened to suit you,” Leslie coolly told her. Then
she laughed. “Don’t bristle and get ready to throw quills at me, Goldie.
I know you thoroughly. I must say I’m surprised to hear you raving over
Page when you know Page and Bean are my special abomination.”
“You never said a word about Miss Page,” Doris flashed back.
“She’s a Beanstalk. Wasn’t that enough to let you know what I thought of
her? Aren’t she and Bean always together?”
“I’m not crazy about Miss Page,” Doris jerked out angrily. She purposely
avoided answering Leslie’s questions.
“I’ll say you’re not. There’s only one person you are crazy about.
That’s Doris Monroe,” Leslie said with savage emphasis.
“That’s not fair, nor true,” sputtered Doris. Unguardedly her clear cold
tones rose higher than she knew. “I’m not crazy about myself—or anyone
else. I’d like you best of all, Leslie, if you weren’t so awfully
bullying. I won’t be bullied. That’s all there is to it.”
“So it would appear.” Leslie’s retort was grimly sarcastic. “Sorry you
had to tell the natives about it.” She made an angry movement of the
head toward the next table below them. Around it sat Gussie Forbes,
Calista Wilmot and Flossie Hart, placidly eating ices.
“They couldn’t hear what I said,” Doris defended, half abashed, half
sulky. “I’m sure they couldn’t.”
“You’re the one to worry, if they did,” shrugged Leslie. “It can’t do
one little bit of harm to me. Forget it. What do you know about this bus
trouble the bread and cheese priggies are having? Have the busses really
stopped running between town and the campus? I heard they stopped on
Thanksgiving Day. I haven’t seen you since then.” Leslie made a success
of looking innocent.
She had not divulged to Doris, either before or on Thanksgiving Day, her
part in the bus trouble. Bitter experience with the Sans had taught her
the value of keeping her own counsel. She now listened to Doris’s vague
information concerning the non-running busses, an enigmatical smile
playing upon her lips. She was delighted to hear of the inconvenience
her scheme had caused and determined that it should continue
indefinitely. She had money. Sabani would do as she ordered so long as
plenty of money accompanied her orders.
“Those two were certainly having a fuss,” commented Flossie Hart as the
three sophomores left the tea room, directly after Doris’s angry
outburst.
“I’m going to tell Marjorie about it.” Gussie made the announcement with
great decision.
“Telling tales is a bad practice,” laughingly rebuked Flossie.
“I know why you’re going to.” Calista’s quick mind instantly jumped at a
certain conclusion. “I will, if you don’t.”
“I’m still in the dark,” mourned Flossie. “Kindly enlighten me. Forgive
me for being so stupid. Doesn’t that sound just like Muriel?”
“Yes, Floss. Muriel might think it was herself talking if she happened
to hear you.” Gussie favored her room-mate with a condescending smile.
The three hurried along the street to the main campus gate. “Race you to
the Hall,” challenged Gussie the instant they set foot on the
snow-patched brown of the campus. A playful wind, not too penetrating,
frolicked with them as they ran, blowing added bloom into their cheeks.
Aside from the one remark Flossie had made about Doris and Leslie Cairns
nothing else had been said. As members of the new Travelers the Bertram
girls were endeavoring to live up to one of the basic rules of their
code; never to discuss anyone for the interest derived from the
discussion. The discussion must come as necessary to the promotion of
welfare.
“I hope Marjorie’s in.” Gussie was presently pounding vigorously on the
door of 15, a chum at each elbow.
“Why not leave us the door?” blandly inquired Jerry as she opened it to
the vociferous demand for admission. “Is it really you, Gentleman Gus? I
haven’t seen you for as much as three hours. The last occasion was at
lunch.” Jerry smirked soulfully at her callers.
“Where’s Marjorie?” Gussie peered over Jerry’s head and into the room.
“We’ve a bit of special information. You’re privileged to hear it too,
Jeremiah?”
“She has gone to Baretti’s. She was to meet Robin and go there. They had
an appointment with Guiseppe. He wrote Marjorie one of his one-line
funny little notes. I think he has news for Page and Dean.”
“Um-m.” Gussie looked undecided for a moment. “We’ll come back later.”
She looked first at her chums for conformation, then at Jerry. “Let us
know when she comes, Jerry. We love you dearly enough to hang around in
your room till Marjorie comes, but there’s a time for study, et cetera.
Only I don’t know when it will be if not now. You may pound on my door
as hard as I pounded on yours, but no harder.”
“Suit yourself,” Jerry waved an affable hand. “I can live without you. I
have a letter to write. I’d enjoy perfect quiet.”
The three sophomores went gaily down the hall. Jerry again shut herself
in her room to write a letter which she had for some time been searching
for an excuse to write. That very morning in the corridor of Hamilton
Hall she had found it. It had come in the shape of a particularly sheer,
dainty, hand-embroidered handkerchief, bearing the monogram L. M. W.
Instantly her mind had began to canvass among the initials of her
friends for L. M. W. Intending to place it in the students’ “Lost and
Found,” after class Jerry had tucked it away in her hand bag and hurried
to her recitation.
During class her mind continued to revert to the initials L. M. W. Jerry
thoroughly enjoyed being baffled temporarily by a problem which she was
confident she would solve eventually. In the midst of her cogitations
she chanced to call to mind the name of a student whose initials were
surely L. M. W. Whereupon a beatific smile paused on Jerry’s face for a
second. She promptly forgot her surroundings to dwell triumphantly
instead upon the beauty of a certain stunt she determined to “put over”
as soon as she returned to her room. Nor did she visit the “Lost and
Found” on her way to the Hall.
Seated at the study table Jerry eyed the dainty handkerchief
meditatively. Should she write to L. M. W., whom she hoped was Louise M.
Walker, merely asking the sophomore if she had lost the beautiful bit of
linen, or should she fold the handkerchief inside a note she would
write, asking Miss Walker to place the article in the “Lost and Found”
should it not belong to her? Jerry considered the problem owlishly, then
wrote:
“DEAR MISS WALKER:
“Have you lost a handkerchief? I am enclosing one I found, in
the corridor of Hamilton Hall, bearing your initials. If it is
not yours, will you kindly place it in the ‘Lost and Found’?
“Sincerely,
“GERALDINE MACY.”
“There! She’ll be an untutored savage if she ignores my kindly little
act,” Jerry decided with a grin. “If I wrote asking her if she’d lost
the handkerchief she might ’phone me, or come here. That’s not what I’m
after. She ought to write me a line of acknowledgment. If she
should—I’ll know one thing that I don’t know now.”
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