ANNA’S DISAPPEARANCE
It was Marjorie’s turn to work in the afternoon the following day, so
she decided to sleep late in the morning, in order to rest from the
excitement of the previous day. Not desiring any breakfast, she was
still in bed at ten o’clock when Marie Louise burst into her room with a
startling piece of news.
“Marj!” she cried, breathlessly, “your little dog is dead!”
“What little dog?” demanded Marjorie, entirely forgetting the stray
animal that had come to the tea-house with the stranger.
“That little dog you fed yesterday, and allowed to sleep in the garage!”
“What’s that?” asked Marjorie, recalling the creature vaguely. “Tell me
about it.”
Marie Louise sat down on the bed and made a great effort to speak
calmly.
“Well, you know Lily and Florence and I were scheduled to be down at the
tea-house this morning to make sandwiches, and Lily decided to go get
the car at the garage. While she was waiting for the man to finish
washing it, a dog came in, and that reminded her of the little stray one
that came to you yesterday.”
“Yes—yes—go on!” urged Marjorie. “It wasn’t the same dog, was it?”
“Oh, no indeed! But she told us the story of the old man, and the dog he
picked up, and his weird tale about the horse.”
“I’m glad she told you before you got to the tea-house where Anna could
hear!” remarked Marjorie. “If you girls scare her away with all this
rubbish—”
“But it isn’t rubbish, Marjorie!” interrupted Marie Louise. “When we got
to the tea-house, Lily suggested that we go out to the garage just for
fun to see whether the dog was still there—or whether anything had
happened to him. And, as I said before, _we found him dead_!”
“Really?” asked Marjorie, incredulously. “Had he been shot, or hurt in
any way?”
“No, we looked closely, and we couldn’t find a single mark on his body.
He must have died of heart failure!”
“Poor little fellow!” murmured Marjorie. “Well, I’m glad he got one good
square meal before he died.”
“Marj,” asked Marie Louise in surprise, “aren’t you concerned with the
reason for his death?”
“I can pretty well guess it,” replied the other, lightly. “He probably
was starving when he came to us yesterday, and then all that food was
just about too much for his stomach—all at once. We ought to have had
better sense, and fed him more gradually. But he seemed to enjoy it so!”
“Marj, look me straight in the eyes and tell me you don’t believe there
was any other reason for his death!”
Marjorie smilingly acquiesced; she really was sincere in her refusal to
attach any significance to the incident.
“I honestly don’t believe one word of all that supernatural stuff!” she
said, with assurance. “Now—what did you do with the dog?”
“Left him there, of course. Wouldn’t one of the boys come and bury him?”
“Yes, I guess Jack could run over during his noon hour, if I phoned him.
But tell me, Marie Louise, how much of this does Anna know?”
“Not a single word of it! We knew that you would be anxious to keep it
from her, so we didn’t say a thing about the ghost story. Of course she
knows the little dog is dead.”
“Naturally,” observed Marjorie.
Sleep was out of the question now, so, after persuading Marie Louise to
return to her work at the tea-house, Marjorie thoughtfully began to
dress. She did not for one moment share the other girl’s fears in regard
to the little creature’s death, but she could not help wondering at the
coincidence. It was too bad, she thought, that it had to happen, for it
would make Lily and Marie Louise and all of the timid girls more timid.
She longed to make some experiment, to prove to them that there was
nothing to it, and yet she did not know what to do. For obvious other
reasons it would not be safe for her to stay there alone all night—in a
house so near a public highway, where automobiles passed by with such
frequency. And yet she knew of no other way to prove the harmlessness of
the place to the girls.
At the end of that day—a day more successful in every way than the
preceding one,—she talked the matter over with John Hadley, and decided
to do nothing at all. He was naturally of the same opinion as she was,
that the thing was merely one of those strange coincidences which so
often occur, and did not consider it worth any notice. The affair would
blow over more quickly, he said, if ignored; in the busy days that the
girls had before them, they would not have time to worry over such silly
matters. And so the thing was dropped—for the time being.
