The Third Girl Detective

by Margaret Sutton

  Not even yet was she absolutely certain that Doris was as utterly friendly as she seemed. Though she scarcely acknowledged it to herself, she was dreading and fearing that this new, absorbing friendship could not last. When the summer had advanced and there were more companions of Doris’s own kind in Manituck, it would all come to an end. She would be forgotten or neglected, or, perhaps even snubbed for more suitable acquaintances. How could it be otherwise? And how could she disclose her most precious secret to one who might later forsake her and even impart it to some one else? No, she would wait.

  In the meantime, while Doris was growing rosy and brown in the healthful outdoor life she was leading with Sally, Sally herself was imbibing new ideas and thoughts and interests in long, ecstatic draughts. Chief among all these were the books—the wonderful books and magazines that Doris had brought with her in a seemingly endless amount. Sometimes Doris could scarcely extract a word from Sally during a whole long morning or afternoon, so deeply absorbed was she in some volume loaned her by her obliging friend. And Doris also knew that Sally sat up many a night, devouring by candle-light the book she wanted to return next day—so that she might promptly replace it by another!

  One thing puzzled Doris—the curious choice of books that seemed to appeal to Sally. She read them all with equal avidity and appeared to enjoy them all at the time, but some she returned to for a second reading, and one in particular she demanded again and again. Doris’s own choice lay in the direction of Miss Alcott’s works and “Little Lord Fauntleroy” and her favorites among Dickens. Sally took these all in with the rest, but she borrowed a second time the books of a more adventurous type, and to Doris’s constant wonder, declared Stevenson’s “Treasure Island” to be her favorite among them all. So frequently did she borrow this, that Doris finally gave her the book for her own, much to Sally’s amazement and delight.

  “Why do you like Treasure Island best?” Doris asked her point-blank, one day. Sally’s manner immediately grew a trifle reserved.

  “Because—because,” she stammered, “it is like—like something—oh! I can’t just tell you right now, Doris. Perhaps I will some day.” And Doris said no more, but put the curious remark away in her mind to wonder over.

  “It’s something connected with her secret—that I’m sure!” thought Doris. “I do wish she felt like telling me, but until she does, I’ll try not even to think about it.”

  But, all unknown to Doris, the time of her final testing, in Sally’s eyes, was rapidly approaching. Sally herself, however, had known of it and thought over it for a week or more. About the middle of June, there came every year to the “Bluffs” a certain party of young folks, half a dozen or more in number, with their parents, to stay till the middle of July, when they usually left for the mountains. They were boys and girls of about Doris’s age or a trifle older, rollicking, fun-loving, a little boisterous, perhaps, and on the go from morning till night. They spent their mornings at the ocean bathing-beach, their afternoons steaming up and down the river in the fastest motor-boat available, and their evenings dancing in the hotel parlor when they could find any one to play for them. Sally had known them by sight for several years, though never once, in all that time, had they so much as deigned to notice her existence.

  “If Doris deserts me for them,” she told herself, “then I’ll be mighty glad I never told her my secret. Oh, I do wonder what she’ll do when they come!”

  And then they came. Sally knew of their arrival that evening, when they rioted down to the Landing to procure the fastest launch her father rented. And she waited, inwardly on tenterhooks of anxiety, for the developments of the coming days. But, to her complete surprise, nothing happened. Doris sought her company as usual, and for a day or two never even mentioned the presence of the newcomers. At last Sally could bear it no longer.

  “How do you like the Campbells and Hobarts who are at your hotel now?” she inquired one morning.

  “Why, they’re all right,” said Doris indifferently, feathering her oars with the joy of a newly-acquired accomplishment.

  “But you don’t seem to go around with them,” ventured Sally uncertainly.

