THE DRAGON OF THE HILLS

MELODY LANE MYSTERY STORIES

The Ghost of Melody Lane

The Forbidden Trail

The Tower Secret

The Wild Warning

Terror at Moaning Cliff

The Dragon of the Hills

The Mystery of Stingyman’s Alley

The Secret of the Kashmir Shawl

The Hermit of Proud Hill

MELODY LANE MYSTERY STORIES

DRAGON OF THE

HILLS

BY

LILIAN GARIS

ILLUSTRATED BY

PELAGIE DOANE

GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Copyright, 1936 by

GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC.

The Dragon of the Hills

All Rights Reserved

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I GREY EYES 1

II LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS 8

III PERFUME OF MYSTERY 17

IV THE NIGHT PROWLER 29

V THE FLEETING BREATH 36

VI CONFUSION 44

VII EVEN AT MELODY LANE 52

VIII BACK TO BRAMBLE HILL 59

IX STRANGE AROMA 69

X AN UNEXPECTED CALLER 79

XI SUSPICIONS 89

XII SEARCHING 98

XIII GETTING AT IT 107

XIV THE PROBLEM OF JEANETTE 115

XV VANISHED 123

XVI PRISCILLA’S SECRET 133

XVII DETECTIVE CAROL 141

XVIII UNDER FIRE 149

XIX THE DESERTED CAMP 160

XX BOB WHITE 169

XXI DANGER 178

XXII CAPTIVE 184

XXIII TO THE RESCUE 196

XXIV THE “DRAGON” DISCOVERED 204

XXV THE OLD SCARF 215

XXVI WHAT REALLY HAPPENED 223

1

DRAGON OF THE HILLS

CHAPTER I

GRAY EYES

With a sense of real disappointment Carol

Duncan turned her little green roadster toward the

hills of Millford, the territory so isolated from

Melody Lane and other active villages, that the spot,

although beautiful by nature, was considered sinister

by reputation.

Carol was disappointed because Isabel Bennet,

her friend out at Brighton Rock whom she had been

visiting, could not drive in to Melody Lane with her.

At the very last minute Isabel received a message

that obliged her to change her plans and certainly

she was quite as disappointed as was Carol.

“Can’t you possibly wait another day, Carol?”

Isabel urged. “Cecy may be glad to run her party

without the big sister,” Isabel joked, in trying to hold

Carol from taking that solitary trip.

“She might be,” Carol answered, “but she isn’t.

No, Belle, I’ve got to be there to ring the curfew.

Cecy is pretty young, you know, and she has some

very lively friends even younger. They might take a

2

notion to make bonfires, or something. So I’ll be

going.”

Facing the long lonely drive so near nightfall,

when the very best time her car could make would

take all of two hours, Carol waved to her friend and

was off.

Being the older sister of Cecy, and having no

mother for so many years (although a fond father

had brought up his two girls a credit to all

concerned), Carol Duncan did not alter a decision

without real cause. And what if Belle couldn’t drive

in with her? There were no bandits nor mountain

lions in the hills, so why shouldn’t she dash on

home to be there to superintend Cecy’s party?

“But it would have been such fun to have Belle”

she could not help thinking. “Besides, we really

needed her for the party. Why do city relatives

always feel that country folks’ summers are

especially mapped out for their own impulsive

visits? As if that old uncle of Belle’s thought his

visit would bring joy to the whole countryside. But

Belle knows her Uncle Ben best, of course, so she

just had to be there when he arrived.”

Guiding her car cautiously over the heavy dirt

surface, where taxes had not yet been applied for the

general highway improvements, Carol tried not to

see the heavy shadows settling so suddenly on the

evergreen trees that shrouded the uncertain strip of

3

road. Cheerful and happy as any girl in her teens

might hope to be, Carol had already proved herself

capable of handling dangerous situations, and what

was a lonely ride on a late summer afternoon if not

the promise of adventure?

A snarling rumble from far away, unmistakably

thunder, brought the first real threat of danger. It had

been unseasonably hot for days, and the heavy air

could do most anything reckless if touched off by a

sudden change with tornado-like winds. Carol

stopped her car instantly to put up the summer top,

and fasten the curtains which offered some

protection although they were not waterproof.

No longer even thinking of what might happen

along that road, where no gas stations cheered the

way, the girl at the wheel bent every effort to get

over the hills and into the farm house section before

the storm should break.

Shooting past better looking side-roads she did

not dare venture to turn in one, as that would make

her so much later; besides there was no telling how

long the big storm might last. Thunder now crashed

and cracked and lightning flashed through the trees

like spurts of fire, and even Carol, not really afraid

of most storms, could not have denied that she was

afraid of this one.

“If only I can get over to Bramble Hill,” she was

thinking, “I know there are a few houses there.”

4

Then the rain came in blinding sheets, completely

wiping out the last remnant of daylight, and Carol

quickly switched on her car lights, just as another

car shot past her, too near and going too fast to make

her feel better for the momentary company of

another person also “trying to beat the storm.”

“I wish I hadn’t ‘phoned Cecy I was coming.

They will be worried to death,” she was thinking.

A blinding flash of lightning and a crackling of

nearby thunder caused Carol to push on the brake.

“Oh!” she screamed. Then a tree, with a few

warning snaps, fell almost in her very path.

How she dragged that tree from the road, and

how she managed to edge her car past it without

going headlong into the deep country ditch Carol did

not want to know. But again she was on her way

with a sigh of relief that the tree had not been very

large and that she had not been drenched to the skin

in dragging it away.

“And there’s Bramble Hill,” she was telling

herself. “At least I can stop there some place until

this blinding rain lets up.”

A sudden shift in the wind, coming straight from

the North with a drop in the temperature that felt

like a cold blast, gave Carol assurance that the torrid

spell was broken. But the rain continued to pour

down and now the wind drove it in cold sheets

through her car curtains and in at the sides where the

5

roadster was not exactly storm proof.

In a few moments she was not only soaking wet

but very cold. She had a coat under the rumble seat

but to get that would mean a thorough drenching.

“There’s a house!” she breathed gratefully. “I’ll

go up there and mend my sails. There’s always a

driving-in shed around country houses; one good

thing.”

Intent upon her hoped-for relief, Carol Duncan

drove into the lane that led to a queer old house

quite hidden amid the trees. As she expected, there

was a shed, but also, what she could not have hoped

for, there was built out from this shed at the front

steps an arched covering, almost the porte-cochère

of better days.

“Swell!” Carol was saying almost aloud. “And

actually a little run-board up to the porch. I don’t

even have to climb steps.”

Quickly as she could slip from the wet car up to

the door, where, in spite of the porch, the rain was

being lashed by the strong wind, she found herself

facing a printed sign:

“No Admittance.”

“No admittance,” she repeated vaguely. “But that

must be for trades’ people. I’ll just knock—no

there’s a bell.”

Giving the old-fashioned handle a twist, she

heard a heavy bell answer and then sounded a fierce

6

barking.

“Oh, a dog! I might better have gone on—”

But before she had time to regret, the door was

opened on a chain and the face of a girl, a child

really, appeared.

“Oh!” the girl gasped. “I’m sorry but I can’t

ask—you in!” The great gray eyes looked out kindly

at Carol who felt something must be wrong, very

wrong behind the chained door, to make that girl

refuse her admittance.

“Someone sick?” Carol asked.

“Oh no, not exactly, but— Wait, you’re soaking

wet! Wait a minute, please,” and the door was

closed, chain and all.

Carol couldn’t turn away: she felt obliged to wait

as the girl had asked, but now she was more soaking

wet than ever. After all, she might have gone on

driving, she realized. Just to get her coat out of the

back of the car did not necessitate this much trouble.

But how could she have driven to a person’s door

without saying why she had come?

The chain rattled harshly as the door was again

opened, and “Gray Eyes” appeared.

“Come in—in here,” invited the timid voice.

“There’s a little seat.” She had opened an outer door

and Carol was now standing in a small enclosure

like a shed with a bench along the side. “The storm

is not over yet,” said Gray Eyes. “You had better

7

wait,” for she guessed that Carol was not inclined to.

“Sometimes the worst part is at the end,” said the

girl.

Confused at the girl’s strange manner, Carol felt

she could do no less than to wait a few minutes in

that hot-box, which, being shut so tight, had not yet

cooled off. She reluctantly sat down on the narrow

strip of bench thinking: “It’s hot enough to dry me

out a little,” and saying to the girl whose face still

filled the inner door crack:

“Thank you. Perhaps I had better wait a few

minutes.”

And she waited. She heard the girl’s voice

evidently talking to the dog, for a heavy bark was

answering. She could see a tiny light through the

small piece of glass in the door that made her feel

like a prisoner in a real dungeon.

“Whatever can all these precautions mean?” she

wondered, when a terrible explosion of thunder

shook the house and again brought Gray Eyes to the

door.

“Oh, come inside!” she begged Carol. “It—it will

be all right. Wasn’t—that—terrible!”

“I can wait here. I’m not afraid,” Carol answered.

“Oh, no, please come in,” the girl entreated. “I am

sure it will be all right,” and she held the inner door

wide open while she gestured for Carol to enter.

8

CHAPTER II

LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS

The girl motioned Carol to a chair.

“Do sit down,” she murmured, but Carol was not

inclined to. There seemed nothing unusual about the

room, except its quaint beauty, for the rug on the

floor was an exquisite hand-made hooked, and the

chairs were upholstered in needlepoint. All this

Carol saw at a glance.

“Are you all alone?” she asked, feeling that that

might be the reason the girl did not wish to admit

any one, not even another girl.

“Oh, no. My grandmother—is—here,” almost

whispered Gray Eyes, but Carol saw no one.

Sensing that the grandmother must be in a rear

room on the first floor, Carol decided to leave, storm

or no storm, so she said:

“I really must go, thank you. I have quite a long

drive and it’s getting dark. Thank you for asking me

in—”

“If you need anything,” the girl interrupted rather

too willingly, “there’s a tea shop at the next turn. A

9

girl keeps it and—”

“Oh, yes, I’ll stop there if I need anything,” Carol

helped her out. “You see, it was pouring so I had to

drive under shelter to get my coat from the back of

the car and then I felt I should tell you why I had

come in, so that’s why I rang,” she added. It gave

her a very queer feeling to know she was

unwelcome, and it was perfectly plain the girl was

anxious to have her go.

A scraping sound upstairs gave the gray-eyed girl

a start. Carol turned quickly to leave. But as the girl

again opened the door she gave Carol an irresistible

look of appeal or perhaps apology. Impulsively

Carol asked:

“Can’t I know your name? I might meet you

again sometime, I hope I may. My name is Carol

Duncan and I live in Melody Lane.”

“Oh, Melody Lane!” exclaimed the girl

brightening. “I’ve heard of that place.” She stopped

and listened again to the scratching on boards,

apparently near the kitchen.

“And your name?” pressed Carol.

“I’m Priscilla Hunt,” she said finally, her restless

hands clinging strangely to the dangling door chain.

“Well, good-bye Priscilla, and thank you,” said

Carol finally not sorry to be outside again, even if

the rain was still drizzling.

“Oh!” she breathed in relief. “I felt trapped in that

10

place. And yet— Perhaps I was nervous from the

storm in spite of myself,” she reasoned, as she

guided her car out of the lane. The low branches of

the trees, brushing the top, sent down a heavy

shower of the imprisoned rain. “I’m glad to see that

sunset light,” Carol continued to reassure herself.

“It isn’t quite night after all.”

Then she thought of the wayside shop Priscilla

Hunt had mentioned, and decided to take that next

turn where she could see the sign and get herself a

cup of tea.

“I seem to need it,” she concluded, although she

knew very well that she, Carol Duncan, never really

needed a cup of tea or anything else to restore her

courage.

At the sign she stopped. It read:

“The Dragon Tea Shop,” and an arrow pointed

the way. The sign was most unusual, for a country

place like Bramble Hill, Carol saw, for it was large

and artistically painted, a flaming yellow dragon on

a jade-green back-ground in the Chinese manner.

“Like Dad’s big yellow vase,” she thought. “And

it is actually built under a wooden hood to protect it.

That artist must have been practical. I thought they

never were.”