By the time that two weeks had passed, each day bringing more and more
patrons to the tea-house, and thus demanding more work from the girls,
most of them had forgotten the little incident of the dog’s death, and
the stories which were associated with the place. On one occasion,
several of the girls drove there with John Hadley after dark, but they
found the house exactly like other houses, and laughed at their former
superstitions. Had it not been for Anna, who came to Marjorie one day
with a request, the matter might have been dropped for the rest of the
summer.
It was one morning in the first week of July that Marjorie, coming to
the tea-house early, found the girl busily mixing one of those maple
cakes for which they had already become famous. She looked up smilingly
as she saw Marjorie enter the kitchen alone.
“Good morning, Miss Wilkinson,” she said, cheerily. “I am glad to see
you by yourself, because I want to ask you a favor. Could our crowd of
girls have the loan of this house next Saturday night for a party for
our friends? Of course we’d clean up afterwards, and not disturb
anything.”
Marjorie hesitated a moment, in doubt as to the right thing to do. It
was not that she did not want Anna to use the house—there was no reason
in the world why her faithful service should not be rewarded—but she
wondered whether an evening affair of this sort would look well for the
tea-house. People were so critical; they might not believe that the
party was an innocent one.
“Would you have a chaperone or two, Anna?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, of course—if you wanted us to. My aunt was coming anyhow, and
perhaps Mrs. Munsen would help us out.”
“I’m sure she would,” said Marjorie. “All right, then, I’m perfectly
willing. But we couldn’t very well close the tea-house early that
evening—Saturday night’s a rather important one, you know.”
“Oh, there will be plenty of time!” said Anna. “We wouldn’t want to
start the party before nine o’clock—or even half-past. Thanks so much,
Miss Wilkinson.”
When Marjorie related the incident at lunch time, it instantly brought
to the girls’ minds the stories connected with the tea-house.
“Maybe we’ll find out whether there’s anything to them,” remarked Lily.
“No, we can’t, either!” said Marie Louise. “Because, don’t you remember,
it’s early morning—just before dawn—when the ghost is supposed to walk.
And the party will be over before then.”
“Let us hope so!” put in Mrs. Munsen. “As long as I’m to be a chaperone,
I’d like to get in bed before morning.”
“Oh, the party will have to break up at midnight,” said Marjorie. “It
wouldn’t look well for the tea-house to have it last late. You see
everybody knows it is run by Girl Scouts—and that we’re not very old—”
“Mere babies!” laughed Alice.
“You mean for a baby!” corrected Daisy. “I don’t want you to forget
Betty!”
“We aren’t likely to, with you around,” teased Florence. “By the way, I
had a letter from mother and she wrote that she went to see Mrs. Trawle.
Everything’s fine, she says, very neat and clean, and the baby’s growing
beautifully.”
“Then our work is really worth while, isn’t it?” asked Alice.
“Yes, I think so,” said Marjorie; “I know the cause is worth while, but
I can tell you better later on whether we are actually making money.
It’s hard to judge so soon—after so big an outlay.”
She looked a little anxious as she spoke, and Lily, who could always
read her chum’s face like a book, wondered whether she were not more
worried over the proposition that she let the others see.
“Well, we’re having a good time, anyway!” she remarked, gaily. “And we
should worry whether dad ever gets his five hundred back!”
“Oh, Lil!” said Marjorie, reproachfully. “You know we’d never do that!”
Lily, however, was not satisfied by Marjorie’s manner, and noticed that
she asked frequently for her car, so that she might do her marketing at
the more economical stores, and spent more and more time each evening
over her accounts. John, too, found her unusually preoccupied, and
hardly ever succeeded in getting her thoughts entirely away from the
tea-house.
On the following Saturday evening, however, she consented to go to see a
moving picture with him, more because she wanted to stay up until Mrs.
Munsen came home from Anna’s party than because she wanted recreation.
They drove into town in the car, to attend one of the larger theatres;
so, during their ride through the park they found plenty of time for
conversation.