  “Oh, they tire me to death, they’re so rackety!” yawned Doris. “I like fun and laughing and joking and shouting as well as the next person—once in a while. But I can’t stand it for steady diet. It’s a morning, noon and night performance with them. They’ve invited me to go with them a number of times, and I will go once in a while, so as not to seem unsociable, but much of it would bore me to death. By the way, Sally, Mother told me to ask you to come to dinner with us tonight, if you care to. She’s very anxious to meet you, for I’ve told her such a lot about you. Do you think your mother will allow you to come?”

  Sally turned absolutely scarlet with the shock of surprise and joy this totally unexpected invitation caused her.

  “Why—yes—er—that is, I think so. Oh, I’m sure of it! But, Doris, do you really want me? I’m—well, I’m only Sally Carter, you know,” she stammered.

  “Why, of course I want you!” exclaimed Doris, opening her eyes wide with surprise. “I shouldn’t have asked you if I hadn’t.” And so it was settled. Sally was to come up that afternoon, for once without Genevieve, and have dinner at “The Bluffs” with the Craigs. She spent an agonized two hours making her toilet for the occasion, assisted by her anxious mother, who could scarcely fathom the reason for so unprecedented an invitation. When she was arrayed in the very best attire she owned (and a very creditable appearance she made, since she had adopted some of Doris’s well-timed hints), her mother kissed her, bade her “mind how she used her knife and fork,” and she set out for the hotel, joyful on one score, but thoroughly uncomfortable on many others.

  But she forgot much of her agitation in the meeting with Mrs. Craig, a pale, lovely, golden-haired woman of the gentlest and most winning manner in the world. In five minutes she had put the shy, awkward village girl completely at her ease, and the three were soon conversing as unrestrainedly as if the mother of Doris was no more than their own age. But Sally could easily divine, from her weakness and pallor, how ill Mrs. Craig had been, and how far from strong she still was.

  Dinner at their own cosy little table was by no means the ordeal Sally had expected, and when it was over Mrs. Craig retired to her room and Sally and Doris went out to sit for a while on the broad veranda. It was here that Doris passed the final test that Sally had set for her. There approached the sound of trooping footsteps and laughing voices, and in another moment, the entire Campbell-Hobart clan clattered by.

  “Hello, Doris!” they greeted her. “Coming in to dance tonight?”

  “I don’t know,” answered Doris. “Have you met my friend, Sally Carter?” And she made all the introductions with unconcerned, easy grace. The Campbell-Hobart faction stared. They knew Sally Carter perfectly well by sight, and all about who she was. What on earth was she doing here—at “The Bluffs”? A number of them murmured some indistinct rejoinder and one of them, in the background, audibly giggled. Sally heard the giggle and flushed painfully. But Doris was superbly indifferent to it all.

  “Do you dance, Sally?” she inquired, and Sally stammered that she did not.

  “Then we’ll go down to the river and paddle about awhile,” went on Doris. “It’s much nicer than stampeding about that hot parlor.” The Campbell-Hobart crowd melted away. “Come on, Sally!” said Doris, and, linking arms with her new friend, she strolled down the steps to the river, without alluding, by so much as a single syllable, to the rudeness of that noisy, thoughtless group.

  And in the heart of Sally Carter there sprang into being such an absolute idolatry of adoration for this glorious new girl friend that she was ready to lie down and die for her at a moment’s notice. The last barrier, the last doubt, was swept completely away. And, as they drifted about in the fading after-glow, Sally remarked, apropos of nothing:

  “If you like,
we’ll go up to Slipper Point tomorrow, and—I’ll show you—that secret!”

  “Oh, Sally,” breathed Doris in an awestruck whisper, “will you—really?”

  CHAPTER IV

  ON SLIPPER POINT

  It would be exaggeration to say that Doris slept, all told, one hour during the ensuing night. She napped at intervals, to be sure, but hour after hour she tossed about in her bed, in the room next to her mother, pulling out her watch every twenty minutes or so, and switching on the electric light to ascertain the time. Never in all her life had a night seemed so long. Would the morning ever come, and with it the revelation of the strange secret Sally knew?

