CHAPTER VII
EMILY GRIMSHAW SEES THINGS
Emily Grimshaw often came in late, but as Judy had her own key thisaffected her work very little. In fact, she usually accomplished morewhen alone. Thus she was not surprised to find the office vacant whenshe and Irene arrived.
“It’s every bit as queer as you said it was,” Irene whispered as theyunlocked the door and she examined the brass knocker. “She must trustyou, Judy.” She smiled into her friend’s honest gray eyes. “And whowouldn’t?”
The girls seated themselves at either end of the long sofa in EmilyGrimshaw’s office. With the pile of handwritten poetry between them itwas easier to help each other decide into which group certain versesbelonged.
“Some of them are rather horrible,” Judy remarked as she hunted throughthe pile. “I’ll sort out the worst ones, and you can read the others.”
“Oh, no! Let me read the horrible ones,” Irene begged.
Judy laughed. “Everyone to his own notions. I don’t mind, if you feellike giving yourself the shivers.”
There was a long table just back of the sofa, and it came in handy forthe completed groups of papers. Judy removed a vase of flowers and afew books and made a clear place for the different piles.
“_Golden Girl_ goes at the top of the list,” she remarked, as she tooka yellowed slip of paper in her hand. “Miss Grimshaw says it’svaluable.”
“Is it the song?”
“It is,” Judy replied. “This poet wrote it. Imagine! And then turns tosuch morbid things as that one I fixed up; you remember, about thetower of flame?”
She broke off suddenly as the telephone on Emily Grimshaw’s deskjangled imperiously.
Both girls were buried in papers, and the telephone rang a second timebefore Judy was free to answer it.
“The switchboard operator says it’s Dale Meredith!”
She turned away from the mouthpiece and gave out this information in anexcited whisper. Irene let a few of the papers slide to the floor.
“Oh, Judy,” she cried, “our scheme did work after all!”
Judy’s answer was a glance of triumph, but her voice over the wiresounded very businesslike.
“Tell him to come up and wait. Miss Grimshaw will be in shortly.”
In the moment before he mounted the stairs Irene had time to smooth herhair and powder her nose. Then she picked up the fallen papers and wasabout to place them on the table.
“Never mind the work now. I’ll straighten things,” Judy told her. “Youjust sit there and look pretty when Dale Meredith comes in.”
The handsome young author greeted them with a surprised whistle.“Whoever expected to find you here!” he exclaimed, smiling first atJudy who stood beside the open door and then at Irene. “Why, the placelooks like a palace with the princess enthroned on the sofa. What’shappened to Her Royal Highness?”
“You mean Miss Grimshaw?” Judy asked, laughing. “She will be inpresently.”
“Not too ‘presently,’ I hope,” Dale replied, seating himself besideIrene. “Before we talk business I want to hear what happened to yougirls. I’ve been scolding myself ever since for not finding out yournames. The truth of the matter is, I was so dog-goned interested inthat _Art Shop Robbery_——”
“The title of your new book?” Judy ventured, and his nod told her thatshe had reasoned correctly.
“You see, it was a rush order,” he went on to explain. “There seems tobe a big demand for mystery stories. Most people like to imaginethemselves as sleuths or big time detectives. I do, myself. The troubleis, there aren’t enough mysteries in real life to supply the demand forplots, and what there are make tales too gruesome to be good reading.”
“You do write gruesome stories then?” Irene asked anxiously.
He studied her face for a moment before he answered. “That depends onyour definition of the word. I never make it a point to dwell on thedetails of a murder. Suffice it to tell under what circumstances thebody was found——”
“Don’t talk about it, please! You sound so cold and matter-of-fact, asif you didn’t feel it at all. Your flying stories are so different!”
“They were written from first-hand knowledge,” he explained. “I had apilot’s license and flew with a friend of mine across the continent.There was story material and plenty of it!” He went on for fifteenminutes discussing his experiences with the girls.
Dale Meredith had a knack of telling stories so that the listenerslived his adventures with him. Judy and Irene sat enthralled. They wereboth imagining themselves scrambling out of a wrecked plane in theirown Allegheny Mountains when the door opened, and in walked EmilyGrimshaw! Dale and Judy both greeted her, but when Irene looked up andsmiled the old lady started back as if she had seen a ghost. Judy,thinking she must be ill, helped her into a chair.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked solicitously.
“There’s a bottle.” Emily Grimshaw made a gesture with her hand. “Pourme out a bit. I need a stimulant. I must be getting old. Good lord! Imust be seeing things!”
She took the glass that Judy held out to her and swallowed the contentsin three great gulps, then rubbed her eyes and looked at Irene again.
“Guess the stuff is too strong,” she muttered and slumped in her chair.
Irene clutched Dale’s arm. “She isn’t going to die?” she asked in apanicky whisper.
More than a little bewildered, the young man reassured her andsuggested that she wait downstairs in the lobby.
“She seems to have affected Miss Grimshaw strangely,” he explained toJudy later.
“Yes, and Irene can’t stand too much excitement,” she returned. “Youdidn’t know, but for the past three years she’s been working almost dayand night, taking care of her crippled father. She’d be doing it yet ifmy dad hadn’t arranged to have him cared for in a sanitarium. It’sbetter for him and better for Irene. Her mother is dead.”
“Poor kid! No wonder she thought something dreadful had happened to HerMajesty.”
Judy had gone for a pitcher of water and stood beside her employer’schair dampening her handkerchief and rubbing her forehead. That seemedto have little effect, but when Dale attempted to move her to the sofathe old lady promptly opened her eyes and protested violently. Shestaggered back to her chair and sat there staring at the spot whereIrene had sat. Then she sighed heavily. “Old fool that I am—seeingthings.”
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The Yellow Phantom Page 8