“Are you beginning to be worried about your finances, Marjorie?” John
asked.
“Well, I really don’t know,” she replied. “We spend money as fast as we
make it, but of course our business is increasing. But now the girls are
beginning to talk about vacations, and that may mean hiring extra help.”
“Oh, you’ll be all right, I’m sure. By the way, that cook you have is a
jewel, isn’t she? She certainly concocts some of the most delicious
mixtures!”
“Yes; everything Anna cooks turns out well. And I have only to read her
a recipe once, and she makes it to perfection. I sincerely hope we can
keep her.”
“Well, I guess you can. Isn’t she having a party at the tea-house
tonight?”
“Yes,” answered Marjorie. “And that reminds me, I would like to stop for
Mrs. Munsen—she’s chaperoning them, you know—on our way back.”
“Certainly,” replied John, always glad to be of service.
Marjorie found the evening more enjoyable than she had anticipated;
sitting in the artificially cooled theatre, watching a good picture, and
listening to the full tones of a pipe organ, she forgot her anxieties.
John insisted upon ice-cream after the performance was over, for, as he
reminded her, they would not want to get to the party too early.
They found the young people still dancing when they drove into the yard,
but Anna assured them that refreshments had been served, and that the
festivities would end in a few minutes. The girl’s aunt was still there,
so Mrs. Munsen felt justified in leaving.
“The only thing I don’t approve of,” remarked the housekeeper, when they
were on their way home, “is for Anna and her aunt to stay there all
night. I had to give my permission—there was no real reason why they
shouldn’t—”
“They’re sensible people!” remarked Marjorie. “At least if they don’t
mind those cots. Because they’ll be right there in the morning to start
clearing up!”
“But if there is anything to those stories—”
“Oh, Mrs. Munsen!” protested Marjorie. “You surely don’t believe them!”
“No, but I’d just as soon nobody stayed there all night. Of course I
didn’t say anything—I didn’t want to frighten Anna—”
“I should hope not!” cried Marjorie. “For you know she’s priceless!”
So late was the hour that she did not invite John to come in, but
hurried immediately to her own room. She was very tired, and wanted to
get as much sleep as possible; she crawled into bed very quietly, in
order that she might not arouse Ethel. She sincerely hoped that she
would not be disturbed until morning.
But her hopes were short-lived, for less than an hour had passed when
she was sharply awakened by the continued ringing of the door-bell. She
sat up immediately, reaching for her slippers and kimona. But by the
time she arrived at the head of the stairs, she heard the door being
opened.
“Oh, Mrs. Munsen!” cried a shrill, female voice. “Something’s happened
to Anna! Something awful! She’s gone!”
“Gone where?” asked the terrified housekeeper, in a hoarse voice.
“I don’t know where!” gasped the woman.
By this time all of the girls were awake, and had gathered at the foot
of the stairs. The visitor sank suddenly to the floor in a faint.
“Bring some water—and aromatic spirits!” directed Mrs. Munsen, as
Florence and Alice raised the woman to the couch. “It is Anna’s aunt,”
she explained. “She and Anna planned to stay at the tea-house all
night!”
“The ghost!” whispered Lily, in a tone of deepest woe.
“No, no! It can’t be!” cried Marjorie, suddenly taking the blame upon
herself for not warning Anna. “Oh, I can’t believe it!”
“But how are we to know what did happen?” demanded Florence.
“We won’t know till morning,” replied Mrs. Munsen. “The woman is
regaining consciousness, but she needs to be put to bed immediately.”
“But what about Anna?” asked Marjorie.
“She’s gone!” gasped the woman, partially taking in the girl’s words.
“Too late! Too late!”
“We better dress immediately and go down to the tea-house!” said
Marjorie, desperately.
“No,” said Ethel, “I’ll phone the police to go—they could do a great
deal more than we could!”
Marjorie acquiesced; and when, half an hour later, they called to say
that they had searched the place thoroughly, and found no traces of the
missing girl, the scouts went to bed. But though quiet reigned
throughout the house, no one slept very much.