Madge had no intention of venturing alone down into the slum district of Claymore. She broached the subject of the trip with Cara who was willing to accompany her when she comprehended that the visit might have an important bearing on the missing pearls.
Monday night after school, Madge borrowed her uncle’s car and they set forth upon their quest. The house they sought was set well back from the road. They parked the car and walked toward a dilapidated shack with a caved-in roof. The place seemed deserted save for a Plymouth Rock hen which fussed busily over her downy brood and a lank, hungry-looking hound that lay on the door-step with eyes half closed as if he were dreaming of some exciting coon hunt of a long departed day when both he and his master were younger.
Cara was afraid of the hound and though he scarcely looked in her direction, held timidly back. Madge went boldly to the door and knocked. There were stirrings within and presently Uncle Ross came to the door, knuckling his eyes as if he had been aroused from a nap, which indeed he had.
“Howdy, Miss, howdy,” he said to Madge and smiled at Cara. “Won’t you step right in—dat is, if you can find a groove to walk in with all this dishevelment.”
The girls returned the greeting, suggesting that they all sit under a tree in the front yard where Uncle Ross had provided a bench for smoking and resting purposes.
“Uncle,” Madge began when they were seated, “I have been told that your father was a caretaker at the old Swenster place years ago.”
“’Deed he was, chile. He’s tole me dat many a time. ’Sides dat, I used to live dere myself when I was a boy.”
“Do you remember that your father ever mentioned anything about the family pearls?” Madge inquired, watching him closely. “I mean the ones that were lost.”
“Oh, dem pearls! I used to hear heaps about ’em but dey just faded out wid de years. Sometimes I thinks dey neveh was any pearls—just ghost pearls dat went up in smoke if dey eveh was any such-like jewels in de family.”
“But can’t you recall anything your father ever said about where he thought they had been hidden?” Madge persisted.
Uncle Ross scratched his white wool, assuming a pose of deep reflection.
“Mah ole memory is full o’ holes now, Miss. It was so long ago dat de ole haid has lost its grip.”
“But try and think, Uncle! What were your father’s duties about the place. He was a gardener for one thing, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, Miss. De ole man was one of de expertest gardeners in dis town. Dey wasn’t anotheh family in dis whole town dat had a garden like dem Swenster folks—roses a ramblin’ around over de walls and honeysuckles loaded down wid hummin’ birds. Dey don’t have no more quality white folks dese days, no suh!”
“But Uncle,” Madge insisted, smiling at the implication of her own social status. “Surely you remember something your father said about the pearls. Maybe just a few words or even one word.”
Uncle Ross reflected deeply again and then replied:
“I does remembeh dat de ole man was powerful wurrit ’bout what happened to dem pearls. Fust place, he was ’fraid folks would say he stole ’em and he was de honestest culled man in dis town. Yes, suh! Why, de ole man was a Deacon in de church and de ministeh used to say—”
Madge saw he was going off on a new tangent so tried to draw him up.
“Yes, yes, Uncle. No one ever thought your father took the pearls. All we want to know is if you recall anything he ever said about where he thought they might have been hidden.”
The old man reflected deeply.
“Well, Miss, I does remembeh dat when de ole man was in dis here very same house a passin’ on to de otheh shore and sort of talkin’ wild-like jest before he died, he said somethin’ about de pearls. And den he said another word. Let me think. What was it he said?”
While the girls waited patiently, hoping that he would be able to furnish the clue they needed, Uncle Ross seemed to lose control of his briefly gathered memories. Madge could almost see them slipping away.
“Think hard, Uncle,” she urged. “What was the word?”
Uncle Ross made one last grand effort to remember. He closed his eyes, shaking his head in a baffled sort of way.
Then speaking very slowly, as though probing his memory almost beyond its powers, he said:
“Seems to me, Miss, he said somethin’ about de sun. No, dat wasn’t it neither. It was sun—”
“Not sundial,” Madge supplied eagerly.
Uncle Ross’ dark face brightened and he slapped his thigh a resounding whack.
“That was it! Theword de ole man said was sundial!”
CHAPTER XII
Uncle Ross’ Hint
Cara and Madge questioned Uncle Ross further, trying ineffectually to bring out additional information. The old man had scraped his memory bare and could recall nothing more concerning the pearls. The girls presently thanked him and in turning to leave, Madge handed him a dollar bill.
“Thank you, Miss, thank you,” he beamed.
The girls walked back to the parked car, only moderately pleased at the outcome of the interview.
“Do you think there really is a connection between the pearls and the sundial?” Cara asked somewhat skeptically as they drove away.
“Yes I do,” Madge returned. “Unless Uncle Ross’ memory played him false. It’s a pretty vague hint, but perhaps we can make something of it.”
“Perhaps you can,” Cara corrected. “I’m no good at puzzles and this one takes the prize.”
Madge took a main street which led to the better section of Claymore. She drove like an automaton, her eyes glued on the road but her thoughts many miles away. She came to life with a start as the car wheels struck a hole in the pavement.
“Cara, I was just thinking—”
“Please don’t or we may end up in a ditch,” Cara laughed. “What were you saying?”
