WHILE THE ORCHESTRA PLAYED
Saturday night came, and when Dale Meredith called, three visions of
loveliness awaited him. Pauline wore peach-colored satin that trailed
nearly to the floor. Irene’s new yellow dress with matching slippers of
gold was truly appropriate for this occasion, and Judy looked like a
sea nymph in a pale shade of green that made people wonder about the
color of her eyes.
“It’s going to be a perfect evening,” Irene sighed ecstatically. “Even
the moon came out to shine on the roof garden.”
It was all that Dale had described—palms, cut flowers, waiters in
long-tailed coats who moved noiselessly between the tables, and a
circle of floor for dancing. Colored lights played on the dancers
tinting them with rainbows. To her surprise, Dale asked Judy for the
first dance.
“Oh, no,” she replied quickly. “Really, I’d rather you danced with the
other girls. You see, I can watch the lights while I’m sitting here.
When I’m home again I won’t be able to watch lights on a roof garden.
And I can always dance.”
Afterwards Judy felt almost sorry she had refused. The orchestra was
playing beautifully, magic to any young girl’s feet. Now and then a
soloist would sing the number as it was played. Judy listened, at first
watching Dale and Irene, then Dale and Pauline as they moved in and out
among the crowd of dancers. Finally, not watching anybody, she just sat
thinking.
It had been a queer day. Strangely enough, Emily Grimshaw had not once
mentioned the missing poetry. She seemed to take it for granted that
neither Dale nor Judy were responsible. But she had gone about her work
with a harassed expression and a droop to her shoulders that Judy had
never noticed before. An opportunity came, and she had asked about Joy
Holiday. She had found out something, too, and now as she sat alone at
the table she puzzled as how best to tell Dale Meredith. At first she
had planned to tell Irene but, on second thought, she had decided that
it might be better for Irene not to know some of the things Emily
Grimshaw had said.
“You must dance this one,” Dale urged her as the music began again.
“Pauline is dancing with a friend of mine who just came in——”
“And I haven’t had a chance to finish this ginger ale,” Irene added.
Dale was curious to hear what she had found out. Judy could tell that
as soon as he spoke to her alone.
“Her Majesty’s grouch gone?” he asked.
“A sort of depression has taken its place,” Judy explained as she swung
into step. The floor was like glass and shone with their reflections.
She could see Irene sitting next to the circle of light, sipping her
ginger ale. There was another girl reflected on the floor beside her.
Judy pointed it out to Dale—that golden reflection on the polished
floor.
Just then the orchestra struck up a new tune. Soon the soloist joined
in, singing the latest popular song:
My own golden girl, there is one, only one,
Who has eyes like the stars and hair like the sun.
In your new yellow gown you’re a dream of delight.
You have danced in my heart on bright slippers tonight ...
“It sounds as if he meant Irene,” Dale whispered. “She’s a ‘golden
girl’ tonight.” He glanced again at her reflection as the orchestra
played on:
I’ll enthrone you my queen in a circular tower
Where frost may not blight my most delicate flower.
And from this hour on, you belong all to me
Though you drown in my love as a bird in the sea.
Irene looked up just as the music stopped. She smiled, and Dale’s eyes
smiled back at her.
“Her hair is like the sun,” he said dreamily and half to himself.
“Yes,” Judy replied. “And her dress and slippers are golden. You’d
almost think the song was written for her. It must have been written
for someone very much like her, and whoever wrote it loved that someone
dearly.”
“What was the poet’s name?” Dale asked.
Judy thought a minute. “It was Sarah Glynn—or Glenn. I don’t quite
remember. I used to think the song was written by a man until Miss
Grimshaw showed me the original manuscript. It’s one of the missing
poems, you know.”
“And you didn’t find out a thing about it?”
“Yes, one thing.”
Dale’s face glowed with interest. “You did? What?”
“That Emily Grimshaw believes Irene’s name is Joy Holiday. I can’t
convince her otherwise. And she is sure Joy Holiday took the poems. You
know it’s ridiculous. Irene isn’t anybody but herself and wouldn’t have
any use in the world for the faded old poetry. Besides, she said she
didn’t take them, and I believe her.”
“Keep on believing her,” Dale advised as he ushered Judy back to the
table. “My own opinion is that your beloved employer has worked a screw
loose somewhere in her upper story.”
Judy giggled, partly from excitement. But the thought would be less
entertaining when she was catering to the old lady’s whims at the
office.
On the way home they discussed the mystery. When questioned, Irene
seemed glad to contribute scraps of the missing poetry for the others
to puzzle over. It was remarkable how much of it she remembered, and
Dale was charmed with the soft tones of her voice as she recited.
When the word “Joy” came up for the fifth time Judy stopped her to
exclaim, “That must mean Joy Holiday, the girl Emily Grimshaw thinks
took the poetry.”
“Then she must have been ‘Golden Girl,’” Irene said unexpectedly.
Dale turned to her in surprise. “That’s right! We never thought of
that. I’m glad to see you so interested in it; I thought at first you
weren’t keen on detecting.”
“I’m not,” Irene admitted. “It’s the poetry I like.”
Judy shuddered. “Those creepy poems! I’d rather read a good murder
mystery any day. At least there’s always a solution. What do you
suppose this poet means when she says ‘Better to crumble in a tower of
flame than sit with ghosts...’? Could the ghosts be memories, too?”
“They could be,” Irene said thoughtfully. “It’s queer, but _Golden
Girl_ mentions a tower.”
“So it does!” Dale exclaimed, growing excited. “It looks as though
there might be some connection. Do you know, girls, we may find the
solution to this whole mystery in that poetry!”
“I have some of the typewritten copies. I’ll hunt through them for
clues,” Judy promised.
------------------------------------------------------------------------