“This way, officer. Here’s the suite. Judy!” Peter Dobbs shouted.
One of the policemen rattled the door.
“It’s locked,” he announced, “and nobody answers. Give me your night stick, partner.”
The sound of splintering wood announced that the door was open. The center panel, with Emily Grimshaw’s unique knocker, fell to the floor and revealed the face of Jasper Crosby, white as a ghost. Judy lay limp at his feet.
“He’s choked her!” Peter said between set teeth.
Before Jasper had time to turn his head he had him by the collar. One of the policemen clapped handcuffs over his wrists. The other two jerked him to a corner while Peter lifted Judy gently in his arms and placed her on the sofa.
“Brave little girl,” he whispered and kissed her closed eyes.
She opened them, hardly believing that this was the same boy who had shared so many adventures with her. She had imagined Arthur kissing her—sometime when they grew older—but not Peter.
“I’m always needing someone to rescue me,” she said, trying to laugh.
“And doesn’t it make any difference who it is?” he asked.
“Yes, a little,” she returned lightly. “I called you, didn’t I?”
He studied her face, looking sorry about something, and after a few minutes he rose and said gruffly, “Come, we must hear what Jasper Crosby has to say for himself.”
She followed him to the corner where the prisoner sat sullenly on a chair. At first he would say nothing, but later when Judy questioned him about the funeral his attitude changed.
“There’s no secret about that,” he declared. “My sister is the one who died. I’ll give you the names of the doctor and undertaker to verify what I say.”
“Then the funeral was Sarah Glenn’s?”
Jasper nodded.
“But what became of Irene? We know she went to your sister’s house and we know she never returned. Where is she?”
Jasper Crosby grinned. “I’ll tell you if you’re so anxious to know. I thought she was a mite young to be traveling about New York. Yes, Miss, a mite young and irresponsible. So I sent her back to her father. Even paid her train fare and saw her off. Pretty decent of me, don’t you think, seeing she’s a perfect stranger?”
“When did this happen?” Judy demanded.
Jasper Crosby let his eyes rove thoughtfully about the room before he answered. He seemed content that the girl, not the policemen, was questioning him. As Judy’s questions were pertinent they, too, seemed content.
“I sent Irene to her father some time ago,” he said finally.
“You were seen with her yesterday morning,” said Judy.
“Ah, yes. Yesterday morning. That was it. I sent her home yesterday morning.”
“Your two stories don’t jibe,” one of the policemen snapped.
“Yesterday morning is some time ago to me,” Jasper Crosby replied suavely. “Much has happened since then. There has been a funeral,” he chuckled, “quite a funeral, too. Miss Grimshaw had a gay time of it all right, all right.”
“Did Irene attend the funeral?” Judy asked, ignoring his last statement.
He looked surprised. “Oh, no indeed. She did not attend.”
“You were pretty careful to keep her out of sight, weren’t you?”
“She was with my sister constantly,” he replied. “She had no desire to leave the house as long as my sister needed her.”
Judy turned to Peter. “It doesn’t sound true, does it?”
“It’s the blackest lie I ever heard,” he declared vehemently. “He can’t tell us that Irene stayed with a crazy woman of her own free will and made no attempt to get in touch with her friends. There’s been crooked work somewhere. If he sent Irene home, where is she now?” Peter questioned.
“Perhaps she’s visiting someone else,” Judy suggested hopefully.
Peter shook his head. “I don’t believe it. In any case she would have been in touch with you.”
The policemen agreed that Jasper’s story was not a very convincing one. Dale Meredith came in while they were still questioning him. Horace and Arthur were with him.
“I’ll get something out of this bird,” Horace declared. “Officer, have I your permission to question him?”
“Fire away,” the policeman replied, “and more power to you!”
Horace turned to Jasper with flashing eyes.
“What did Irene say the day she came, and if, as you say, she is not your niece how did she happen to enter your sister’s house?”
Jasper shrugged his shoulders and made a gesture indicating wheels going around.