As she drew up to the quaint tea shop, near the

door of which was a smaller dragon sign done in the

same coloring, Carol was glad to see a determined

11

sunset seeping through the drenched trees. The

countryside at Bramble Hill was a lonely enough

place but when it rained it was gloomy indeed.

The long, low, shingled bungalow that was the

tea shop had all its pretty bright cretonned chairs

stacked back against the porch sides, but the brilliant

yellow awnings made a lovely spot of color in all

the greens.

Carol parked and hurried up the few stone steps

that were stuck into the little hill like a patched

walk. Then the door was opened by—actually by a

girl she knew.

“Dorothy Graham!” she exclaimed. “This can’t

be your shop!”

“Carol Duncan!” the other called back. “Why

can’t it? It is!”

“Oh, how lovely.” Dorothy was leading her in.

Plenty of welcome here at least. “You told me you

were going to start a shop—”

“And I sent you cards; didn’t you get them?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Carol was gazing about

the attractive place all but spell-bound. “Whatever

can be lovelier than a pretty tea shop! Dorothy, this

is simply sweet.”

Then, as girls are bound to, they reviewed their

personal histories since the winter before, when

Carol had met Dorothy at a High School dance and

Dorothy had disclosed her plans for a great, grand

12

and glorious tea shop that next summer, away out on

Bramble Hill, because so many motorists would

surely come that way when the new turnpike would

be opened in spring.

“And I took the dirt road and all but swamped my

car in mud,” Carol complained. “I could have saved

time by going out to the turnpike but I was in such

an awful hurry trying to beat the storm.”

“And you got caught in it,” rejoined Dorothy. “I

must get you a cup of real tea—”

“I really don’t need it, if you have to bother

making it, Dorothy,” Carol interposed.

“No bother, a real joy. I’ve been so terribly lonely

this afternoon.”

“All alone?”

“Yes. You know I came out here on account of

mother’s health. And to-day, suddenly, they had to

take her to the hospital.”

“Oh, Dorothy dear! I thought you looked worried

and how I have been rattling on. Don’t bother with

the tea, or else let me make it.”

They compromised by both going to the kitchen,

and while Carol gratefully sipped the splendid brew

Dorothy served in the yellow cups, she was only too

sure that her friend was greatly worried about her

mother, who had just that day been taken to the

hospital, leaving Dorothy alone in the shop because

the storm had prevented the woman she expected

13

from coming out to stay with her.

“But you can’t stay here alone tonight,” Carol

insisted.

“I have to. What else can I do?”

“Lock up and ride home with me.”

“If only I could,” sighed Dorothy, “but I must

stay here. I couldn’t leave the place unprotected.”

“As if you could protect it.”

“I have a telephone.”

“But what is there valuable?”

“Oh a lot of things, some of them considered

beyond value,” Dorothy told her. “You see, the

Ladies Home Club is planning a sale here, and they

have been sending their antiques in, you know, old

bed quilts, candle sticks and I don’t know what all. I

just couldn’t walk away and leave that stuff. In a day

or two I’ll see what I can do about it, if they find

mother has to stay at the hospital. Mary Ellen, our

housekeeper, drove in with her. Another reason I

have to stay is that a woman promised to come late

tonight, or even the first thing in the morning, with

some money she owes me for a card party she held

here two weeks ago. I didn’t know she was such

poor pay or I wouldn’t have let her have my shop.

So I must be here when she comes. I’ll need the

money for mother’s hospital expenses.”

“Oh, then of course you must stay and I’ll stay

with you.”

14

“How could you, Carol? You’re a darling to

offer. But I thought you said you had to get back to

Melody Lane—to Cecy’s party.”

“This is more important than Cecy’s party. I’ll

’phone her I can’t get in—that I’m going to stay

with you. Perhaps it will be just as well, I’m sure

Cecy will think so, at any rate.”

“Oh, you really will stay? But I do hope Cecy

won’t blame me for keeping you.”

“She doesn’t,” Carol reported after a brief talk to

her sister over the wire. “On the whole I’d say she’s

glad I won’t be there to give orders. So now I can

stay with a clear conscience.”

The good news of Carol’s actually staying

seemed a real blessing to the perplexed Dorothy,

who finally stopped offering polite objections. As

for Carol, she was rather glad to stay.

Finally the two girls settled down to talk quietly.

“Any more mysteries in Melody Lane?” asked

Dorothy. “It runs in my mind that you solved one or

two either there or that had some connection with

the place. Wasn’t there a ghost?”

“In the old organ loft,” laughed Carol. “Yes, a

sort of a ghost.”

“Then you took a forbidden trail to find out a

secret in a tower—how romantic!”

“Two entirely separate mysteries,” Carol said.

“And it wasn’t I who took the forbidden trail. It was

15

another girl, but Cecy and I managed to save her

from indiscretions. Did you hear about our last

episode, though, where we had a real mystery to

solve? Not that it was in Melody Lane. It was at a

queer old house owned by Dad’s eccentric aunt who

was afraid of a terror at Moaning Cliff.”

“Moaning Cliff! It gives me the creeps. Tell me

about it,” begged Dorothy.

“No, not now—later.” Her mention of Melody

Lane Mysteries referred to events described in other

volumes in this series.

“But I want you to tell me about your tea shop—

how in the world you ever hit on such a quaint

name—Dragon of the Hills? Tell me that first. And

why don’t they let anyone enter that house on

Bramble Hill? My second question.”

“Well, if you are interested—”

“Of course I am—especially in the dragon.”

“That is easiest told and yet—” Dorothy

hesitated.

“Don’t tell me it’s a mystery dragon!” exclaimed

Carol, swinging around excitedly.

“Well, there was something strange about how I

came to get that sign—you noticed it, I suppose.”

“Yes, it’s perfectly fascinating and very well

painted. However did you get it, who did it and

what’s the mystery? After that we come to the

forbidden house of no admittance. Oh, I can see I

16

am going to have a perfectly swell evening with

you, Dorothy. I’m glad I’m not at Cecy’s stupid

party. Begin the magic tale,” she entreated.

“First about the sign,” said Dorothy. “But wait a

minute.” She paused and seemed to be listening

intently. It was dark now. Suddenly she arose and

started toward the kitchen.

17

CHAPTER III

PERFUME OF MYSTERY

Carol sat still for a moment, then got up to follow

her friend, asking: “Is anything the matter? Did you

hear a noise?”

“Not exactly. But I just happened to remember

that I hadn’t locked up and I’d better see to locks

and chains. Not but what this is a most quiet

neighborhood—almost too quiet, in fact. Nothing

ever happens here. I wouldn’t like to live out

Bramble Hill way, though.”

“Why?”

“Oh, it’s different out there,” and Dorothy shook

here pretty brown head meaningfully, as Carol

watched her make sure the back door was securely

fastened. The same precaution was taken at the front

entrance and then the girls went back to the sitting

room, off the tea shop, and resumed their talk.

“You started to tell me about your fascinating

sign,” Carol reminded Dorothy.

“Oh, yes. Well, when Mother and I came here the

business had no distinctive name—it was just

18

Bramble Hill Tea Shop, without the final pe, so

many use. I despise that! After business began to

come in, several customers suggested names for the

place—everything from Ye Olde Spinning Wheel—

we really have one—to Dew Drop Inn.”

“Terrible!” agreed Carol.

“Well, I happened to buy some vases and other

ornaments from a Japanese art store in Millford,

that’s our nearest big city, if you can call it a city,

and the proprietor, delivering them out here, was

responsible for my sign. His name is Wu Ting and

he’s really very nice and polite and speaks very

good English. He was educated at Oxford, I believe.

At any rate, when he saw I had no name for the shop

he proposed calling it Dragon of the Hills. I liked it.

Then he offered to paint me a sign. He’s really quite

an artist and is never very busy. So he made the

picture of the golden dragon writhing amid jade-

green hills. I hope you noticed the peculiar sinister

face on the dragon and that the tail has two quirks or

twists in it, also there are six claws on each of the

feet. Mr. Ting informed me that it represents an

imperial dragon and was copied after a well known

Chinese jade carving said to be almost priceless.”

“But if the dragon is Chinese, and I believe they

have a monopoly on dragons, how did it come that a

Japanese art dealer knew so much about it, and

could design it for you, Dorothy?”

19

“Oh, I don’t know. I imagine there isn’t any racial

line when it comes to art and the Japs have no

compunctions against adopting a Chinese dragon

when it suits their purpose. Anyhow, Mr. Ting

painted my signboard for me and he wouldn’t take a

penny for it. He said I was a good customer. And I

must say the sign has attracted attention. I believe it

brings trade here, and goodness knows I need it and

will need more if Mother is to be in the hospital

long,” sighed Dorothy.

“Let’s hope she won’t be,” said Carol

sympathetically. “So that’s the story of the

dragon?”

“No, not quite all,” Dorothy replied. “I don’t

know how long the sign had been up when, one day,

I had rather a curious customer and visitor, for he

filled both roles.”

“How did he manage that?”

“Well, many passing motorists stop here for tea,

some of my cinnamon or cheese toast and cookies.

Mary Ellen is a dab at cookies. This particular

visitor, a very presentable young man, as they say in

stories, after he had been served (and he had an

excellent appetite) worked the talk around to my

sign. That wasn’t unusual—lots of customers do. It’s

really a good talking point for my shop.” Dorothy

again insisted. “But this young man seemed to

actually know about the Dragon of the Hills. He

20

asked me if I had ever seen the original and he gave

it a name which was either in the Chinese or

Japanese language. I recognized it as the same name

Mr. Ting had used.”

“You don’t mean your hungry visitor was a

foreigner, Dorothy?”

“No, he was a perfectly good American boy—at

least he was American,” and Dorothy laughed. “But

he seemed to know considerable about Chinese and

Japanese art for he looked at the vases and things I

had bought from Mr. Ting and commented critically

on them and he wanted to know all about the man

who painted the sign. When I told him about Mr.

Ting he just said ‘Oh, Mr. Ting. He should know

about the Dragon of the Hills.’ ”

“He knew Mr. Ting?”

“Seemed to. At any rate I was flustered and he

probably noticed it, so we quickly switched our

conversation to things more commonplace. We got

to be quite friendly in the half hour he was here—

that is as friendly as a tea shop hostess and a

customer are supposed to get—and when he left he

gave me his card. I have it somewhere about—I

have good reason to remember him.”

“Why?”

“I’m coming to that. The name was James Dutton

and he was connected with the Oriental Importing

Company in New York. As he was leaving, after

21

standing outside to again admire my dragon sign, he

asked me if Mr. Ting had ever said anything about

the Dragon bringing luck to whoever displayed it. I

said he hadn’t, though I was very fond of good luck.

Then he drove away in his car. He was a nice—

chap.” She ended absently.

“Is that all?” asked Carol and she was a little

disappointed. Didn’t you ever see him again?”

“I haven’t seen him but I have heard of him.”

“Oh, Dorothy, letters? Fancy,” Carol laughed.

“No letters. It was rather a tragic hearing. Soon

after he left here, to drive on into New York, as he

told me, Mr. Dutton was in a serious auto accident at

Bramble Hill. His car skidded and overturned in

front of the house where you took shelter this

afternoon. He was thrown out and badly hurt. He

had to be in the Millford hospital for some time—

that’s how I heard of him again, though I have never

seen him. I have often thought, since, that perhaps

he meant the Dragon of the Hills brought bad luck

though he didn’t say so. At any rate, he had bad

luck, and now with poor mother—”

“Oh, don’t get such notions in your head,

Dorothy,” scoffed Carol.

“No, I mustn’t, I know. Well, that’s all there is

about my dragon sign. It still creaks in the wind,

though, as if to remind me it’s there.”

“Well, go on,” urged Carol as Dorothy fell into a

22

silence.

“About what? Oh, yes the old house at Bramble

Hill. I don’t know whether I spoke of it or not when

you blew in here, but it was very strange that you

got in there.”

“I didn’t get in very far.”

“Even as far as you did. None of the folks around

here are ever admitted.”

“Why?”

“Nobody knows that answer. I’ll tell you all I

know, which isn’t much. I’ll have to begin a little

way back.”

Pausing for a moment to collect her thoughts,

Dorothy again took up the story.

“The old house on Bramble Hill was here when

mother and I arrived to open the tea shop. You could

easily guess that, for the place where old Mrs. Hunt

lives is quite ancient—a regular landmark.