Madge scarcely knew how to tell what was in her mind. It seemed reasonable to her that the Swenster pearls might have been hidden in the garden near the sundial. In digging about, the girls had not paid particular attention to the old sundial, but had confined themselves to the general locality disturbed by the prowler. Madge was convinced too that the man they had seen was after the same thing—the Swenster pearls. How he had learned of them she could not imagine.
“Of course, we did do some of our digging near the sundial,” she said to Cara, “but at the time we never dreamed there was any connection. Now my idea is to go back there and look over the situation again. It may be that at a certain hour the gnomon casts a shadow at the designated place. I’ve read of such things in story books.”
“But this isn’t a story book,” Cara protested in a matter-of-fact tone. “It’s my personal opinion that the pearls are gone. If they were ever hidden in the garden, that prowler has them by this time! Otherwise, why hasn’t he been back?”
“Perhaps he’s been afraid. And he did return one night, for Miss Swenster heard him. I wish we could catch him at it and turn him over to the police for questioning.”
Although Cara was reluctant to resume excavation activities, she agreed to make one more attempt when Madge promised to do most of the digging. It was too late to go to the Swenster mansion that evening but the following afternoon they went there directly after school.
They set to work with high hopes and soon had excavated a complete circle around the sundial. Dusk found them still digging. Finally, with an exclamation of disgust, Madge threw down her spade.
“I’ve had enough. As far as I’m concerned, the pearls may stay hidden until the end of time!”
“Amen,” Cara added fervently. “Just look at the blisters on my hands. And my shoulder muscles are sore already. What will they be like tomorrow?”
“If the way I feel is any indication, we’ll both be in the hospital. The next time I get one of my so-called brilliant ideas, I hope you choke me.”
“I will,” Cara promised gravely.
They filled in the eart
h they had disturbed and went home in a very ill temper. A hot bath and a warm supper cheered Madge considerably, causing her to forget her resolution to think no more of the pearls. That very evening she settled herself in an easy chair, determined to reread Florence Swenster’s diary.
It was a tiresome ordeal now that the material was no longer novel. Several times Madge yawned wearily and was tempted to switch to a popular magazine.
“This is absolutely our last hope,” she told herself, gazing thoughtfully at the little leather book in her hand. “Miss Swenster’s auction sale will be held in a few days now, and after the place is sold, it will be too late to help her. I suppose I’m crazy to keep kidding myself we may find the pearls—especially, after our experience today. Just the same I can’t help feeling that I’ve overlooked some important clue.”
She yawned again and went back to her reading.
“This will never do!” she chided herself. “My mind isn’t on it at all.”
She turned another page, read a few paragraphs which she remembered perfectly. Then, unexpectedly, her eye fastened upon a notation which she and Cara had skipped during the first reading of the diary. It was not particularly startling, merely reading:
“Uncle George is to mix cement for the new sundial tomorrow.”
Madge stared at it long and thoughtfully. She felt it must have more significance than was apparent. She began to recall scraps of information, previously gleaned. Why had Florence Swenster taken Uncle George into her confidence in regard to the hiding of the pearls? It was unlikely that she would trust such knowledge to him unless she had need of his help.
She looked at the date of the notation to compare it with the day Florence had recorded that she had hidden the pearls.
“According to this diary, Uncle George must have been making the sundial on the very day that the pearls were disposed of!” she thought, with growing excitement. “And Uncle Ross said his father mentioned the sundial. Oh, there’s a very significant connection!”
Madge knew that she was on the verge of making an important deduction, but try as she would she could not solve the enigma. For fifteen minutes she sat staring thoughtfully into space, trying to work her way through the maze.
Then like a flash, the answer came. She sprang to her feet, her face jubilant.
“How stupid of me not to think of it before! We’ve had the clue all the time and didn’t know it! Tomorrow, if I can convince Miss Swenster to my way of reasoning, I’ll lead her to the pearls!”
CHAPTER XIII
The Stranger
Madge waylaid Cara the following evening after school, fairly dragging her down the street, so great was her hurry to get away from the building.
“We’re going straight to the mansion,” she announced impressively.
Cara threw up her hands in a gesture of hopeless despair and stopped dead in her tracks.
“Another brilliant idea! I see it coming on. Remember, you told me to choke you if you ever had one again!”
Madge laughed.
“This idea is different and it doesn’t involve any digging. It’s worse than that. I’m afraid Miss Swenster won’t consent. You must help me convince her.”
In spite of herself, Cara’s curiosity was aroused.
“Convince her of what?”
“Come on,” Madge ordered, catching her by the hand and pulling her along. “There isn’t time to explain now. You’ll hear everything when we reach the mansion.”
Miss Swenster received them with her usual cordiality. Madge was so excited that as she plumped herself down on the sofa, it was difficult for her to begin. Briefly, she reviewed the facts already known to Miss Swenster and Cara, then disclosed the new notation she had found in the diary. She was a little disappointed to observe that neither appeared greatly impressed.
“I don’t see just what you have in mind,” Miss Swenster confessed.