“They cast spells, you know. Crazy people do. My sister’s eyes took possession of Irene. Hypnotized her completely. I never saw two people so attached to each other. Crazy as loons, both of them.”
“Irene Lang’s mind was perfectly sound,” Horace denied.
“I tell you my sister hypnotized her,” Jasper maintained.
As Judy listened to the explanation that her brother drew from Jasper Crosby, she found herself almost believing it. Sarah Glenn’s reaction to Irene’s sudden appearance had been similar to Emily Grimshaw’s, only more pronounced.
Jasper had been the one to open the door. Irene had inquired for her grandmother, but before he could speak the poet herself had rushed forward, almost smothering Irene in a tearful embrace.
“My Joy! My Joy! I knew you would come back.”
Then she had turned to Jasper with accusing eyes. “I told you the child wasn’t dead. Angels don’t die. My darling! Darling!”
Again Irene had submitted to her embrace.
No amount of reasoning could dissuade the old lady from her queer conviction. She had seen her daughter’s dead body, Jasper declared, but in spite of that she claimed this living girl as hers. Irene had answered to the name of Joy, pretended to remember touching little things out of the past, even fondled old playthings to please the poet. Like Golden Girl in the song she, too, had been a princess enthroned in her circular tower. There she had stayed. Jasper brought food, clothing, all the little things that a girl might need. He even moved a bed into the tower room so that she could sleep there. He called her Joy, too, to please his sister and pretended to think that she was the dead Joy Holiday returned.
“But the last few nights,” he continued his narrative, “she caused some trouble. My sister died, very peacefully, with Irene at her bedside. But after that the girl refused to go to her room. She had an obsession that the tower wasn’t safe and refused to sleep there.”
“Well, is it safe?” Peter charged.
“It’s been propped up ever since my sister tried to kill herself and set fire to the house. Sure, it’s safe!”
“As long as the props hold.”
Jasper Crosby gave a dry chuckle with no mirth in it. There was something maniacal about it—something that frightened Judy. She spoke to Peter in a low tone.
“He’s trying to prove that Irene is insane just as he tried to prove, years ago, that her mother was dead. This time we won’t let him get away with it.”
“You bet we won’t!” Peter, Arthur and Dale joined in agreement.
The policemen promised to make a check-up of train passengers to determine if any part of Jasper Crosby’s story might be true.
“He’s a mighty slippery prisoner,” one of them said. “If he hadn’t assaulted the girl there I doubt if we would be able to bring charges against him.”
“Then I’m glad he did it,” Judy said unexpectedly.
Judy had a threefold reason for being glad.
She had accomplished Jasper Crosby’s arrest, and except for a few bruises had suffered no ill effects from his frenzied choking.
In spite of doubts and suspicions as to the veracity of the prisoner’s story, part of it must be true. Judy even dared hope that they were near the end of their search for Irene.
Also she was glad that Peter Dobbs had wanted to kiss her. It would be a new confidence to tell Irene when she came home.
All of them were saying “when” now—Arthur and Horace were busy mapping out plans for the day. They telephoned back to Farringdon to find out if anyone had seen Irene. The telephone calls were expensive and brought nothing but disappointment.
Even Pauline Faulkner seemed impressed when she heard of the terrifying things that had happened.
“And here I was in school, not helping at all, but today,” she declared, “I’ll make up for it. There isn’t any more school until graduation and I’m free to help you. Emily Grimshaw’s work has waited so long that there must be a deluge of unread manuscripts.”
“It has waited so long that it can easily wait a little longer,” Judy said.
“But isn’t it important?”
“Not as important as finding Irene.”
“I know, but haven’t you done everything you can do? The boys can keep in touch with the police while I stay here and help you.”
It really was best that way. And how kind of Pauline to offer to help! Dale suggested that she and Judy both go home and rest as soon as the work was done. But, unfortunately, it was Mary’s day off.
“We’ll bring in the dinner,” Horace promised. “Any of you fellows know how to cook?”
Peter Dobbs volunteered.
“And just to make things even,” Arthur put in, “I’ll pay for it.”