Gradually I came to know that she is an expert

weaver of rugs, also does hooked ones and beautiful

needlepoint.”

“I had just a glimpse of some,” Carol admitted.

“But why be so secretive about it? After all, she isn’t

the only old lady who makes hooked rugs.”

“It has something to do with the colors used—I

believe Mrs. Hunt claims to have the secret of some

special dyes she got from the Gypsies years ago.

Anyhow, she has an old Gypsy woman, who comes

23

regularly to a camp near here, with others, to help in

the rug weaving and dyeing.”

“I didn’t see any Gypsies, and why does the rug

weaver need help?”

“Probably Zada Leigh—that’s the old gypsy to

distinguish her from her daughter Tamma, a fortune

teller and palmist—wasn’t there when you fairly

forced your way past the no-admittance sign,”

Dorothy said. Zada and her tribe camp in a tent back

in Bramble Hill. But the reason old Mrs. Hunt needs

help is that she can’t walk—arthritis or something

like that. She has to use a wheeled chair.”

“That accounts for the inclined runway,” Carol

said.

“Yes. Not being able to use her legs, old Mrs.

Hunt can’t work a foot-power loom which is in the

house. That’s where the Gypsy woman comes in,

though of course the granddaughter, Priscilla, and

her brother, Dick, help in the harder work of the

weaving. That is Dick did until he passed out of the

picture.”

“Passed out?”

“Well, I mean he went away—unexpectedly—

suddenly. I wondered at him deserting his

grandmother and the pathetic little sister, but when I

mention it to Priscilla—she stops in once in a while

to buy cinnamon toast for her grandmother—

Priscilla said her brother went to find work. He was

24

tired of hanging around the house helping to weave

rugs or deliver them to customers. In spite of her

rather crotchety notion about never admitting

visitors, Mrs. Hunt manages to do a fairly good

business and her rugs really are wonderful,”

declared Dorothy.

“I’m not much of a judge of them,” Carol said.

“They all look the same to me.”

“Well, I happen to know they are exceptional,”

said Dorothy. “The colorings and designs are

beautiful, delicate and odd. I don’t wonder the old

lady doesn’t want her secret of dyes stolen. She even

keeps rather a savage dog to discourage visitors.”

“Yes, I heard him bark. But when did this Dick

go away?”

“Right after the accident to Mr. Dutton—the

accident happened in front of the no-admittance

house at Bramble Hill.”

“You don’t mean there was any connection?”

“None at all, as far as I know, but I just happen to

remember the time. Well, there you have the two

stories, that of my dragon sign and the mysterious

house—only I suppose after what has happened to

you and Cecy in Melody Lane you wouldn’t call it

at all mysterious.”

“I am not so sure of that,” Carol said rather

dreamily as she recalled the air and manner of

Priscilla. “But I’m not going to get mixed up in any

25

more mysteries if I can avoid them. So that’s all?”

“No, not quite,” Dorothy said after musing a few

moments.

“Well, go on,” Carol urged. “Don’t let us be anti-

climactic.”

“After Mr. Dutton was taken to the hospital,”

Dorothy continued, “I mean a few days later when

he was out of danger, I received a visit from a very

queer character. It seemed to me he was in disguise.

He must have been young but he had a growth of

wild beard and—well, I’m sure he was made up.”

“A man—made up?”

“Yes, his voice was young but his face was

horrid. That is what I could see of it, for it was

getting dark and he took precious good care not to

come into the light. And oh, that heavy smell of

oriental smoke.”

“Now you are telling me,” slanged Carol.

“Not much. After some foolish questions, this

man drove off in a snappy car, and soon after a real

foreigner appeared.”

“Hope he told you who he was.”

“He did. He was either a Chinese or a Japanese,

and his name was Wong Sut. He gave me a card—I

mean he left it. I wouldn’t take it from him for fear

he might touch my hand—and I don’t like to be

touched by strangers.” Dorothy gave a little shiver.

“But you haven’t yet said why he visited you.”

26

“Oh, yes. It was about Mr. Dutton. This Wong

Sut was connected with the Oriental Importing

Company of New York, for whom Mr. Dutton

worked. Word of Mr. Dutton’s accident was sent to

the firm and Wong Sut came out to see how his

man, Mr. Dutton, was getting on. He seemed like an

insurance investigator, asking me all sorts of

questions about the time Mr. Dutton was here—

what he did, how long he stayed, what time he left

and all that.”

“It may have had to do with insurance,” Carol

agreed.

“Yes, it may have, but I don’t believe it. What

Wong Sut was more concerned with was whether

Mr. Dutton had left any property here with me.”

“Property with you?”

“Oh, not in any friendly way. Just that he might

have forgotten something—a package or something

like that. Maybe he had lost a cigarette case, but

didn’t say so.”

“Then, what did Mr. Dutton lose?”

“Wong Sut didn’t say. He intimated, though, it

was something very valuable and that Mr. Dutton

had had it with him, but that it wasn’t found either

on his person when he was taken to the hospital or in

his car which a garage man towed away after the

accident.”

“So your unpleasant visitor asked if the package,

27

by chance, might have been left in your tea shop,”

reflected Carol.

“Yes. But of course it hadn’t and I told Mr. Wong

Sut as much. I understand he also went to Bramble

Hill to make inquiries but learned nothing and was

refused even as much admittance as you obtained

from Priscilla.”

“If the accident to Mr. Dutton occurred in front of

the strange house, do you suppose Mrs. Hunt,

Priscilla or Dick know anything about what was

lost?”

“They might have seen the accident. In fact I

believe either Priscilla or her brother called help.

But Mr. Sut got very little from them if he wanted to

establish an insurance claim. Poor Dick, that’s

Priscilla’s brother! I’m sorry he went away. He was

a very nice boy—used to take me to the movies in

Millford occasionally—I drove in with my car. He

was really a nice youngster and I miss him.”

“Well, now that everything has been told, we’re

going to miss a lot of sleep if we don’t go to bed

soon,” urged Carol. “Are you sure everything is

completely locked?”

“Very sure. And I am tired too. I know I shall

sleep soundly. It’s so much cooler after the storm.”

“And windier,” observed Carol as they went up

stairs. “Hear the dragon creaking.” The sound of the

swaying sign seemed to mock them.

28

“Yes, he is noisy,” Dorothy admitted. “I must

have the iron hangings oiled tomorrow.”

Dorothy got Carol pajamas and after a little more

talk, which included the making of tentative plans

for next day, they got into Dorothy’s pretty twin

beds in a room above the porch.

It was past midnight, as Carol learned later, when

something suddenly awakened her. At first she

thought it was just a noise but as she sat up, startled,

and looked at Dorothy sleeping in the next bed, she

knew it was not a noise at all but the heavy odor of a

strange perfume—a perfume as of scented smoke,

that came into their room with such a sudden gust

that it had actually awakened her.

29

CHAPTER IV

THE NIGHT PROWLER

Carol’s first thought and fear was of fire, when

she smelled that perfumed oriental smoke. It seemed

to have drifted in through the open bedroom

window, borne on the night wind that followed the

heat of the storm. And quickly, seeking a possible

reason for the perfume in the smoke, Carol recalled

that Dorothy had several incense burners about the

tearoom.

“One might have been left burning—though we

didn’t light any,” Carol mused rapidly, as she sat up,

her heart pounding and the smell of smoke

becoming stronger. “Or the tea shop may be on fire

and the incense may have caught.”

Fear and dread assailed her, as in a shiver of

anxiety she leaped out of bed and began shaking

Dorothy who was sleeping soundly.

“What—what is it?” Dorothy asked. And then, as

Carol had done, she breathed in deeply and

murmured: “The perfume—the Oriental smoke.”

“Maybe the place is on fire,” said Carol. “You

had some incense in the burners—and a fire—”

30

“There’s no fire!” declared Dorothy. “At least I

hardly think so.”

“It smells like incense. We’d better look!”

insisted Carol.

In slippers and quickly-donned robes they crept to

the top of the stairs. No fearful billows of smoke

arose to choke them and they felt the heat of no

flames. In fact, after they left the bedroom the

strange, mysterious perfumed smoke was hardly

noticeable at all. It seemed only to have been blown

in the open window—perhaps from a distance.

“Thank goodness the shop isn’t on fire!”

murmured Dorothy. “That would have been

dreadful.”

“But there is some kind of smoke,” Carol

persisted. “And it’s like incense, too. Are you sure

none of the burners may be smoldering?”

“I’m positive. Besides, that isn’t incense smoke. I

use a peculiar kind of sandal wood I get from Mr.

Ting and it isn’t that odor. I know what it is,

though.”

“What?”

“It comes back to me now. It is Ambar—a

peculiar oriental or Egyptian scent used in some

cigarettes. And Wong Sut smoked this same kind of

cigarette when he came to ask if James Dutton had

left any package here. And the queer fellow—the

one I thought was made up—he reeked of it.”

31

“How do you know it’s Ambar cigarette smoke

you smell now?”

“Because Wong Sut left one here when he went

away. I showed it to my Japanese friend and he

identified it for me. Oh, Carol! If they come back

here again—” Dorothy’s eyes were wide with fright.

“What would either of them be doing back here?

Don’t be silly!”

“I can’t help it. I’m afraid of them, especially

Wong Sut, and I hate his cigarettes!”

“He may not be the only one who smokes them—

probably he isn’t. A passing motorist may be

responsible for the odor that came in our window.”

“Yes, that’s possible. I only hope it is so.”

“But don’t you think we had better go down stairs

and look for a possible fire here?” suggested Carol,

as they had been standing, listening.

“Yes, I suppose so. Wait a minute.”

Dorothy hurried back to the room and, switching

on the lights, secured her flash-torch—then reached

beneath her pillow and brought out something small

and blue-black.

“Oh, Dorothy! A revolver!” gasped Carol.

“Not a revolver—an automatic. But don’t be

afraid. I know how to use it. I always keep it handy.

It gives me courage.”

“You don’t need an automatic against smoke,”

Carol said.

32

33

“There’s smoke, though there may be no fire,”

said Dorothy significantly. “But there may be

something else, so I’m going to take the automatic

down with us.” She held it conspicuously as she and

Carol, the latter carrying the flashlight, descended

the stairs, a little past midnight, as Carol saw by the

clock.

They found the tea shop and lower rooms in

perfect order. Not a vestige of fire or smoke, and

without even a faint aroma of the strange perfume.

Relieved and with hearts beating less rapidly, they

were about to go back up stairs when suddenly, from

the darkened tea room, came the unmistakable noise

of a door fastening being cautiously tried, or, rather,

one of the long, French windows of the shop,

windows that opened on a broad porch.

“Did you hear that?” whispered Dorothy.

“Yes,” responded Carol, her voice tense and low.

“Somebody’s out there on the porch—trying to

get in. Oh, Carol, it must be that cigarette-smoking

fiend—or some one like him!”

Completely alarmed now the girls listened again.

“We must telephone for help,” Carol said firmly.

“It may be only a tramp or some motorist who is

befuddled by a night’s celebration, and who has

mistaken this for another road-house. We must

telephone the police.”

“There aren’t any police out here, Carol. Only

34

some constables or special officers in Millford.

That’s too far away.”

“We’ve got to do something! We can’t have a

midnight prowler around here.”

“Wait,” whispered Dorothy.

“What? Don’t shoot!”

“There’s someone on the porch.”

“But you wouldn’t fire!”

Dorothy gave Carol’s arm a tug. “We must

protect ourselves,” she whispered again, and the

next moment Dorothy had raised her arm level to the

small opened windowpane in the glass door border

and Carol saw a spurt of flame.

Then the six successive shots, bing—bing—

bing—bing—bing—bing of the automatic rang out

like the swift explosion of so many fire crackers.

For a few seconds neither girl spoke. But when

the unmistakable whirr of a motor gave notice that a

car was racing away, the girls sank down, still

breathless.

“They’re gone,” said Carol at last.

“Yes,” answered Dorothy, “but we are not going

to take any chances. I’ll call up Mr. Anderson. He

lives just down the road. He’s our milkman. He said

any time mother or I wanted him he’d come right

over. I’ll telephone him!”

