The Third Girl Detective

by Margaret Sutton

  “I asked her if her folks had any eggs to sell and she said they did sometimes. So she brought us eggs and the next time we had an early bird hunt we saw her in the woods and I went with her to see the wood thrush’s nest. Her name is Greta Klein. Nan is going to ask Jimmy if he ever heard of the Kleins. The name is German, you see, but her English is as good as ours—oh, I hear you laugh at that. It isn’t saying very much for it, I know. Still, there is a difference when you really can talk correctly, even if you do not always do it.

  “We are taking turns at the cooking, as we said we should. So far we have not let Grace do one thing except superintend. The cooks submit the menus to her to see if they have a ‘balanced meal.’ But sometimes if we have a long hike and everybody is tired, we just all pitch in and get up what there is double quick. It is so beautiful here, Mother, and we all love it!”

  With a little more Jean ended the long letter to her mother. Greta could have verified what was said about her. She had, indeed, been hurt at Fran’s remark, though the tears had been from a rare breakdown and discouragement, when she had found a place in the bushes to cry it out after her morning swim. A great scolding she had had after the day in the woods. Her mother had asked her if she had gone crazy and Greta had replied that she would have to have a rest once in a while if she had so much to do. “Either that, Mother, or I shall go away to work,” she had said firmly.

  Mrs. Klein grew very angry and kept after her constantly with more to do than ever, telling her that she would teach her if she could go off for a whole day with washings to do and cooking and feeding and children under foot. She threatened to beat Greta, but Greta said, “Why can’t you work more with me and not put most of the hard work on me? I’ll work gladly to help earn some money for us; but if Jacob Klein amounted to anything as a farmer we wouldn’t be so poor.”

  This enraged Mrs. Klein more than ever. She advanced threateningly toward the girl, till Greta ran out of the house and her mother called to her to come back and iron the clothes for Mrs. Smith. Greta returned, warily, but Mrs. Klein told her to sprinkle the clothes and then mix the bread while she went to see where the children were.

  Such was the state of things, with Greta thinking more and more that there was something strange about her relations with the man and woman who had called themselves her parents. Flashes of memory returned, or what she hoped was memory, though dim. She had always recalled some clothing that she had thought was hers as she came back to life after the fever, but she saw the dress being made over for the little boy, then in dresses. How could she ever find out about anything?

  The presence of the girls at their camp was one source of pleasure, if somewhat tantalizing. She told her mother about a camp at that end of the lake and asked if she might not sell their eggs and vegetables to them. To this Mrs. Klein agreed, more readily than ever after the sale to Fran and the good price that she paid. Long evenings in the garden Greta spent, plying a busy hoe against the weeds. That the campers were girls she did not mention, but their bright faces were often before her. They led a different life, a life that had something ahead of it, for she saw them with their books and field glasses, or taking their early dip and rowing about the lake. Sometimes she swam nearly to the little bay when she thought that she had time.

  Then she met them on the unfortunate occasion of Fran’s remark and again when she fell in with Jean on a very early stroll toward their camp. By that time Jean had heard from Jimmy that the Klein house was across the lake from the Wizards’ shack and that Jacob Klein was a lazy ne’er-do-well, who drank and abused his family. “Poor Greta!” thought Jean.

  It happened next that Jean, Molly and Nan took a longer hike than they had intended and found themselves coming out of the woods upon a narrow road that led to the lake, as they could see. At a little distance they saw a house and decided to stop and ask for a drink of water.

  CHAPTER XV

  MOLLY’S ADVENTURE

  It was late in the afternoon. As it happened, Greta had taken the children with her to deliver clothes. They could at least sit in the boat to watch one basket while she delivered the other. In consequence, no dingy children were at the Klein gate when Jean and the other two girls entered. Even the dogs were away with their master, who was as a rule more kind to them than to his children.

  The gate of a rickety fence stood open. A few hens ran about the yard with some long-legged young chickens. The girls entered the yard, hesitating a little as they walked up to the door, which stood open revealing anything but a well-kept room inside. They rapped, intending to ask if they might find the well, for Jean had her collapsible cup with her. There was no response.

  “Out in the field, I suppose,” said Molly. “Let’s see if we can find the well. It can’t do any harm, and I’m perishing for a drink. That woods was fearfully hot, I thought.”

  Turning from the door, the girls started around the house. There were two old pumps, and while the girls were guessing which was the well and which was the cistern, they heard the sound of crying, a faint moaning, further back in the yard, it seemed. Toward the left there stood an old barn and sheds, with the sty, odorous and muddy. But toward the right there was a tangle of bushes and fruit trees, to all appearances from where they stood.

  They listened, Molly with her fingers to her lips. “Perhaps we’d better go on,” whispered Nan.

  “No,” returned Molly, “some one might be hurt. Wait. I’ll see.”

  Molly tiptoed in the direction of the sound, but as she went loud sobbing broke out. Jean and Nan were for getting away. That did not sound like any one who was injured. Perhaps they would intrude. But Molly was obviously seeing something or some one. She was looking soberly ahead, then put her head on one side to listen. Molly was as careful as they would be not to be intrusive. They would leave it to her.