Judy laughed and felt better. She tackled the work with some of her old enthusiasm and succeeded in interesting Pauline in an unread manuscript.
After about an hour the telephone rang. It was Dale.
“Sorry,” he said, “but it’s beginning to look as if Jasper Crosby made up his story. No tickets to Farringdon have been purchased for a month.”
“Are you at the police station?”
“Yes, and they’ve made a thorough check-up. The only answer is that Jasper Crosby lied. And he probably lied about Irene, too. I’d like to wring his neck!”
“So would I. But that’s probably better left to the state. I only hope they make a good job of it. If they can prove that he lied it will make some difference in their treatment of him.”
Undoubtedly it did make a difference as a detective called back later, and Judy found herself telling him even more than she had told Lieutenant Collins. The one thing she omitted was the fact that she believed Irene had stolen her grandmother’s poetry. It was Jasper Crosby she was trying to have convicted, not Irene.
The case was being expertly handled. The knowledge that Jasper Crosby was in jail, charged with assaulting Judy and kidnaping Irene, was some satisfaction. They would keep him right there, too, until Irene’s whereabouts were known.
The day dragged on. Emily Grimshaw’s work seemed to take longer now that Judy had lost heart again. It was good to have Pauline there helping. She read. She typed and when everything else was done she asked Judy if she might see her carbon copies of Sarah Glenn’s poetry. “I wanted to read them myself,” she said in explanation. “It’s a slim chance, I know, but it might help us in our search.”
“I’ve studied and studied this one myself,” Judy said as she handed her a copy of that first poem Emily Grimshaw had given her as a test. No wonder she had said there was too much truth in it! The tower of flame, the ghosts—all, all of it might be true. Even the “human tomcat” that the poet had mentioned they believed to mean Irene’s father, Tom Lang.
Now, through these very poems, Irene had found her mother’s people. It would be such a thrilling, romantic thing to happen if only they could talk it over with her. If only they knew where she was. If only she hadn’t taken the manuscripts....
Judy showed Pauline the poem that Jasper Crosby had brought in after Irene’s disappearance. Now that they knew where Irene must have been, they both saw new significance in the lines:
“Jasper Crosby never killed her with love,” Pauline said bitterly. “I only hope——”
“Don’t say it, Pauline!”
She looked sorry. “I won’t say anything more. We’ll just keep on hoping.”
Five o’clock came and Judy closed her desk with a sigh.
“We’ve worked hard,” she said to Pauline, “but I just feel as if another day has been wasted. While we sit here who knows what may be happening to Irene?”
“At least we know that beastly uncle of hers can’t be hurting her any more.”
Judy thought of Pauline’s statement in connection with death—not to be hurt any more. Old people wanted that kind of peace, that freedom from pain and fear. Death could be kind to old people who were through with romance and adventure. But Irene had so much to live for.
“The boys must be there ahead of us,” Judy remarked as she and Pauline came in sight of the house. “See, someone has raised the window.”
“They probably burnt something,” Pauline said shortly.
Apparently she had misgivings concerning Peter’s ability as a cook. It was early for them to be home. Why, it couldn’t have been an hour since they left the police station in Parkville and there would be shopping for them to do besides.
As they turned down the corridor that led to Pauline’s room Judy heard a familiar yowl. Could it be Blackberry asking to be let out?
“But he wasn’t in,” Pauline said. “Don’t you remember? We left him on the roof garden.”
“Maybe the boys let him in. But it’s queer they’re not making any noise. You open the door, Pauline,” Judy whispered. “I have the strangest feeling that something is about to happen.”
Pauline hesitated, glanced at Judy and caught her hand as the door swung open. Neither of the girls had touched it!
Pauline stood transfixed while Judy gathered Irene in her arms. If people fainted for joy she would have done it then. At first there were no explanations. Neither Judy nor Pauline expected any. The supreme realization that Irene was there—alive, safe—sufficed. Kisses were mingled with tears as Pauline, too, pressed closer to the golden-haired girl. If they had ever doubted Irene’s sincerity, suspected her of anything, it was all forgotten at the moment.