“Yes, do: That’s best,” Carol agreed. “I’ll never

forget your cracking automatic!”

35

Dorothy called and found Mr. Anderson very

good-natured after being awakened from a sound

sleep. He agreed to come right over and he did, with

a flashlight and a revolver that, while it was less

modern than Dorothy’s now unloaded automatic,

looked very business-like and protective.

Admitted, after properly identifying himself at the

front door, the burly milkman made a search of the

house and also a tour around it. As might have been

expected, he saw no prowler nor did he admit that he

smelled any perfumed smoke.

“You’re all right—no danger at all,” he assured

the girls. “There isn’t any sign that the window has

been tampered with. I guess it was only some late

celebrator wanting to keep on celebrating, thinking

this was a road house. If you want, I’ll have Harry

come over and spend the rest of the night with you,”

he offered, referring to his big, fifteen year old son.

He can bunk down stairs on the couch.”

“Oh, it would be lovely if you’d do that,” said

Dorothy. “But I hate to give you all that trouble and

it would be a shame to spoil Harry’s sleep.”

“He won’t mind, he’s a Scout. Glad to do it.

Make him think he’s growing up!” chuckled Mr.

Anderson. “I’ll call him over. And I’ll stay until he

gets here,” he added, going to the telephone.

So, a little later, under Harry’s guard, Carol and

Dorothy went back to bed.

36

CHAPTER V

THE FLEETING BREATH

From an exhausted, heavy slumber, into which

they had fallen after the strange prowler and the

stranger perfume had disappeared, Carol and

Dorothy were suddenly awakened in the dim, gray

dawn, by a pounding on the front door of the tea

shop.

“What’s that?” exclaimed Carol, sitting up in her

bed.

“Sounds like someone at the door,” answered

Dorothy. “Oh, if it’s that prowler of the night—”

“It isn’t night now, it’s morning,” Carol said.

“I’m glad of it,” declared Dorothy as the

pounding sounded again.

“Shall we answer?” Carol inquired.

“We’ll have to, of course. It may be some

message about mother—”

“It wouldn’t be that. They would have

telephoned,” Carol comforted her friend.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Dorothy was fumbling into a

robe and feeling with bare feet around the floor

37

beneath her bed for her slippers.

“Could it be a customer?” Carol asked as she, too,

got out of bed.

“At this hour—barely daylight—hardly. Besides I

don’t serve breakfasts. But we’ll soon see.”

As they started down they heard the Anderson

boy calling to them that it was daylight and he was

going out the back way. With a casual word of

thanks the girls continued on their way to the front

door.

The chain rattled when Dorothy opened the door

a crack, and Carol had a glimpse of a girl’s

frightened face—the face of Gray Eyes from the

strange house where she had taken shelter in the

storm.

“Oh!” gasped Carol. The exclamation was echoed

by Dorothy and in a sobbing voice by Priscilla.

“Something—something terrible has happened!”

she burst out. “My—my grandmother—she’s dead!”

“Dead!” cried Carol and Dorothy together.

“Yes, I’m afraid she’s dead. She’s lying on the

bed in a queer way and her face is so drawn and

white and she doesn’t answer when I call to her,”

sobbed the girl. “I—I’m afraid to go to her. I don’t

know what to do—we have no telephone so I ran

over here. I—I—” She burst into tears and could tell

them no more.

“You poor child!” murmured Carol. “Come in

38

and we’ll see what’s best to do.”

“Yes, come in!” urged Dorothy glad, now, that

Harry Anderson had run home, although at the time

he called he was going, it hadn’t seemed very

scoutlike. “Have you had breakfast, Priscilla?”

“No—I couldn’t eat now. I got up when I heard

Grannie moving. She has been very restless since

the house was entered the other night—”

“The house entered!” broke in Carol.

“Yes.” Priscilla nodded. “I’ll tell you about it

later. But since then Grannie insisted that I sleep

down stairs near her. So this morning, just a while

ago, I woke up when I heard her moving around. I

thought it was early for her to be getting breakfast,

but she wasn’t up for breakfast. I heard her call out

about someone outside. I was so frightened I

couldn’t move. Then everything was still and quiet.

It was almost dark. Quickly as I could I ran into her

room but she was all in—a heap—on the bed, and

I—I was afraid—”

“No wonder, child!” said Carol. “Make her some

tea or coffee, Dot!” she urged. “She needs

something. You can do it quicker than I can. I’ll stay

with Priscilla and as soon as she’s a little calmer

we’ll decide what to do. We must go over there at

once.”

“Would you rather have coffee or tea?” pressed

Dorothy, kindly.

39

“I—I don’t want anything,” sobbed Priscilla.

“Oh, but you must have something. You will

have a hard day ahead of you, even if your

grandmother is only ill.”

“She is more than ill—I’m afraid it’s death,” the

girl said with a little shiver. “Oh, it’s terrible!”

“We’ll help you—we’ll stay with you until some

one comes,” offered Carol. “It will be all right.

Don’t be so alarmed. Haven’t you any relatives?”

“No, there’s only Grannie and my brother—but

he has gone away.”

Carol did not want to question further just then.

Priscilla was under strain enough about her

grandmother.

Still protesting that she couldn’t take anything,

Priscilla however did manage to swallow a little of

the hot coffee. Soon she seemed brighter, and while

Carol and Dorothy also took some coffee they

gently attempted to find out what really had

happened. They knew they must get some

information quickly.

Finally Dorothy said: “We must notify the

authorities if it’s a case of sudden death”—and she

looked meaningly at Carol as she said this. “We

should also immediately call a doctor. Did your

grandmother have a doctor lately, Priscilla?”

“Not lately, but I heard her mention Dr. Baker.”

“I’ll call him. Then I’ll have to get Squire Eaton.

40

He’s the local police and almost all other official

authority around here,” Dorothy explained to Carol.

“He’ll know what to do. And then—well, I guess

we’ll have to go back there with Priscilla.” She

meant, of course, to the house of tragedy on

Bramble Hill.

“Yes, of course,” Carol agreed. “We couldn’t let

her go back there alone. But there’s a dog—and I

don’t like dogs. Priscilla will have to go in first to tie

him up.”

“Rusty isn’t there now,” said Priscilla. “Rusty’s

the dog you heard barking when you were at our

house in the storm yesterday,” she said to Carol.

“But he’s gone now.”

“Gone—where?”

“I—I think he must have been poisoned in the

night. Anyhow he’s lying dead out in the back.

Maybe he died because Grannie died. They were

great friends,” she sighed.

Something like a shock went through Carol and

Dorothy as they heard the girl say this so simply and

unaffectedly. Despite her efforts to throw off the

idea, Carol could not help feeling that something

sinister had come to the strange house.

Dorothy used her telephone efficiently. She soon

had Dr. Baker’s promise to go at once to Bramble

Hill. Next Squire Eaton said he would promptly look

into the matter, and when he had realized that

41

something mysterious might have happened he

added that he would bring with him Constable

Higgon.

This was all attended to quickly and then Carol

and Dorothy got ready to go back with the girl. By

this time Mary Ellen had returned from the city on

the first bus.

“I can leave the shop in her charge; she’s a

jewel,” Dorothy whispered to Carol. “And she can

accept the money that woman may bring in today

since she didn’t come last night. I hope she does

come with it.”

“I’ll have my roadster around in a jiffy,” Carol

offered.

“Good I I’ll say a last word to Mary Ellen to be

sure just how she left poor Mother.”

In the car Priscilla said little but nestled between

the two as though glad of their company, warmth

and friendship, for the morning was cold after the

storm. It took but a few minutes to reach the

desolate house on Bramble Hill.

“Weren’t you afraid to run all the way over from

your house to my shop so early in the morning—

before it was really light?” asked Dorothy.

“I was thinking so much about Grannie that I

didn’t have time to be frightened,” was the answer.

“Oh, do you think she is really dead?” gasped

Priscilla. “And could she have died of fright?”

42

“It is hard to say, dear,” Carol murmured. “But

try to be brave.”

The green roadster reached the strange, silent

house just as another car drove up.

“Dr. Baker,” Dorothy announced as she saw the

physician alight and start up the inclined runway. He

heard the girls’ voices and waited for them. With a

few hurried explanations from them, Dr. Baker went

into the silent chamber to which Priscilla pointed,

while the girls waited breathlessly in the front room.

The physician was not long inside. His face was

serious as he came back to them.

“Dead,” he said with his lips only, over the

bowed head of Priscilla who sat slumped in a chair.

Then as she looked up suddenly Dr. Baker put his

arms about her and said very gently: “Your

grandmother is out of all her suffering at last,

Priscilla. She has gone where there is no more pain.”

“Oh—oh—” It was a long, wailing sob and the

girl’s frail form shook as she clung to him. “Oh,”

she murmured, “if Grannie could only have lived a

little longer. Just a little longer until she could have

finished her work. Until she could have finished it!”

Again she was shaken by sobs.

It took some time for the stricken girl to recover

her composure for she realized her good friend, her

own dear grandmother was gone from her forever.

“Look after the child,” Dr. Baker said, simply. “I

43

shall have to make ready for an investigation,” he

said aside to Carol.

“An investigation, Dr. Baker?” she whispered.

“Yes, from what you tell me of this sudden death

and the fact of the dog being poisoned in the night,

an investigation will be necessary. Ah, here comes

Squire Eaton and his man, now,” he said as he

looked from a front window down toward the lonely

road along which Carol had driven in the storm the

night before.

But Carol had not even told Dorothy that when

she hurried out to get her car, she had also looked to

see what damage the automatic bullets might have

done and had picked up a bit of oriental silk. It was a

narrow strip like a scarf and the figures were

wrought into tiny dragons. Loath to touch a strange

bit of clothing, Carol nevertheless did pick it up

gingerly and in the garage got a piece of paper in

which to wrap it and stick it in her coat pocket.

Surely this must be a clue to the midnight prowler.

44

CHAPTER VI

CONFUSION

Squire Adrian Eaton who was local justice and in

charge of the police or, rather, constabulary force of

Bramble Hill, strode up the inclined runway

followed by his helper, Lem Higgon. The Squire

was a heavy, thick-set man, with a shock of white

hair, rather picturesque in appearance with a kindly

wrinkled face, while the constable was a brawny

individual. In fact he ran a garage and filling station

just to make sure he would be kept busy.

“Well, Doc, what’s going on here?” asked the

Squire after a nod to Dorothy and an appraising

glance at Carol and Priscilla.

“Old Mrs. Hunt is dead, Adrian,” solemnly

answered Dr. Baker.

“Too bad! Mighty sorry for you, Priscilla. But

don’t you worry. I’m your friend—I’ll stand by you.

Your grandmother, years ago, told me if anything

ever happened to her that I was to take charge and

look after things until everything was cleared up—

yes, cleared up.” The Squire had a habit of repeating

45

his words. Perhaps he thought this was necessary

because he used so few of them. “How’d it happen,

Doc?”

“Well, it just happened. I should say Mrs. Hunt

died from a heart attack probably induced by fright.

I’ve been treating her, you know. The rheumatism

she’s suffered from for years naturally weakened her

heart. But something may have touched it off—a

fright. That was all that was needed. Of course I

won’t make that my official opinion until I’ve

investigated, but from what Priscilla tells me there

was a fright.”

“Who frightened her, Priscilla?” asked the justice

kindly. “Who?”

“I don’t know. It was some one prowling around

the house last night or early this morning.” Hearing

this, Carol and Dorothy exchanged glances but said

nothing. They had their own prowler to explain.

Priscilla repeated what she had first disclosed about

hearing her grandmother moving, listening to the

frightened exclamation and then going in to find the

old lady crumpled on the bed.

“Hum!” said the squire. “You listening, Lem?

Listening?”

“I sure am.”

“Anything else, Priscilla? Anything else?”

“The dog.”

“What about him? What?”

46

“Dead.”

“Oh. Um. Dead?”

“Looks as if he was poisoned,” explained Dr.

Baker. “Just from a first glance, you know. My

theory is that some tramp, perhaps having heard

there were valuable rugs here, came around to get a

few. He needed the dog out of the way so he

poisoned him. But the frightened cries of Mrs. Hunt

drove the intruder away. Now what’s to be done,

Squire?”