  “Sakes, Jean, listen!” whispered Nan. “It’s German.”

  “Meine Greta, meine Greta, meine Greta!” they heard repeated.

  “Why, this must be where Greta lives,” said Jean. “What’s happened to her?” Jean started toward Molly, but Molly, her face alert, was listening and waved Jean back. They heard a sobbing outburst of German words that were unintelligible to them.

  “Molly knows German,” Nan reminded Jean, and Jean nodded assent. Both girls were puzzled and uneasy. There must be some reason why Molly was listening where anybody would think she had no right to be. There was a pause and then another outburst of speech, as if the person, a woman, were talking to some one, even explaining. It was very curious. Then the first expression, “Meine Greta, meine kleine Greta,” was moaned, with “liebchen” and a few other words that the girls knew.

  “From the looks of Greta, I wouldn’t say that she looked like anybody’s ‘liebchen,’” whispered Jean. “She looks more like some poor step-child to me.”

  But Molly was picking a silent way back to them. Her face was very sober now. She waved them toward the gate, her finger on her lips; and when she reached them she hurried them out.

  “I’ve heard something dreadful, girls, and we must get out of sight as soon as possible, before that poor woman has any idea that there was any one there to hear her. Let’s get right down to shore. Maybe some of the girls are out in the boat and will see us and come for us. I want to get away as quickly as I can. I’ll tell you all about it as soon as I get over being shocked. Isn’t Greta the name of that girl who brings us things once in a while?”

  “Why, of course, Molly. You know that.”

  “Do I? I don’t know what I do know. There she is now! And her boat is coming to this landing! So I suppose that is where the Kleins live.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that, Molly. Yes, it’s just about the location, I suppose, that Jimmy said. You can see the peninsula from here, of course.”

  The girls had reached the tree-sheltered shore just as Greta sent her boat flying toward them. “Wait,” said
Molly, “I want to speak to her.”

  “You want to tell her what happened?”

  “Yes, some of it.”

  The girls approached the rude dock. Greta smiled a real welcome, for to see the girls was worth a day’s hard work. She lifted the children out and told them to go on home; then Molly laid a hand on her arm. “We stopped to get a drink at a house up there. Is that where you live?”

  “Yes. That is what is left of the Klein farm.”

  “Well, we have just been there. We walked all the way back to the door, which was open, but no one answered our knock. I was terribly thirsty, so we went around the house and were just going to get a drink when we heard some one crying. I thought that somebody might be hurt, so I stepped back to see. It was a large, stoutly built woman, but she was not hurt, and I think you ought to know what she said. Could you meet us very early tomorrow morning? Jean said that you were out early sometimes.”

  Greta was impressed with Molly’s manner. “Yes,” she answered. “Where shall I meet you? Shall I come all the way?”

  “If you can, and I will have breakfast for you, too.”

  “Oh, how kind you are! But I can’t be dressed well enough. This is the best I have.”

  “Some wouldn’t think that our middies and bloomers were much in the way of clothes,” laughed Jean. “Please come.”

  Molly did not laugh, but she said, “I must talk to you, Greta, and if you can come to us it will be a favor, much easier than for us to come out here, or near by. How soon can you come?”

  “The earlier the better for me. I have to get back to work before my mother gets around. I take an early swim and bath in the lake. Then I go back to do the feeding and milking, to get breakfast and start the washing when we have any.”

  Molly seemed to know instinctively that Greta could not get permission to come. “While we talk, you can drink a cup of hot cocoa with us and eat a plate of bacon and eggs with toast. Then if you have to hurry back it is all right. Come about five o’clock. We are planning an early hike anyway. And it will be much better if your mother does not know that we were there. Need you notice her tears?”

  “I’ve seen her that way before, though not very often, and I never speak of it. I did once—and I—was sorry.”

  “All right. We’ll be looking for you. Nobody but Jean and Nan will know why we want to see you specially.”

  Greta promised to come at five o’clock and stay long enough for breakfast. The girls hurried away, though Greta offered to take them across in the boat. “Perhaps I will come by boat tomorrow morning,” she said.

  What could Molly have to tell her? Did she mean that her mother talked to her? No, for she said that it would be best for her mother not to know that they had been there. It was a mystery. But that it was important she was sure. Her imagination was busy, but she could not guess what it might be.

  CHAPTER XVI

  SANS PEUR

  Almost before the birds Greta was up the next morning. She had not slept well, for the attic was hot. Not a breeze was stirring when she loosed the boat from its moorings and pushed out upon a lake that wore scarcely a ripple. “We are due for a big storm if this keeps up,” thought Greta. The air was oppressive and clouds were gathering. Even the effort of rowing brought the perspiration to Greta’s brow, still tender from its hurt. She lost no time, for there was a low rumble of distant thunder and she did not want to be caught out upon the water.

  On the peninsula across from her the boys’ flag flew. Their cabin was partly concealed by the trees between it and the lake. No one there seemed to be stirring. Presently a breeze developed and Greta bent, indeed, to her oars. She must reach the little bay and the girls’ camp as soon as possible. But the clouds did not seem to be heavier.