“It’s so good to see you again,” Irene said at last. “There was nobody but Blackberry here to welcome me when I came in. It was almost as quiet as the house in Parkville after my grandmother died.”
“Poor you!” Judy cried. “We found out all about that wicked uncle of yours and he’s in jail now. Believe me, Irene, he wanted to get your grandmother’s property and would have done anything to be rid of you. Oh, I’m so—glad—you’re safe——”
But Judy was sobbing again, clinging to Irene as if she might vanish if she released her hand. Together she and Pauline led her to the sofa where each of them found a seat close beside her.
It was growing dark and Judy lit the bridge lamp. It shone down on Irene’s hair. Something brighter than lamplight glowed, suddenly, in her eyes.
“Where’s Dale?” she asked. “Has he missed me?”
“He thinks of nothing but you,” Judy answered. “Horace and Peter and Arthur are here, too. All of them were hunting for you.”
“How thrilling! Did they like Dale, too?”
“Everybody likes him,” Pauline put in. “Lucky girl! They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and I shouldn’t wonder if he fell in love with you.”
“Really?”
“I’m almost sure of it,” Pauline replied. She spoke softly and only Irene heard her. Judy ran to the window.
“They’re coming! I heard their voices. Dale!” she called down to the street. “Arthur! Peter! Dale! Hurry!”
That was all she said. That was all she needed to say. The trembling joy in her voice told them the rest. In less time than seemed possible Dale burst through the half-open door.
“Irene!” he cried. “Am I dreaming or is this my lost princess, my Golden Girl?”
“What’s he talking about?” Horace said gruffly to Judy. “Are they engaged?”
Judy smiled, watching their embrace. “Not yet, but we can guess they will be before long.”
Dale and Irene faced the others. Radiance was in their faces.
“It’s been quite a detective story,” Dale said, “and this is the happy ending. Now, Irene, dear, suppose we go out on the roof garden—all of us—and you explain everything. I’m perfectly sure you can.”
The others followed, eager to hear the story they had nearly given up hope of hearing from Irene’s own lips. It proved to be almost identical with Jasper Crosby’s story. Irene had not been forced to stay in her grandmother’s house. She had stayed of her own free will because the old lady was sick and needed her.
“At first it was fun, almost like playing princess,” Irene said. “I let her call me Joy and I called her Mother. I pretended to remember things my own mother must have done. I read aloud from her books and wore her dresses. This is one.” She touched the simple white silk dress she was wearing and explained that she had intended to wear it to her grandmother’s funeral. “But then Uncle Jasper decided that I must not go. He said that being with her when she died had affected my mind. I believed him then but now that I’m home again I feel sure that it wasn’t true. Still, there’s something like a magnet that just draws me back to that dear old house.”
“Your grandmother’s house?”
“My house now, isn’t it, Peter?”
The young law student looked up with a start. He had forgotten all about the will in the excitement of having Irene safe again. But she had changed so! He couldn’t quite understand this new, beautiful Irene—this Irene who was an heiress.
“Why, er—yes,” he said. “I believe everything is legally yours, even the royalties from that new book Emily Grimshaw is publishing.”
Dale and Judy looked first at each other and then at Irene. Both of them were wondering the same thing. How could Emily Grimshaw have the book published if the manuscripts were missing? Dale was the first to put the thought into words.
“They aren’t missing any more,” Irene replied and darted back inside the door. When the others had joined her in Pauline’s sitting room she opened a small suitcase that stood on the floor and gave the papers a toss onto the table.
“There they are—every blessed one of them. I packed them with my things so Uncle Jasper wouldn’t see me take them. Why don’t you give them all back to Emily Grimshaw in the morning?”
“But what will I tell her?” gasped Judy. “I can’t tell her you stole them. What will I say? Oh, why did you do it? Can’t you see all the trouble it has caused? Really, Irene, you’re dreadfully hard-hearted.”
“Am I?” The golden-haired girl smiled wanly. “And all the time I thought you were, not to come and see me.”
“How could we have come?”