“You take the medicine end, Doc, and Lem and I

will look after the police end. Lem, you’d better take

a look around. I’ll look after Priscilla. I promised her

grandmother I would. I’ll take charge until things

are cleared up. You know anything about this, Miss

Graham?” he asked Dorothy.

“Only what Priscilla told me when she ran over to

get me to telephone for Dr. Baker. But this wasn’t

the only place where there was a night prowler,

Squire Eaton. There was one at my tea shop last

night, too.”

“No!”

“Yes.” Dorothy then related the circumstances

but said nothing about her automatic.

“Hum!” murmured the Squire. “It looks like

something more than I thought at first. Probably that

tramp took a chance at your place, Miss Graham,

before he came here. Look over both places, Lem.

47

Look ’em over!”

“Sure, Squire.”

“I’ll come with you. Back in a few minutes, Doc.

Back soon.”

“All right. And now I’ll see what’s to be done.

But you can’t stay here alone, Priscilla,” he said

kindly. “Yet there must be somebody in charge here.

There are too many valuable things to be left

unguarded,” and he looked about at the various rugs

and pieces of embroidery.”

“I’ll have my housekeeper, Mary Ellen, come

over and stay until after the funeral,” said Dorothy.

“She will be just the one to be with Priscilla. Mary

Ellen won’t be afraid of any tramps.”

“No, from what I know of Mary Ellen I should

say she wouldn’t,” agreed Dr. Baker with a little

smile.

“Mary Ellen is a very determined Scotch

woman,” Dorothy informed Carol in a low voice.

“She’s very firm and afraid of nothing. I can easily

manage for a few days without her by getting some

one else in. Besides, I don’t care whether or not I do

any business until I am sure about mother. But then

there’s the big affair next week,” she went on rather

helplessly.

“What affair, Dorothy?”

“The Ladies Aid is going to have a big party at

my shop. It will mean a hundred dollars to me and

48

I’ll need the money. I can’t call it off even if I

should want to.”

“I’ll find some way to help you,” Carol promised.

“By then we’ll have time to turn around and see how

things come out. We must help Priscilla, first. I wish

we could induce her to leave here now, but she’s

determined to stay.”

“Yes, I’ll go back and get Mary Ellen,” decided

Dorothy.

“Yes, we’d better get back,” suggested Carol.

“But can’t we take Priscilla with us until Mary Ellen

can come over here and take charge?”

“That would be a good idea,” said Dr. Baker with

a significant glance toward the room where old Mrs.

Hunt lay dead. “There are things I must do. Do you

know where your grandmother kept any papers she

might have, Priscilla?”

“In that old clock.” Priscilla pointed to a tall

Grandfather clock in a far corner of the quaint room.

“She always kept papers there.”

“I’ll look for them. Now, you go along with Miss

Graham and her friend,” he ordered. “Those girls are

better for you than a flock of gabby old women.”

“Yes, come, Priscilla,” Dorothy urged. “Things

will be all right. Don’t cry, now,” she begged, for

she saw tears welling into the girl’s eyes again.

“Grannie is out of her pain, at least. That’s a

blessing.”

49

“Yes, I suppose so. But if only she could have

lived until she had finished her work. It was so

important and she wanted so terribly to finish it.”

“Her work, Dorothy, what do you mean?”

“In here.” She pushed open the door of a room

they were passing to reach the entrance to the old

mansion. In the room, which appeared to have been

at one time a stately parlor, was a loom and on it,

partly finished, a magnificent rug, not the hooked

type, for they require no looms, but a woven rug of

the most beautiful design and coloring. “Grannie’s

greatest ambition was to finish that rug before she

died,” Priscilla explained as she softly closed the

door. “She said it would bring her in a lot of money

and she wouldn’t have to weave any more. But it

never happened—she’s gone.”

She struggled to compose herself, and as they

were going out Carol, who was in the lead, looked

through the shed where she had taken shelter from

the storm, out beyond, toward the road and, seeing a

strange figure approaching, exclaimed:

“Who is this coming up the path? It looks like a

Gypsy woman. We don’t want any begging Gypsies

here now.”

Dorothy and Priscilla pressed up behind Carol to

look out and Priscilla said:

“Oh, that’s Zada. She is a Gypsy, yes, but she’s a

good woman. She helped Grannie weave and color

50

the rugs. Oh, I wonder—I wonder if Zada couldn’t

go on and finish the rug Grannie was so anxious to

finish?” she asked eagerly. “I think she might.”

“Perhaps,” said Dorothy. “You can talk to Squire

Eaton about it later. He seems to have taken charge

of everything.”

“Oh, yes, he was a good friend to Grannie. He

can tell me what to do. But I must speak to Zada.”

The Gypsy woman, in the usual gaudy red,

yellow and purples her kind affect, strode on up to

the house. She seemed much surprised when she

saw Priscilla with the two strange girls. In broken

sentences Priscilla told her about her grandmother’s

sudden death.

“Oh, my dear! My dear!” murmured the Gypsy.

“It is a sad heart!” She muttered something in

Romany and then, bending down, made some

strange marks in the dirt. “That is the Gypsy’s

comfort sign,” she said with a smile that further

wrinkled her brown face. “Later on I shall do more

for to make you happy, Priscilla. Now I go back to

my tent. My people shall work comfort for you.”

“But you will come back to me, again, Zada? You

know Grannie needed your help,” Priscilla urged,

“and now I may need it.”

“Yes, I will come back, child. I will come back

and comfort you. Ah, death must visit all of us. Your

Grannie—I loved her, too.”

51

She turned away muttering in a strange tongue,

while the girls hurried down to Carol’s car. They

had a glimpse of the Squire and his man tramping

around the strange old house, probably for clues to

the mystery.

“I shouldn’t leave Grannie there alone,” demurred

Priscilla, taking a long look at the vine-hidden

house.

“Oh, but you must,” insisted Carol, knowing too

well what searching for clues, what sad rites about

the cold, aged body, and even what an examination

of the dog, Rusty, for traces of poison would mean

to a girl, so unfitted for such a gruesome ordeal.

“If it had just been simply heart disease,” Carol

was thinking, “but the doctor said it might be

induced by sudden fright. So I suppose the real

search will be for that appearance at the window that

had made the woman cry out. And I have my own

ideas about the intruder,” Carol decided secretly, as

she pushed the bit of paper containing the small

silken scarf she had found on the tea-room porch

deeper into her pocket.

52

CHAPTER VII

EVEN AT MELODY LANE

The three girls were again back at the tea shop

where all the interest of Carol and Dorothy was

naturally devoted to caring for Priscilla. Mary Ellen

promptly agreed to go over to the Bramble Hill

house but was reluctant to leave her own charge,

Dorothy, without real adult help, at hand.

“Well, things have to happen,” the woman

reasoned philosophically. “So you’ll do no business

today, Dorothy?”

“No, Mary Ellen. I think we’d better close up.”

“Maybe it’s best. There’ll be a lot to do over

there.”

“I rather planned that you’d go and stay with

Priscilla, Mary Ellen, until after the funeral.”

“Of course I will. Who else? But what will you

do?”

“Carol will stay until I can get some one in and

matters are straightened out. I wonder if I could get

Mrs. Ranson? She sometimes goes out housekeeping

and for day’s work.”

53

“Of course you can!” decided Mary Ellen. “Sairy

Ranson is beholden to me. I’ll make her come.

Telephone her to come right over. She’ll come.”

Dorothy promptly ‘phoned and before noon Mrs.

Ranson was temporarily installed in Mary Ellen’s

place in the tea shop, and Mary Ellen had gone back

to Bramble Hill, Carol driving her in her car.

But try as they might they could not induce

Priscilla to stay away from the lonely house longer

than a few hours, so when Dorothy and Carol had

made sure that the most trying details there had been

attended to, again Carol drove over the hill, this time

taking the girl, whose wonderful gray eyes were

now sadly rimmed with red tear stains, back to her

dismal home.

Meanwhile Mrs. Hunt’s body had been taken to

an undertaking parlor in Millford. The autopsy

would be held there.

“But I wish my brother were here,” Priscilla said

to Carol as they were parting.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. He went away suddenly and hasn’t

written. I don’t even know how to get in touch with

him.”

“Perhaps Squire Eaton will find something

among your grandmother’s papers to show where

your brother is.”

“Perhaps. I hope so.”

54

The old constable was on the porch and he spoke

to the girls.

“We didn’t find nothing of any account,” he

reported. “The Squire told me to tell you, Priscilla,

that he would take charge of everything until after—

er—the—funeral. He’s got the papers. It seems there

was some insurance so that will be all right. And

now, if you don’t need me, I’ll be getting back to my

garage.”

“We don’t need you!” sharply said Mary Ellen,

who had come out to the door. But the constable

only grinned. He knew Mary Ellen and her ways.

Satisfied that Priscilla was in good hands, Carol

drove back to the tea shop and there she found

Dorothy in a state of despair.

“Oh, I’ve just had the most disquieting news!”

she exclaimed.

“Your mother—she is no worse?”

“No, but the doctors have just finished examining

her. The operation will be more serious than they at

first supposed. I’ll have to go to her and I’ll have to

stay with her. She will need careful nursing if—if

the operation is a success. Oh, I don’t know what to

do. I must keep this shop going—I’ll need the

money the Ladies Aid affair will bring me next

week. And yet I must go to Mother. What shall I

do?”

“Look here, Dorothy,” said Carol. “If this tea

55

shop must be kept going and you must go to your

mother, of which there is no doubt, then I’m the one

to operate this shop while you’re gone.”

“Carol, would you?” Dorothy’s face lighted up.

“It isn’t a question of whether I will or not, it’s

more a question of can I?”

“Of course you can. Anybody could with Mary

Ellen to help and she will soon be here again. It isn’t

hard. I’ll tell you everything you need to know. The

Ladies Aid affair will be the only big one. The rest

will be just casual customers. You can easily do it

with Mary Ellen. But couldn’t you bring some girl

up here with you—Cecy or your friend Thalia?”

“I might bring Thalia. I wouldn’t dream of

bringing Cecy. She would be dancing all over the

place, making experiments to evolve a new kind of

cinnamon toast and probably having a crowd of

boys out here to see how she could run a tea shop.

No, Cecy must not come. Anyhow, she has other

plans for the remainder of the summer. But I must

get in touch with her. I promised to be back early

this morning. It’s a wonder she hasn’t ‘phoned.”

“But, Carol, you won’t dream of being here even

a single night alone?”

“I’ll have Mary Ellen, won’t I?”

“Yes. But—”

“Maybe I can inveigle Thalia to come out.

Anyhow you may count on me.”

56

“Oh, Carol, you are a darling! But am I right in

accepting such a generous offer?”

“I’m only too glad to help you. It will take me a

day or two to go back home and get ready. Then, I’ll

have to do some explaining and talk Dad over to

this. But I can manage. If I get back here in three

days will that be all right?”

“Oh, it will be lovely! They won’t operate on

Mother until next week, anyhow. And she will stand

it better if she knows I will be with her and that the

shop will be run to bring in the needed funds. Oh,

Carol, you’re two darlings!”

“Don’t make such a fuss over it. I’m only too

glad. So you may expect me back here in three

days.”

“By that time things will be settled—or at least in

the way of being settled—at Bramble Hill. I mean

the funeral will be over and Priscilla— Oh, I wonder

what about her? If Mary Ellen comes back here—”

“Can’t some one else stay with Priscilla?”

“I suppose so. I guess Squire Eaton will look after

that. And you can sort of have her over here now

and again, can’t you?”

“Of course. And when there’s no rush here I can

run over there and see that she is all right.”

“Yes, do. You never need worry about leaving

the shop when Mary Ellen is on the job. She’s a

treasure. But I feel sort of guilty, Carol, leaving you

57

with all this work. I do wish you had some other girl

to come out here with you.”

“Don’t worry about that. If I need one I’ll get

one. Thalia will never desert me. But before I go,

Dot, I’ve got something to tell you,” Carol

unexpectedly said.

It was then she got out the paper in which was

wrapped the scarf clue. Dorothy was amazed, as,

putting the piece of silk down where they could see

it without touching the strange fabric, they both

considered it.

“It smells of that perfumed smoke,” said Dorothy.

“Yes, but it isn’t foreign. Even the strange,

crooked snakes in it aren’t dragon figures,” said

Carol critically.