  Like many girls of her age, and like many older folks too, if the truth were known, Doris loved above all things, a mystery. Into her well-ordered and regulated life there had never entered one or even the suspicion of one. And since her own life was so devoid of this fascination, she had gone about for several years, speculating in her own imagination about the lives of others, and wondering if mystery ever entered into their existences. But not until her meeting with little Sally Carter, had there been even the faintest suggestion of such a thing. And now, at last—! She pulled out her watch and switched on her light for the fortieth time. Only quarter to five. But through her windows she could see the faint dawn breaking over the river, so she rose softly, dressed, and sat down to watch the coming of day.

  At nine o’clock she was pacing nervously up and down the beach. And when old “45” at last grated on the sand, she hopped in with a glad cry, kissed and hugged Genevieve, who was devoting her attention to her thumb, in the stern seat, as usual, and sank down in the vacant rowing-seat, remarking to Sally:

  “Hello, dear! I’m awfully glad you’ve come!” This remark may not seem to express very adequately her inward state of excitement but she had resolved not to let Sally see how tremendously anxious she was.

  The trip to Slipper Point was a somewhat silent one. Neither of the girls seemed inclined to conversation and, besides that, there was a stiff head-wind blowing and the pulling was difficult. When they had beached the boat, at length, on the golden sandbar of Slipper Point, Doris only looked toward Sally and said:

  “So you’re going to show me at last, dear?” But Sally hesitated a moment.

  “Doris,” she began, “this is my secret—and Genevieve’s—and I never thought I’d tell any one about it. It’s the only secret I ever had worth anything, but I’m going to tell you—well, because I—I think so much of you. Will you solemnly promise—cross your heart—that you’ll never tell any one?”

  Doris gazed straight into Sally’s somewhat troubled eyes. “I don’t need to ‘cross my heart,’ Sally. I just give you my word of honor I won’t, unless sometime you wish it. I’ve not breathed a word of the fact that you had a secret, even to Mother. And I’ve never kept anything from her before.” And this simple statement completely satisfied Sally.

  “Come on, then,” she said. “Follow Genevieve and me, and we’ll give you the surprise of your life.”

  She grasped her small sister’s hand and led the way, and Doris obediently followed. To her surprise, however, they did not scramble up the sandy pine-covered slope as usual, but picked their way, instead, along the tiny strip of beach on the farther side of the point where the river ate into the shore in a great, sweeping cove. After trudging along in this way for nearly a quarter of a mile, Sally suddenly struck up into the woods through a deep little ravine. It was a wild scramble through the dense underbrush and over the boughs of fallen pine trees. Sally and Genevieve, more accustomed to the journey, managed to keep well ahead of Doris, who was scratching her hands freely and doing ruinous damage to her clothes plunging through the thorny tangle. At last the two, who were a distance of not more than fifty feet ahead of her, halted, and Sally called out:

  “Now stand where you are, turn your back to us and count ten—slowly. Don’t turn round and look till you’ve finished counting.” Doris obediently turned her back, and slowly and deliberately “counted ten.” Then she turned about again to face them.

  To her complete amazement, there was not a trace of them to be seen!

  Thinking they had merely slipped down and hidden in the undergrowth to tease her, she scrambled to the spot where they had stood. But they were not there. She had, moreover, heard no sound of their progress, no snapping, cracking or breaking of branches, no swish of trailing through the vines and high grass. They could not have advanced twenty feet in any direction, in the short time she had been looking away from them. Of both these facts she was certain. Yet they had disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed them. Where, in the name of all mystery, could they be?

  Doris stood and studied the situation for several minutes. But, as they were plainly nowhere in her vicinity, she presently concluded she must have been mistaken about their not having had time to get further away, and determined to hunt them up.