  “There she comes, Molly!”

  Three sober girls watched Greta make her way around the curve in the lake shore and steadily row toward them, stopping for one little wave when she saw them.

  “She is awfully strong, isn’t she—for all she looks so pale and worn when she comes?”

  “All that hard work would give anybody muscles. Have you noticed her poor hands?”

  “Yes, Jean; but they are not out of shape at least.”

  “No, just rough and her finger-nails are all broken. I suppose the washing does it and I don’t know what else she does, but she happened to speak of doing that. She had a big bundle of clothes in the boat last evening. How are we going to manage this, Molly?”

  “What do you mean, Jean?”

  “Why, if you tell her before us, won’t she feel worse? Suppose Nan and I make some excuse and leave you with her?”

  “Oh, no, Jean—please! I need support; and besides, she admires you most of all. I can tell. You just slip an arm around her if she needs one!”

  “We’d better give her her breakfast first, for fear she’ll be too stirred up to eat,” Nan suggested.

  “Good idea, Nan. Your head is always level.”

  “Then if that’s so, I’d better see about the breakfast. You go down to meet her, Jean.”

  Nan and Molly hurried in, while Jean went down to the little dock to welcome their guest.

  “I was a little afraid you might not come, Greta, for it looks so much like a storm,” said Jean, while Greta was fastening her boat securely.

  “I think that I would have come in a storm, if there had been no other way. But it is a good thing that I was to come early, I suppose.”

  “Molly and Nan went in to hurry up the breakfast. We had the milk heated and the bacon cooked. There will be just us four to have breakfast together. Grace took the rest on a breakfast hike, but I’m afraid that they’re going to get caught in a storm if they don’t hurry back. We have two girls from our town visiting us and that is the reason for the trip. They are crazy to do everything and we are crazy to show them everything we do. Nobody slept much last night.”

  “I’m afraid that you wanted to go with the other girls,” thoughtfully said Greta.

  “Oh, no. Especially after Molly told us what she wants to tell you—and we did not mention it to the rest. But we’ll forget that now and have a jolly good breakfast if we can. I’m not sure but ice-cold lemonade would be better than hot cocoa in this kind of weather—funny to have a hot night on our lake.”

  If the cocoa was hot, it was bracing to Greta. She sat at the yellow and brown and white table, on a yellow, brown and white chair and had her bacon and eggs served on the yellow dishes decorated with daisies. “We are sibyls in our club,” Molly explained, “and our colors are yellow and white, but we aren’t what the boys call ‘yellow,’ for our motto is ‘sans peur,’ that means ‘without fear,’ and we’ve already discovered that to have courage is one of the most necessary things anywhere. Mine was at a low ebb last night, I can tell you, but this morning I’m all braced up.”

  Jean looked at Molly with amused affection. She understood how Molly dreaded to tell Greta what she must.

  Greta was bright enough to have an inkling of what Molly meant. Her own courage was sinking, and had been all night. What had Molly heard? What new and dreadful thing might she have to meet at home? Jacob Klein had not come home the night before. Perhaps it was something about him.

  But the breakfast was good and the girls were kind and interesting. She did not seem to feel awkward with managing to eat before them. Her mother had always made fun of her “fussy ways,” as her German expressions meant. A good breeze was blowing through the big room and making them all more comfortable. After the meal the girls left the table as it was and took Greta outdoors to a nook among the trees where they had fixed a rope swing and some seats out of logs. On one of these they sat down, though Nan presently jumped up, saying that she’d better clear the table, for the whole lot of girls would be back soon, she thought. They all looked at the gathering clouds. The storm seemed to be a long time coming. Perhaps it
would pass around them. In any event, Molly was thinking how she would tell Greta and Greta was more interested in what she was to hear than in the storm.

  “Greta,” began Molly, “does Mrs. Klein treat you kindly?”

  Greta’s dark eyes looked soberly into Molly’s. “I’d rather not say,” she replied. “Yes, I will, too. It is a chance to tell some one. My mother was good to me for a long time after I had a bad sickness, and forgot things, they said. Then she changed and although she would never let Jacob Klein abuse me, she can’t care much for me or she would never put the heaviest work on me, even when she is well enough to help more. I want to go away from home to work, and I thought that perhaps you girls could help me find a way, to help some one with any kind of work; and then I could send the money home to my mother and the children. I heard her say when they were quarreling, after Jacob Klein threw me against the tubs and hurt my head, that he must leave me alone and that I was not his child.”

  All this came tumbling out rapidly, as if Greta had planned it, which was not the case. It was only that she was so full of her unhappiness and puzzles.

  “Did you ever think that perhaps you were not her child either?”

  Greta looked startled. Then she said, slowly, “I thought that she might have been married before and that my father might have had dark eyes like mine. All the rest have blue eyes and light hair, if you noticed, and the horse-doctor that came to look after me as well as the horse asked my mother where she found a little girl with brown eyes. He was joking, but my mother didn’t like it and said that families were not always of one complexion, or something like that. She talks mostly German.”