“I wish I had never had that sign put up,”

declared Dorothy. “It seems to draw—snakes!”

They laughed at that idea, and Carol put the strip

of silk away carefully in a back drawer of a desk

under the stairs.

“We’ll go back to that later,” she concluded.

“I’ve got to be on my way home right now.”

“And Cecy will blame me for keeping you.”

“Cecy will have plenty of other things to think

about. But now I will ‘phone her.”

Cecy expressed only mild interest when Carol,

over the wire, informed her of new plans.

“That’s up to you,” Cecy said. “But you’d better

58

come home as soon as you can. Something has

happened here.”

“What? Not Dad—”

“No, he’s all right—fine. But you ought to see

what’s been wished on us. On you, rather, for I’m

getting out. I’m going to Harbor Bay with Rosie,

you know. This will be your job.”

“What do you mean—wished on us?”

“Wait until you see it!” mocked Cecy, laughing.

“I don’t envy you. But what’s the big idea, going

back to Bramble Hill? Don’t tell me there’s another

mystery to solve!”

“A mystery— Oh, no—well, yes, perhaps,” said

Carol slowly as she hung up.

She made good time driving back home to

Melody Lane. In fact Carol was so busy thinking,

the way seemed too short to get her thoughts

straightened out in. Cecy, hearing the sound of the

car on the drive, ran out to greet her sister. There

was a curious look on Cecy’s face—a look Carol

knew meant more than mere mischief.

“You’ve got to do something I You’ve got to do

something, Carol!” the younger girl exclaimed.

“What do you mean?”

“Wait until you see what’s been wished on us!”

59

CHAPTER VIII

BACK TO BRAMBLE HILL

Wondering whether Cecy could be joking, for she

had a habit of doing that, and thinking that perhaps

some pet—anything from an Angora kitten to a

Great Dane dog—had been acquired in her absence,

Carol followed her lively young sister up the steps

of the old stone house in Melody Lane.

“It’s in there,” Cecy whispered indicating the

library. “In there!”

“What do you mean, Cecy? Don’t be silly!”

“Silly! If you want something silly go in where

she is. Wished on us, she’s been or, rather on you.

I’m out, thank goodness!”

“Whatever do you mean, Cecy?”

“Listen, do you remember Mr. Ripley?”

“Daddy’s old college friend who once was in

business with him?”

“Yes. That’s the one. Well, Mr. Ripley has sent

us one of his daughters.”

“One of his daughters! Do you mean—a—baby?”

“If it was a baby it might be easier. No, it’s fully

60

grown, or almost—that is as much as I am and

maybe you’ll say that isn’t much. But Jeanette

Ripley isn’t a baby, whatever else you can call her.

Wait until you see. She’s in the library.”

“What’s she doing there?”

“Writing letters.”

“That seems harmless enough.”

“Letters to boys—three different boys,” Cecy

went on inexorably. “She told me so herself—

boasted of it, in fact. And she’s using my best paper

and envelopes. I let her have some but I’ve got the

rest hidden and I’m going to take them away with

me. Mr. Ripley sent his Jeanette on to us to be cured

and you’ve got to do the curing.”

“Curing! Is she ill?”

“Love-sick, I’d call it. Maybe not quite as bad as

that but she has a bad case of romanticitis in its

worst form. She’s just the kind of a girl that will

grow up to be in love with love if she isn’t cured,

and Dad and her father think it’s up to us to cure her

of the malady.”

“Cecy, you can’t be serious!”

“But I am! I wish I didn’t have to be. I’m only

sorry for you. It sure isn’t going to be easy. I feel

almost guilty getting out and leaving you to face the

music alone but I’ve got to go. You’re so

resourceful and efficient that maybe you can find a

way out. I never could.”

61

“Cecy, whatever do you mean?”

“I’ll tell you in as few words as I can. Dad’s

friend, Mr. Ripley, has been having trouble with

Jeanette, one of his daughters. I don’t just know how

many he has but she is one. She’s about seventeen, I

should say and pretty—too pretty, if you ask me.

You know, the silver blonde type. It seems that

some days ago Dad had a letter from Mr. Ripley

which said that the problem of Jeanette was too

much for him—he’s a widower, you know. He said

he wanted Jeanette to get some of the silly romantic

notions out of her head—to get rid of the idea that

she was in love, and always trying to look into the

future—fortune tellers and all that.”

“Fortune tellers!” exclaimed Carol.

“Yes. Why not? I’ve been to them with the girls

just for a lark. Silly stuff, but fun if you don’t take it

seriously. Why did you mention it?”

“Oh, no particular reason.” Carol’s mind was

back at Bramble Hill—there was a fortune teller

there, Dorothy had said. “Do go on, Cecy.”

“Well, there isn’t much more to tell. Mr. Ripley

having trouble with Jeanette and wanting, as he

wrote Dad, to get her into the company of some

sensible, wholesome girls, like us, Mr. Ripley sent

Jeanette to us for a visit. We’re to reform her.”

“You don’t mean to say,” gasped Carol, “that he

sent Jeanette on to us without any warning—without

62

asking permission or anything like that?”

“Oh, no, he wrote Dad about his problem, asked

Dad’s help and Dad agreed that Jeanette might come

for a visit. The trouble is Dad forgot to tell you or

me—the letters were written a week ago but Dad

forgot all about them and this morning along comes

Jeanette. She’s here now for an indefinite visit and

you’ve got her wished on you. I’m out,” and with

that Cecy, laughing, hurried off, leaving Carol in a

panic of bewilderment.

A moment later as Carol, still bewildered, stood

on the porch, a tall, slim, pretty, blonde girl came

out of the front door with three letters in her shapely

hand and called:

“Oh, Cecy, where’s the nearest letter box?”

Seeing Carol she stood uncertain for a moment and

then with an engaging smile said:

“You must be Cecy’s sister. She said you were

coming. I’m Jeanette Ripley and it seems your Dad

asked me for a visit. We used to know each other

when we were kids.”

“Yes,” assented Carol, dimly remembering. “I’m

glad to see you, Jeanette.”

“You are Carol, aren’t you?”

“Oh, yes. I—I’m Carol, and I’m very glad you

have come to visit us. Cecy—Cecy had to run down

the street—Cecy is always running, you know.”

“Yes, I found that out. I’m going to run, too, so I

63

can post these letters. I’ll be back directly,” she

apologized for her abruptness. “Where’s the mail

box?”

“Right at the end of Melody Lane.”

“Thanks! I think that’s the most romantic name I

ever heard, Melody Lane I And it’s mysterious, too.

At least Cecy said, in the short talk we had since I

arrived this morning, Cecy said you had a lot of

mysteries here. How thrilling!”

“Yes—er— Oh, yes,” Carol murmured. “But

there aren’t any more mysteries here.” She didn’t

want to excite Jeanette’s romantic side.

“Oh, how disappointing. I had hoped there would

be. But do you know of any more some other place?

I adore mysteries! Back in a moment and then we’ll

get acquainted. I hope you’ll like me! I like you

already.”

“Thanks,” said Carol passing her fingers over her

forehead in a vain endeavor to brush away some of

the cobwebs rapidly accumulating. “We are very

glad you—”

Jeanette didn’t even stop to listen but was

hurrying down to the end of the lane to post the

three letters to three different boys, if Cecy was

correct.

Mr. Duncan, grave and studious as always, came

out on the porch, one finger in a book to mark the

place.

64

“Oh, Carol! I thought I heard your voice. I am

glad you are home again. Did you have a nice visit?”

“It wasn’t exactly a visit, Dad. I had to stay all

night with Dorothy Graham. There was some

trouble out at her tea shop and I was caught in a

storm,” she said kissing this dad who was the best of

good fathers.

“So I gathered from what Cecy said. I remember

Mr. Graham. A very fine gentleman—very fine. I

was sorry to hear of his death. I trust his wife and

daughter are in no serious trouble.”

“Well, Mrs. Graham has to be operated on and,

Dad, I think I’ll have to go back and help Dorothy,

for a while at least, with that tea shop. It’s out

Bramble Hill way. She has to be with her mother

and I—”

“Oh, of course. Go by all means. I—er—I don’t

know whether Cecy told you or not, but we have a

visitor.”

“Yes, she told me. Jeanette Ripley.”

“Yes. It seems that the child is a little upset—

she’s of the intense, nervous type. Too romantic, her

father writes me. A very fine man, Mr. Ripley. One

of my good old friends. I’d be glad if you and Cecy

could help his daughter get back to—er—well,

perhaps normal. She needs companions like you

girls. I meant to have told you a few days ago that

Jeanette was coming for a visit. But I’ve been very

65

busy at the office this week and neglected to tell

you.”

“Yes, Dad, you did forget,” Carol said smiling.

“Not that it mattered.”

“Of course. Not that it mattered. Well, now, do

you think you and Cecy can-”

“There’s no use counting on Cecy, Dad. She’s

going off on a trip with Rosie. If Jeanette is to be—

influenced, I’ll have to be the one to do it.”

“No one could do it better, Carol.” His eyes were

like Carol’s when he smiled.

“Thanks. But here’s the complication. I promised

Dorothy I would go back to Bramble Hill. I knew

Cecy was going away and you are soon going on

your usual trip, so I thought we could give Rachel a

rest, close the house and everything would be all

right.”

“Yes, of course, exactly.”

“But now with Jeanette—”

“Very simple, Carol. Take Jeanette to Bramble

Hill with you.”

“Yes, I might do that, Dad,” said Carol,

hesitantly.

“Of course. It will be the best possible thing. It’s

out in the country, not too lonely, but the country.

That’s just what her father suggested— the country.

It will work out fine. Take Jeanette to Bramble Hill

with you and you’ll both benefit by it. I’ll write Mr.

66

Ripley at once. I was going to, anyhow, telling him

Jeanette had arrived safely. It was rather a long

trip—over night and she came alone. I’ll go in and

write him now. You look after Jeanette. By the way,

where is she?”

“Gone to post some letters.”

“And Cecy?”

“She’s run out to meet Rosie, I suppose.”

“Well, you’re here, Carol. I never worry when

you are on hand. Now, my dear, you arrange to go to

Bramble Hill. I’m sure everything will come out just

right. Stay as long as you wish, a month or two, I

shan’t be back for quite a spell, going to have a fine

time at Dave McNamee’s fishing camp. I’m glad

you thought of Bramble Hill. And Cecy will be with

Rosie’s folks!”

He went back into the house and Carol, with

mingled emotions turned to see Jeanette hastening

along Melody Lane. The girl looked back several

times and when she reached the porch she asked:

“Who is that tall, good-looking boy I just saw in a

tan roadster?”

“He—he might be almost anybody,” Carol

answered.

“Oh, but I’m sure he lives around here and you

ought to know him. He looked up Melody Lane as

if—well, as if he had half a mind to turn into it. I’m

sure you know him.” Jeanette described him more

67

minutely and Carol, rather dryly, said:

“Oh, that must be Glenn.”

“Awfully good-looking. Do you know him? Will

you introduce me?”

“Perhaps. But, Jeanette, several things have

happened since you started from home. I mean we

have had to make some new plans. Cecy has an

engagement to travel with some friends. She can’t

very well break it. I have promised a friend to help

her in an emergency—it means operating a tea room

or at least supervising it. And the point is wouldn’t

you like to come with me?”

“Oh, I’d love it! Where?”

“To Bramble Hill, out in the country.”

“Oh, what a cute, romantic name! Of course I’ll

go. I always wanted to run a tea shop with spinning

wheels and gifts and little jiggers that you put hot

water in and tea, chocolate and coffee comes out,

and there are candles on the table—wonderful. I’m

thrilled! When do we go?”

“In about three days,” said Carol. “It’s too bad to

rush you off almost as soon as you’re here but-”

“Oh, I know I’m going to love it! I adore the wild

open country with shady lanes! But Bramble Hill!

Oh, I am dying to see it! Sweet of you!”

Carol felt too helpless to say a word, so she had

to be content merely to smile foolishly at Jeanette’s

ravings. Certainly the girl was pretty, with wide-

68

open blue eyes, a tiny mouth and star-dust hair. But

as to personality, Carol thought she looked like a

pretty candle, unlighted.