“I told you in my letter. It explained everything but now, oh, now it’s going to be harder to explain.”
“What letter? Did you get a letter?” Dale turned and demanded of Judy.
“Of course I didn’t.”
“Then how did you find out where I was?”
Peter explained this question to Irene. He told her about the radio broadcast, the police activities and how earnestly all of them had searched. It seemed that the tables had turned and they, not Irene, were doing the explaining. But what could have happened to Irene’s letter? She said she had written three.
“I gave them to Uncle Jasper to mail——”
Judy interrupted with a little cry. “There’s your explanation. He must have destroyed them. The miserable old cheat! Was he mean to you, Irene?”
She sighed. “This is the part I hardly dare tell. He made me think it was an—an hallucination. You know, like crazy people get. But I was in the tower lying on my bed. I’d been up all night and he told me to rest. It was right after Grandma died. Well, he moved the bed across the room—way across and I felt a little queer as if it weren’t quite safe. I knew the tower was only propped up. Then he got ugly. He told me I was going insane. He said if I didn’t lie in the bed he’d tie me there. So I lay down. In a little while I heard some one rapping on the door and I ran to the window. I saw you, Judy, but you didn’t hear me call. You were almost out of sight. Then I looked down, and, as sure as I’m alive, there was Uncle Jasper taking the props out from under the tower. One of them fell and struck him across the chest. I think,” she added, turning to Peter, “that there must be marks on his chest to prove that what I say is true.”
“It’s a serious charge, Irene. He could do twenty years for that. But he deserves it if what you say is true.”
“It’s true. And, oh, I was so frightened. I ran downstairs and I guess I was screaming—or crying—or both. Anyway, he quit hammering at the props. He had a sledge hammer and a long beam to work with. That was so the tower wouldn’t fall on him.”
“You remember that long beam we used to break down the door?” Dale interrupted her to ask.
Both Judy and Peter nodded. Their faces were grave. Blackberry, who possessed a cat’s inborn capacity for sympathy, came forth from his corner and looked up at Irene. She patted him as she went on talking.
“Uncle Jasper got scared then. He said he’d have to get me back to my father in a hurry. He explained how he was really putting more props under the tower and said it was because my mind wasn’t right that I had been afraid he would kill me. He told me that if I didn’t want to go to the insane asylum I’d keep still about the whole thing. I said I would but it wasn’t true and I’m sure he didn’t believe me. Then he took me riding in the car but he didn’t take the road for Farringdon. I don’t know where he intended to take me but wherever it was, I didn’t want to go. So, when he had to slow down for a railroad crossing, I jumped out of the car. He was busy driving and didn’t miss me until afterwards. By that time I had started hiking. So here I am and I guess that explains everything.”
Irene sank back in her chair and looked, suddenly, tired. Judy realized that she must be hungry too. She remembered the packages that the boys had brought in, and all of them set about preparing food and something for Irene to drink. She wanted coffee with plenty of cream. The same Irene, dear child! Judy didn’t care if she never explained about the poetry.
The meal that Peter Dobbs cooked and served was a merry one. Truly, it was an occasion for rejoicing.
“A party after all,” Dale said. He told Irene about the other party and how they waited and waited.
Judy sat between Arthur and Peter dividing her attention between them. She rose, lifted her glass of water and gave a toast:
“Happiness for all of us! Here’s how!”
Her gayety was contagious. Everybody was laughing now. It was good to be able to laugh with Irene again. She was just meant to be spoiled and laughed with Dale declared.
Horace brought in dessert. Like children at a birthday party everybody screamed, “Ice cream! Hurray for ice cream!”
“And cake,” he added. “It’s a little late, Irene, but we might call this your birthday cake.”
He placed a foamy creation of walnuts and chocolate at her place. She cut the first slice for Dale and the second slice for Horace.
“Now you, Judy,” she went on, flourishing the knife, “and a little crumb for Blackberry.”
The cat caught it in his paws and played with it, like a mouse, before he ate it.
“To think that I used to dislike him,” Dale said apologetically.