“Simply this! Uncle George Jackson had a hand in hiding the pearls. We know the sundial had something to do with it too. Now, since the pearls were hidden on the very day that the old man was mixing cement for the sundial, it’s my contention that the necklace was hidden inside it, probably in the pedestal!”
For a full minute, Miss Swenster digested this in silence. Then she said quietly:
“It’s an interesting theory at least.”
Madge cast a glance of despair at Cara. Everything depended upon Miss Swenster’s enthusiastic acceptance of the idea. She was even more discouraged to see that her chum regarded her somewhat skeptically.
“Oh, I can tell you both think it’s another silly idea. But you must admit it’s logical. If only we could have the sundial opened, I know we’d find the pearls!” She arose, feeling that it was useless to add more. Although Miss Swenster had said little, Madge could tell that she did not care to have the sundial broken. Nor could she really blame her for the dial was a beautiful piece of work.
“Wait!” Miss Swenster said firmly. “There may be something in what you say. At least, we’ll find out.”
“You mean we may have the sundial cracked open?” Madge demanded eagerly.
Miss Swenster nodded.
“Yes, shall we go to the garden now and see what must be done to remove the pedestal?”
She slipped a shawl over her shoulders as a protection against the fall winds and the girls followed her outside.
“It’s my opinion the pearls are hidden in the base,” Madge declared as they surveyed the sundial speculatively. “But it’s a shame to ruin the pedestal unless we’re sure. Perhaps if we move it a trifle, we may hear something rattling about inside.”
The three placed their shoulders to the pedestal, trying to lift it. The sundial seemed rooted to the ground, so little would it give.
“It’s too heavy for us,” Miss Swenster said, wiping the dust from her hands. “We must have it cracked open.”
“I know a man who is very reasonable in his charges,” Madge informed quickly. “Occasionally, he does work for Uncle George.”
“Then go for him now if you wish. It grows dark very early these fall days. If we are to accomplish anything today, we must lose no time.”
Madge was only too eager to take herself upon the errand. Since Cara, who never enjoyed long walks, preferred to remain at the mansion with Miss Swenster, she started off alone.
Silas Davies was the man she had in mind for the work. He was always glad to pick up odd jobs, and in case the pearls were not found, she thought she could trust him to maintain a discreet silence.
She had forgotten where he lived so stopped at a corner drug store to consult a telephone directory. Finding that the house was only a short distance away, she decided to go there instead of calling.
A few minutes later she knocked at the door of a neat, modest little house on Bancroft Street. A woman answered, and Madge inquired if Mr. Davies was home.
“He’s working for Mr. Ruggles today,” his wife returned regretfully. “But I’m expecting him home in three quarters of an hour.”
“If he’s been working all day, I suppose it’s too late to get him to come to the Swenster mansion,” Madge murmured in discouragement. “Miss Swenster had a little job for him—it won’t take long but it’s dreadfully important that it be done tonight.”
“Well, I can’t say how tired Mr. Davies will be. He makes a point of not working after five but if it’s real urgent he may accommodate you. He’ll be at the Ruggles place for another half hour. Why don’t you stop there and see what he says?”
Madge thanked Mrs. Davies, deciding to follow the suggestion. It really was urgent that the sundial be investigated that very afternoon. With strangers prowling about the mansion at night, it was not safe to leave anything to chance. If necessary, she was willing to pay Mr. Davies out of her own pocket for the extra service.
She walked hurriedly toward the Ruggles residence, anxiously studying the western horizon where the sun was sinking lower and lower. So absorbed was she in her own thoughts tha
t she failed to observe the approach of a man who walked swiftly, with head low and chin thrust deeply in his coat collar. Inevitably, they collided.
For a brief instant they were face to face. Involuntarily, Madge started, and an exclamation scarcely above a whisper, escaped her.
It was the man she had seen many nights before prowling about in Miss Swenster’s garden!
CHAPTER XIV
An Unexpected Meeting
“Better watch where you’re going!” the man said gruffly.
“I—I beg your pardon,” Madge stammered, unable to remove her eyes from his face.
For a moment they continued to stare, then the man moved on. Madge looked after him, trying to gather her scattered thoughts.
“I’ve seen him before,” she told herself tensely. “In Miss Swenster’s garden.”
Watching the retreating figure, she was convinced she had not been mistaken in her first hasty conclusion. The man was none other than the mysterious prowler. His build was the same; he had a similar way of walking: everything tallied.
“And that’s not the only place I’ve seen him,” she thought. “Let me think—”
Before her eyes flashed a mental picture of the photograph she had seen hanging in Miss Swenster’s study. She recalled the youthful face, the regular, almost classical features, a head of curly, golden hair.
“He’s changed some with the years,” she told herself, “but I’ll bet a cookie it’s John Swenster. I wonder if Miss Swenster knows he’s in Claymore?”
Such a possibility seemed remote. Madge knew that Miss Swenster was still so distressed by the memory of her adopted son that his presence in the city was almost certain to disturb her usual calm manner. And during the past few days she had seemed no different than usual.
She wondered what had brought the man to Claymore. It was unlikely he had come to attend the auction sale or to see his mother. His secret trips to the garden suggested a deeper, more selfish purpose.
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