Three days later, days filled on Carol’s part with

packing and arranging to close the Melody Lane

home, she and Jeanette started for Bramble Hill.

Cecy had left with Rosie.

69

CHAPTER IX

STRANGE AROMA

Carol introduced Jeanette and, leaving her to go

into extravagant rapturous exclamations over the tea

shop, took Dorothy aside and asked:

“Has anything happened? I mean is your mother

all right?”

“Hardly all right, Carol, but not definitely worse.

Only they are anxious to proceed with the operation

and I am needed. I was so afraid you couldn’t come

to take charge here!”

“As if I wouldn’t when I promised.”

“I know, but I thought something might happen to

prevent you. It is sweet of you to take such a

responsibility off my mind. Now I can go to

Mother.”

“Then hurry to her, there is no reason for

delaying.”

“There is no such need of haste as that. I must run

over a few matters with you and tell you what to do

about the affair the Ladies Aid Society is to hold

here in a few days. I’ve written out a few things

70

you’ll need to know. You’ll find the ladies very

competent.”

“And they won’t hold back your money as that

other woman did?”

“Oh, no, they’re good pay. The other woman

paid, too, soon after you left. But I thought you were

going to bring Thalia back with you.”

“I had to bring her,” and Carol nodded at Jeanette

who was parading up and down the now deserted tea

room examining the various ornaments and making

delighted exclamations. “She was wished on us, as

Cecy put it. I’m sorry for the child—that’s all she is,

and I have a sort of duty to reform her—in a mild

way. She has the romantic bug bad.”

“So I judged. I don’t know that this was just the

place to bring her, though.”

“Why?” asked Carol, noting that they could talk

for a little while without being overheard as Jeanette

was now out on the porch going into raptures over

the view toward Bramble Hill. “Why isn’t this a

good place to bring a girl that needs to get rid of

some fantastic notions?”

“Because, Carol, more things have happened.”

“You mean about mysterious prowlers and the

inquiries of the Oriental who smokes perfumed

cigarettes?”

“Yes. Oh, they haven’t been around here,” she

hastened to say as Carol looked a little alarmed.

71

“But I understand there has been a strange man

making inquiries over at Bramble Hill.”

“What sort of a man?”

“Well, not an Oriental, so Priscilla said. An

American but rather an unpleasant one. She thinks

he’s a detective.”

“Oh, are we getting into anything like that?”

“Not us nor the tea shop—he hasn’t been here.

But I fancy whatever it was that Mr. Dutton lost, or

what was taken from him after the accident, must

have been very valuable.”

“You think the perfumed cigarette-smoking

Oriental and the strange detective are trying to find

what was lost?”

“What was lost or what was taken,” Dorothy

answered. “I can’t quite figure it out, but whatever it

was Mr. Dutton had, and is now missing, seems to

have stirred up a lot of secret interest. So if Jeanette

gets to hear about it, and she probably will, it may

only increase her foolish romantic notions.”

“I’ll try to see that she doesn’t hear of it,” Carol

said. “After all, it doesn’t concern us. We don’t have

to find lost articles for that perfume company for

which Mr. Dutton worked and who is represented by

an Oriental who smokes Ambar cigarettes; do we?”

“Certainly not. We are out of it. Though I don’t

see why they should think that whatever it is they

are after should be out around Bramble Hill.”

72

“Nor I. By the way is everything straightened out

here?”

“Yes. The funeral is over. It was very simple. I

felt so sorry for Priscilla. She was all alone. Her

brother ought to have been with her.”

“What about him?”

“Not a word from him. Of course he may have

joined the navy and be on a ship at sea so he

couldn’t hear of his grandmother’s death. I believe

Squire Eaton is trying to have the authorities locate

him. But you know what boys are—so irresponsible

and never thinking they may be needed back home.”

“Yes. I know. Is Priscilla back at Bramble Hill?”

“Yes, she is living there. Squire Eaton arranged

everything. He got Mrs. Mason to come and live

there. She’s a sort of charity worker from Millford, a

good, capable woman, almost as good, in some

ways, as Mary Ellen.”

“Is Mary Ellen back here?”

“Oh, yes. I wouldn’t leave you until I knew she

would help you carry on. She is on the job again and

we have done a pretty good business since you went

away. The season seems to have taken on a new

spurt.”

“That’s fine. I like to be kept busy. I’ll make a lot

of money for you, Dorothy.”

“I shall need it with mother’s illness. Well, now

with what I have told you, and what I have written

73

here I think you can manage. You will run things

here and Priscilla will be looked after at Bramble

Hill. At least for the time being.”

“What do you mean for a time?”

“Well, Squire Eaton, as the executor of Mrs.

Hunt’s small estate, decided that the rug business

had better be closed out and Priscilla sent to some

sort of a home or given in charge of a guardian until

she comes of age. There will be a little money

coming to her when everything is settled. The big

rug, which was to have been the pride of Mrs.

Hunt’s heart, will be finished and sold. It will bring

a large sum. Of course part of it will go to Zada.”

“The Gypsy?”

“Yes. She is to finish weaving it. She did the

actual weaving, anyhow, as Mrs. Hunt couldn’t

work the loom and she knows about the colors, dyes

and so on. So Squire Eaton engaged her to finish the

work.”

“Does she stay with Priscilla?”

“Only during the day when she does the weaving.

Priscilla helps at that. At night Zada goes back to her

fortune-telling daughter.”

“That’s what I hope to avoid,” said Carol. “I

don’t like those Gypsy fortune tellers.”

“You’re not afraid of what they might reveal?”

“Certainly not,” and Carol laughed. “But I have a

queer, romantic girl on my hands, a girl who writes

74

to three boys at once, and if she hears there’s a

fortune teller in the neighborhood—”

“I see. Well, she may not learn about Tamma. But

if she should and if she insists on having her fortune

told you’ll have to laugh her out of it if any strange

love affair or danger is predicted.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Well, it’s my job and I must

do it. Now, Dorothy, you hop along. I can take

charge. I’ll get Jeanette to help me. It may be just

what she needs—a little hard work and

responsibility.”

“It’s wonderful of you. And I hope you won’t be

bothered by any strange happenings or mysteries at

Bramble Hill.”

“Cecy and Thalia would say it wouldn’t be me if

I didn’t run into some sort of mystery,” Carol

answered. “Since all the available ones at Melody

Lane seem to have died out I must tap a new vein.

But don’t worry. I’ll be all right.”

“I hope so,” said Dorothy.

“Did that funny country detective find out

anything about the prowler at Bramble Hill and the

one who tried to get in here?” asked Carol.

“Oh, you mean Lem Higgon,” answered Dorothy.

“No, he didn’t. He couldn’t ‘git no clue to him

nohow,’ ” and Dorothy laughed as she imitated the

garage-detective’s peculiar accent. “He did find out,

or Dr. Baker did for him, that Mrs. Hunt’s dog died

75

of poison.”

“Poison?”

“Yes, but there wasn’t any evidence that it was

given purposely to get the animal out of the way

while the place was inspected by some mysterious

person. A farmer not far away had put out poison for

rats and it was assumed that the dog got some of it

by mistake. So that element of mystery vanishes.

Also the autopsy showed that Mrs. Hunt had organic

heart trouble which disposes of the fright having

killed her,” Dorothy added. “Nevertheless some one

did prowl around there that night. Priscilla is sure of

that.”

“Well, now I must get to work. It’s going to be a

nice change for me to come here, only—”

“You mean—Jeanette?” asked Dorothy softly.

“Yes. She’s a problem but maybe I’ll solve it.”

“I hope you do, Carol.”

After the details of the business were hastily gone

over, Dorothy, having already packed, took herself

off in her small car to be with her mother in her

hours of danger.

“Oh,” giggled Jeanette when she and Carol were

left alone in the tea shop, except for the bustling

presence of Mary Ellen, “I think this is the most

romantic thing I ever heard of. To think I’m actually

going to help run a tea shop! It’s thrilling!”

“There’s work to be done,” Carol warned her.

76

“Oh, I adore work—when it’s this kind. Tell me,

do many customers come in?”

“Not as many as, I suppose, Dorothy could wish

for. But some days she has been very busy, I

understand.”

“This isn’t strictly a ladies’ tea shop, is it?” asked

Jeanette pausing in front of a mirror to inspect her

lipstick effect.

“Of course it isn’t.”

“I think it is much more fun to wait on gentlemen

customers,” went on the romantic one. “They’re not

so fussy as the ladies, and they talk to you more

readily. Of course, I’ve never waited in a tea shop,

but we sometimes have little suppers and teas out

home to make money for our club and I’ve waited

on tables then. I always liked to wait on the men.

And I had the cutest, cutest costume—I wish I had

brought it with me.”

“I don’t believe you’ll need it here,” said Carol.

“And now we’d better unpack and get ready for

work. There’s no telling when customers may drop

in on us.”

“Dragon of the Hills,” murmured Jeanette as she

looked out at the quaint and artistic sign. “I think

that’s the most adorable name for a tea shop. But

where is Bramble Hill?” she asked.

“That’s the general name of this neighborhood,”

Carol answered. “The real Bramble Hill is about a

77

mile from here. It’s rather a lonesome place.

Nothing very attractive about it.”

“I must go see it, Carol.”

“Well, yes, later. I’ll take you over. Now let’s go

up stairs and see about our rooms. Is there anything

we need to do at once, Mary Ellen?” she asked the

Scotch helper who was continually bustling about

with quick, springy steps.

“Not but what I can do, Miss Duncan,” was the

answer. “But there’ll be plenty for you and your

friend later on. I can’t wait on the tables and do the

cooking.”

“Waiting on the tables will be our part,” Carol

said.

“Oh, it’s going to be such fun!” Jeanette

exclaimed.

“But what about this tea the Ladies Aid is

having?” Carol asked. “Won’t we need extra help

for that?”

“No, they do everything themselves, provide their

own waiters and even do the cooking. Miss Dorothy

simply hires the shop out to them for the afternoon

and evening. We are free that day,” declared Mary

Ellen.

“But we can look on, can’t we?” asked Jeanette.

“I don’t see what there is to stop you,” was the

somewhat grim reply. But Jeanette didn’t seem to

hear this. She was fussing with her hair as she and

78

Carol went up stairs.

Changing her traveling dress for one more suited

to a tea shop, in her room which was across the hall

from the room which had been assigned to Jeanette,

Carol was again suddenly aware of a strange aroma.

It came floating in her half-closed door and in a

moment she was sure of its nature.

“The Ambar perfume!” she exclaimed. “Has that

Oriental come back?”

79

CHAPTER X

AN UNEXPECTED CALLER

For a moment a wave of wonderment swept over

Carol Duncan. The story Dorothy told of the visit of

the wily Oriental had impressed Carol more deeply

than she realized. She wanted no interview, however

friendly it might be, with the smoker of the Ambar

cigarettes.

Then, as she thought what a coward she would be

to give up without at least a show of fight, she

nerved herself to go out and meet the caller.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” she told herself.

“It is broad daylight and Mary Ellen is able to cope

with any strange Japanese or Chinese. So am I for

that matter, and a telephone call will bring help

soon. I’ll go confront him and ask him what he

means by bothering to call.”

But as she stepped out into the hall she became

aware that the odor of the Ambar cigarettes did not

come from below, from the tea shop or the lower

hall, but from the room where Jeanette was

supposed to be dressing. Then she saw a little curl of

80

smoke coming from Jeanette’s room and a moment

later had a glimpse of her, attired in another dress,

coming out, a cigarette between her lips.

“Jeanette—smoking?” questioned Carol,

astonished.

“Sure. Why not? I didn’t dare light up at your

house and I don’t dare do it home—but what are tea

rooms for if a girl can’t smoke in them? Lots of girls

do it.”

“I haven’t any right to say what one shall or shall

not do in the matter of smoking cigarettes. It’s your

affair not mine. Only your father—”

“Don’t tell me he wrote you not to let me smoke!

If he did—”

“Nothing of the sort. Really,” and Carol smiled,

“I’m afraid I made a little too much of my surprise. I

know that other girls who stop here for tea light their

cigarettes and Dorothy says some of the elderly

women do, also. I’m not a crusader by any means. It

was just—well the kind of cigarettes you are using.”

“Oh, yes, Ambar. Don’t you like them?”