  So away she pursued her difficult quest, becoming constantly more involved in the thick undergrowth and more scratched and dishevelled every moment, till at length she stood at the top of the bluff. From this point she could see in every direction, but not a vestige of Sally or Genevieve appeared. More bewildered than ever, Doris clambered back to the spot where she had last seen them. And, as there was plainly now no other course, she stood where she was and called aloud:

  “Sally! Sal—ly! I give it up. Where in the world are you?”

  There was a low, chuckling laugh directly behind her, and, whirling about, she beheld Sally’s laughing face peeping out from an aperture in the tangled growth that she was positive she had not noticed there before.

  “Come right in!” cried Sally. “And I won’t keep it a secret any longer. Did you guess it was anything like this?”

  She pushed a portion of the undergrowth back a little farther and Doris scrambled in through the opening. No sooner was she within than Sally closed the opening with a swift motion and they were all suddenly plunged into inky darkness.

  “Wait a moment,” she commanded, “and I’ll make a light.” Doris heard her fumbling for something; then the scratch of a match and the flare of a candle. With an indrawn breath of wonder, Doris looked about her.

  “Why, it’s a room!” she gasped. “A little room all made right in the hillside. How did it ever come here? How did you ever find it?”

  It was indeed the rude semblance of a room. About nine feet square and seven high, its walls, floor and ceiling were finished in rough planking of some kind of timber, now covered in the main with mold and fungus growths. Across one end was a low wooden structure evidently meant for a bed, with what had once been a hard straw mattress on it. There was likewise a rudely constructed chair and a small table on which were the rusted remains of a tin platter, knife and spoon. There was also a metal candle-stick in which was the candle recently lit by Sally. It was a strange, weird little scene in the dim candle-light, and for a time Doris could make nothing of its riddle.

  “What is it? What does it all mean, Sally?” she exclaimed, gazing about her with awestruck eyes.

  “I don’t know much more about it than you do,” Sally averred. “But I’ve done some guessing!” she ended significantly.

  “But how did you ever come to discover it?” cried Doris, off on another tack. “I could have searched Slipper Point for years and never have come across this.”

  “Well, it was just an accident,” Sally admitted. “You see, Genevieve and I haven’t much to do most of the time but roam around by ourselves, so we’ve managed to poke into most of the places along the shore, the whole length of this river, one time and another. It was last fall when we discovered this. We’d climbed down here one day, just poking around looking for beach-plums and things, and right about here I caught my foot in a vine and went down on my face plumb right into that lot of vines and things. I threw out my hands to catch myself, and inst
ead of coming against the sand and dirt as I’d expected, something gave way, and when I looked there was nothing at all there but a hole.

  “Of course, I poked away at it some more, and found that there was a layer of planking back of the sand. That seemed mighty odd, so I pushed the vines away and banged some more at the opening, and it suddenly gave way because the boards had got rotten, I guess, and—I found this!”

  Doris sighed ecstatically. “What a perfectly glorious adventure! And what did you do then?”

  “Well,” went on Sally simply, “although I couldn’t make very much out of what it all was, I decided that we’d keep it for our secret—Genevieve and I—and we wouldn’t let another soul know about it. So we pulled the vines and things over the opening the best we could, and we came up next day and brought some boards and a hammer and nails—and a candle. Then I fixed up the rotten boards of this opening—you see it works like a door, only the outside is covered with vines and things so you’d never see it—and I got an old padlock from Dad’s boathouse and I screwed it on the outside so’s I could lock it up besides, and covered the padlock with vines and sand. Nobody’d ever dream there was such a place here, and I guess nobody ever has, either. That’s my secret!”

  “But, Sally,” exclaimed Doris, “how did it ever come here to begin with? Who made it? It must have some sort of history.”

  “There you’ve got me!” answered Sally.

  “Some one must have stayed here,” mused Doris, half to herself. “And, what’s more, they must have hidden here, or why should they have taken such trouble to keep it from being discovered?”