Everyone was served now. Judy remembered the two extra candles left over from the party that hadn’t been a party. She brought them out and Irene lit them. How golden everything looked in their light! Irene’s eyes shone. Her hair was a halo around her head.
“You’re beautiful,” Dale said softly.
Judy heard him and smiled, sharing their happiness. She turned to the others. “It’s worth waiting for—this kind of a party, isn’t it, people?”
“We’ll dance afterwards,” Pauline suggested. She excused herself to turn on the radio, hoping to tune in on Irene’s song. But before she found anything worth while the doorbell rang.
“I’ll answer it,” Irene cried. “I feel like surprising somebody and I’m sure, whoever it is, they’ll be terribly surprised.”
They were all watching Irene as she danced toward the door, quite unprepared for the kind of surprise that awaited her on the other side.
She swung it open. There, framed in the doorway, stood Her Majesty, Emily Grimshaw.
“I’ve come to settle with you, Joy Holiday,” she shouted and raised a threatening finger at Irene.
The three boys stared in blank bewilderment. They had never seen this strange old lady and imagined that she must be an escaped inmate from some near-by asylum—except that she had used the now familiar name, Joy Holiday.
Chairs were pushed back from the table. Dale Meredith rose and strode over to the door, followed by Judy and Peter.
“What’s this?” the indignant young author demanded. “Miss Grimshaw, what’s the big idea of storming in here and frightening Irene?”
“Who has a better right?” she retorted belligerently.
Taking her gently by the shoulders, Peter pushed her into a chair. “Sit down quietly now while we finish dinner. No need to raise a row about it. I’m sure Irene will be glad to listen to what you have to say.”
“Irene, nothing!” she fumed. “That girl’s Johanna Holiday, the wench who made away with her mother’s poetry. I know you!” She pointed a shaking finger at the trembling Irene.
Judy, standing near the old lady, caught a whiff of her breath and guessed that she had taken an overdose from the bottle that she called her tonic. She had noticed how frequently her employer resorted to the stimulant. After a few drinks she always talked freely of spirits. But Judy was in no mood for listening to ghost stories now.
“I know you!” the indomitable old lady repeated. “I saw you, Joy Holiday, just before your mother’s funeral. Break her heart while she lived and then come back to gloat over her when she’s dead. You’re a devil, you are. Only devils are immune to death.”
Dale moved closer to Irene as if to ward off the blows that must come to her senses with the old lady’s words.
“We’ve got to get her out of here,” Peter whispered hoarsely to Dale.
“No! No!” Judy protested. “We must be civil to her. There’s some black coffee on the stove. That may sober her up a bit, and after all we did want to see her.”
“Then let’s get Irene out of the room.”
“You take her out on the roof garden, Dale,” Judy begged. “I’m used to being alone with Miss Grimshaw.”
He protested at first but when he saw that the black coffee was doing its work he finally slipped quietly out of the door, an arm about Irene’s waist.
“What’s the trouble?” Horace whispered. He and Arthur couldn’t understand Emily Grimshaw’s grievance.
“Too much excitement,” Judy stated briefly. “She was at the poet’s funeral and thinks Irene is her mother’s ghost. We’ll be able to reason with her after a bit.”
“But what does she mean about the poetry?” Horace insisted.
Judy, however, would say nothing more. She turned her attention to the old lady now, endeavoring to engage her in a sensible conversation. “So you were at the funeral, Miss Grimshaw. I wondered why you hadn’t come in to the office. When did Sarah Glenn die?”
“Lord knows!” Emily Grimshaw answered. “But I went out there to pay my respects to the dead. Heard about it through friends. And there was that—that—that——”
Her voice trailed off in a groan. She was pointing again but this time not at Irene but at the vacant spot where the girl had stood.
“Good Lord! She’s gone again.”
“She went out quietly,” Judy explained. “Dale Meredith was with her. They’ll be back.”
“They’d better be,” the irate woman answered. “Those poems had better be back too or I’ll know the reason why. Ghost or no ghost, that girl can’t get away with stealing——”
“Your poems are here,” Judy interrupted, her voice quiet but firm. She lifted the stack of papers from the desk, and before Emily Grimshaw could get her breath, she had deposited them in the startled old lady’s lap. “Now,” she continued, “after you finish another cup of this nice strong coffee, I’ll call Dale and the girl back into the room and all of us can hear her story.”
“You mean Joy Holiday?”
“I mean the girl you call Joy Holiday. The real Joy Holiday is dead. You see, she didn’t vanish as you thought she did. She climbed down from the tower window and eloped with her lover. This girl is her daughter and she was wearing her mother’s yellow dress the day you saw her.”
Emily Grimshaw sat forward in her chair and passed her hand across her eyes.
“Say that again. It didn’t—register.”
Judy laughed. She could see that her employer was coming back to her senses.
“You tell her, Horace.” She motioned to her brother who had been sitting beside the table with Pauline and Arthur, listening.
Joy Holiday’s story was a real romance, however badly told. But Horace Bolton, the reporter, made the tale so vivid that the five who heard it lived the adventure all over again. Whatever else it did, it cleared Emily Grimshaw’s clouded brain and brought the old, practical look back into her eyes.
Arthur wound up by telling of his search by air for Irene’s distracted father. Now, if only Irene could explain about the poetry, they had nothing to fear.
Opening the door quietly, Judy beckoned to the two figures who sat in the hammock. As Dale stood up, outlined against the sky, it reminded her of that first night that she and Pauline had found them there and they had been invited to that never-to-be-forgotten dance on the hotel roof garden. She caught Irene’s hand as she entered the door. Impulsively she kissed her.
“Tell us about it now, dear,” she murmured. “The boys and I will understand and I’m sure Pauline will too. And if Emily Grimshaw gets another queer spell we’ll send her packing with her precious poetry. We have what we want—you.”
The agent looked up as Irene entered the room. She stared for a moment as if the girl’s golden beauty fascinated her. Then she passed one hand across her forehead, smoothing out the furrows that twenty years had left there. The light of understanding came into her eyes.
“You are ... you are the image of your mother,” she said at last. “While you live Joy Holiday will never be dead.”
“‘Death cannot touch the halo of your hair,’” Judy quoted dreamily. “After all, it is a beautiful thought, Irene. There’s nothing uncanny about that kind of a spirit.”
“Don’t talk spirits to her,” the agent snapped.
Her seriousness brought to Judy’s mind the phantom shape she had seen in the tower window. Disregarding her, she asked Irene to tell her about it.
The girl laughed, that familiar silvery laugh.
“It frightened me too,” she admitted, “until Uncle Jasper told me it was only a reflection. Then it seemed stupid of me not to have guessed it. He said any sane person would have. But you’re sane, Judy, and you didn’t.”
“That proves there’s no truth in what he said,” Horace assured her.
It was a great satisfaction to Irene, knowing that. She sighed and went on explaining about the ghost in the tower.
“You know, the room is round and there are windows on all sides. Between the windows are mirrors that make the oddest reflections. I must have been standing in the room so that you could see the mirror but not me. I should think you would have been scared to death.”
“And then you pulled the shades?” Judy anticipated.
“No, I didn’t. Uncle Jasper did, just before he went down and started taking the props out from under the tower. That must have been after you left.”
“We saw the mirrors afterwards, too—and your yellow dress. But that was when we searched the house. You were gone by then.”
“Yes, and Grandma was gone, too. Poor soul! It really made me happy to think she could die in peace, believing that her golden girl still lived. That poem you just quoted, Judy, was written to me. She thought I was immune to death.”
“Well, people never do die if you look at it that way,” Judy said thoughtfully. “Your mother’s beauty was reborn in you, and you may pass it on to your children and their children——”
“What about your children?” Arthur asked, smiling quizzically at Judy.
“Oh, me? I’m too young to be thinking about them. My career comes first. Now I’m sure Chief Kelly will listen to me when I tell him I want to be a detective.”
They all agreed. No one could doubt that solving mysteries was Judy’s one great talent.
And yet—the missing poetry was still unexplained.