“I can’t say I do. Somehow, they seem so

heavy—so strongly scented—” Carol wasn’t going

to tell Jeanette about the Oriental until she had to.

“Yes, they are strong, but I like them,” and

Jeanette blew out a fragrant cloud. “Better have one.

They steady your nerves.”

“My nerves don’t need steadying—just yet,” and

81

Carol forced herself to laugh, trying to make little of

the matter. “But they don’t smell like American

cigarettes nor yet like a cigar. I rather enjoy the

smell of a cigar, though I can’t say I would take pipe

smoke for choice.”

“No, that’s too strong. But Ambar cigarettes—I

love ’em!” Jeanette inhaled deeply and really

seemed to enjoy what she was doing.

“Where do you get them?” Carol asked.

“Oh, from one of the boys back home. They’re

imported. You can’t get them everywhere. I wrote to

him and he’s going to mail me some. Now let’s go

down and get ready for customers. I do hope some

boys come in.”

“This isn’t exactly a college location,” said Carol.

“Though you never can tell what the autos will

deposit at your doors.”

Later, when a passing motorist and his wife came

in for some tea and toast, Carol let Jeanette serve

them, to get her accustomed to doing the work. She

could not but admit that the girl, with all her

irresponsible ways and manners, was a perfect little

waitress. She had an assured but respectful manner

that was demure and pretty. Carol, watching her

from the kitchen where Mary Ellen had prepared

some of her celebrated cinnamon toast, saw the man

put some question to Jeanette that, evidently, she

could not answer. For Carol saw her leave the table

82

and come toward the little room between the tea

shop proper and the kitchen.

“He wants to know,” Jeanette reported, “how

come the sign Dragon of the Hills.”

Carol went forward and spoke to the customers.

“My assistant tells me you are interested in our

sign.” Carol was really assuming the role of the

shop’s proprietor which she was, temporarily.

“Yes,” said the man, “it’s a quaintly beautiful

sign. I haven’t seen one like it since I traveled in

China.”

“Oh, then it is used there?” Carol asked in some

surprise.

“Yes, I saw it in several places. It seems the

device of the crawling dragon amid green jade hills

is the subject of many Chinese works of art. Of

course, dragons are indigenous to China, you might

say,” he added with a laugh. “But this is a particular

beast of its kind. It is copied from a celebrated jade

carving done by one of China’s best artists—I don’t

recall the name.”

“This one was patterned by a well known artist

and curio dealer in Millford. We think it rather

quaint.”

“It is,” said the lady. “I don’t admire dragons but

your sign is novel and attractive.”

“Throughout some parts of China,” resumed the

man, “the Dragon of the Hills is held in as much

83

esteem as, in Japan, is the picture of Fujiyama.”

“Oh, that most beautiful mountain of the snows,”

murmured the woman. “It is something to dream of!

You have a most delightful little place here.”

“I am glad you like it,” smiled Carol. “Did you

enjoy your tea?”

“Very much so, my dear. The cinnamon toast was

delicious.”

“We rather pride ourselves on it.”

“But it is lonesome,” said the man. “I mean the

location out here, not the toast,” and he smiled as he

arose to pull back his wife’s chair. “We drove

through Bramble Hill. Another lonesome place.”

“Well, yes, it doesn’t teem with excitement,”

Carol admitted.

Some other customers came in soon after that and

she and Jeanette were kept rather busy. So it was not

until toward evening that the two had a chance to

talk. Then Jeanette, lighting another Ambar

cigarette, remarked:

“Well, I got the dope on the dragon sign all right

by hearing what you told the customers, Carol. Is it

really a copy of a celebrated piece of jade?”

“So Wu Ting told Dorothy. At any rate it makes

an effective sign.”

“I’ll say it does! Well, we’ve made a good start.

Plenty of business.”

“Yes. I do hope we do well for Dorothy,” Carol

84

replied, sincerely.

The next day Carol and Jeanette found

themselves settling into a routine of business that,

for a time at least, promised to be rather enjoyable.

At any rate Carol liked it, and Jeanette, like the

proverbial child with a new toy, expressed herself as

“crazy” about the tea shop.

She seemed to be settling down, Carol thought, in

a way her father had wished for. And to further | this

Carol decided to leave Jeanette on her own for a

time while she ran over to see Priscilla. She didn’t

want to introduce Jeanette to Bramble Hill just yet.

So, remarking that she was going out on business

and suggesting that Jeanette could run the shop in

her absence (a responsibility Jeanette promptly

accepted) Carol got out her car.

“Don’t feel that you must hurry back,” Jeanette

said as she lighted another “Ambar” as she called

them.

“I do hope she isn’t smoking too much,” Carol

found herself thinking.

At Bramble Hill the “no admittance” sign was

still in place but when Carol knocked and Priscilla

had opened the door on the chain, as before, it was

at once thrown wide as the visitor was recognized

and the gray-eyed girl said:

“Oh, do come in! I’m so glad to see you! Is

Dorothy with you?”

85

“No, she had to go to her mother so I came over.

A friend and I are running the tea shop now.”

“Yes, so Dorothy said. I wish I could be in a tea

shop instead of here,” and Priscilla’s tone was a

little wistful. Carol couldn’t blame her, for certainly

there was an air of gloom in the old place. From an

inner room came the murmur of voices and the thud

and clank of some machinery. To Carol’s

questioning look Priscilla said:

“Zada, the Gypsy woman, and her daughter,

Tamma, are in there finishing the weaving of the big

rug that poor Grannie was so proud of. It will take

them some time to finish it. I help a little but they

are quite expert at it. Most of the other stuff has

been sold,” Priscilla finished.

“Did they bring good prices?” Carol asked.

“Yes, I think so. Squire Eaton attended to all of it.

He hopes, when Grannie’s estate is closed, to have

some money left for Dick and me. Only we don’t

know where Dick is.”

“Haven’t you any trace of him?”

“No,” and Priscilla shook her head. “I miss him,

too. Poor Dick. He went away so impulsively.”

“Impulsively?”

“Yes. He just flared up and said he wasn’t going

to hang around here any more like a sissy helping to

weave rugs. So he went away.”

“He may come back when he finds the going

86

harder than he expected,” Carol said. “What will

you do when the rug is finished and there is no more

business here?”

“Oh, Squire Eaton says the place will have to be

sold. After the mortgage is paid, what money is left

will come to Dick and me. Maybe I can go back to

school then,” she said with a smile.

“Yes, you should go back to school,” Carol said.

“But you are in good hands with Squire Eaton, I

think.”

“Yes. He has been like a father to me. I’m sorry I

can’t ask you in to see Zada and Tamma weave, but,

though it seems silly, they don’t like to have

visitors. Grannie always claimed the dyes she and

Zada made were valuable and secret. I suppose Zada

is still carrying that idea on.”

“I don’t mind,” Carol said. “I’m glad to find you

are all right. And when the rug is finished I suppose

it will be shown?”

“Oh, yes. You can see it then—so can anybody. It

will be offered for sale, perhaps in New York,

Squire Eaton says.”

“I hope it brings a big price, Priscilla. Well, I

must be getting back. Jeanette may be rushed with

customers. Come over and see us when you get the

chance.”

“I shall, thank you,” was the parting promise.

When Carol approached the tea shop she saw a

87

little crowd of young men coming out. Two cars

stood in the parking space. The customers appeared

to have had an enjoyable time for they were

laughing and talking.

“Jeanette had customers to her liking,” thought

Carol as she put away her car. And when she went

in she saw that Jeanette was in high spirits.

“Big business!” she exclaimed. “A lot of college

boys stopped in and they ate nearly everything we

had. Mary Ellen had to work fast for once.”

“I guess you did, also,” Carol remarked.

“Oh, I liked it! I wish it was like this every day.

They were so funny—but nice to me—not at all

rude,” she added quickly, as she saw Carol’s

eyebrows go up. “Oh, I was the proper and demure

little waitress, Carol.”

“So I can imagine,” Carol said, laughing. “Now

let’s have some tea ourselves. I’m sure it will rest

you.”

“It certainly will. Dorothy called up while you

were gone and I told her everything was fine.”

“That’s good.”

It was while Carol and Jeanette were having tea at

a little table in a secluded corner, to be ready for any

guests who might come in, that an unexpected

visitor entered. He was a good-looking young man

and walked with a limp which a cane did not seem

to aid much.

88

The visitor who had alighted, as Carol noted,

from one of the buses that passed in front of the tea

shop, glanced around as though looking for some

one. A moment later he was speaking to Carol who

went forward to direct him to a table.

“I beg your pardon,” said the visitor, “but I was

looking for another young lady—one who was in

charge here when I called before. A Miss Graham, I

believe.”

“She is away for a time,” Carol said. “I am in

charge. You can be served as before,” she smiled

agreeably.

“Yes, I shall want some tea and some cinnamon

toast, but that wasn’t exactly why I called. I am

James Dutton,” he said next. “Do you mind if I sit

down? My leg is still rather painful.”

Carol remembered him at once. He was the young

man who, after his auto accident at Bramble Hill,

had lost some valuable object. She wondered if he

could have found it? Or was its loss the real mystery

of the Dragon of the Hills?

89

CHAPTER XI

SUSPICIONS

Realizing that her unexpected caller was painfully

lame, Carol pulled out a chair for him. He sank into

it with a sigh of relief and smiled at her, saying:

“Sorry to be such a bother. I haven’t been out of

the hospital long and it’s rather painful getting

about. But I felt I had to come to find out what I

could. Though if Miss Graham isn’t here—”

“She has told me about you,” Carol hastened to

say. “We are friends. Her mother required hospital

care and Dorothy has gone to her. I am running the

tea shop while Dorothy is away.”

“All by yourself—er—Miss—”

“I am Miss Duncan, Mr. Dutton. And I have a

helper, another of our girls,” she explained.

“It’s best not to be alone in these woody places,”

the young man said kindly.

“You don’t mean there is any particular danger

out here, do you?” Carol asked, grateful that

Jeanette was not within hearing.

“Oh, no, not exactly,” answered Mr. Dutton. “But

90

your Dragon sign does attract attention.”

“Why?” asked Carol directly.

“The story is so long and so complicated it almost

defies telling,” Mr. Dutton said, brushing his hand

across his forehead in a gesture of futility. “But at

least I must press my own part in it. You have heard

of my accident?”

“Yes.”

“And my loss?”

“Yes, to that also, but what was it you actually

lost?”

“Something so valuable it is actually impossible

to estimate the loss. I am connected with the

Oriental Importing Company and when I met with

the accident directly in front of the old Bramble Hill

house, I had with me—this precious bit of essence

we had named the Dragon of the Hills.”

“Oh,” gasped Carol. “Essence!”

“Yes. The world’s most famous perfume, we

expected to make it.”

“A perfume?” exclaimed Carol in surprise.

“I don’t wonder you are surprised,” went on Mr.

Dutton. “It seems rather silly to make such a fuss

over a bit of perfume. But this was of a very

different sort of extravagance. The firm I had been

with had employed the world’s most renowned

Eastern perfume scientists to evolve from oriental

secrets the Dragon of the Hills.”

91

“Is Dragon of the Hills the name of a perfume?”

asked Carol with animated interest.

“It was to be—that’s what Mr. Wong Sut is going

to call the new perfume if he can eventually get it on

the market. But the whole thing is at a standstill now

because I lost it—or because it was taken from me.”

“You mean,” said Carol, “that a shipment of

Dragon of the Hills perfume you had in your car was

lost—or taken after the accident?”

“Not exactly a shipment, more properly a

potential shipment of the perfume. I had better tell

you about it from the start and then perhaps you can

help me.”

“I wish I could,” said Carol, “but all I have found

around here is just the atmosphere of mystery; the

interest in our sign and all the inquiries about it.”

“This Dragon of the Hills was to be a new

oriental perfume,” said the visitor, beginning his

story in an enthusiastic voice. “My boss—or my

former boss who is a clever Chinese—got the idea

from the same jade carving that your tea shop sign is

patterned after, though the jade carving has nothing

to do with perfume. I don’t know whether you girls

know it or not, but the basis of some oriental

perfumes is made in very concentrated form like a

wax or gummy paste. At any rate, the essential part

of the new Dragon of the Hills perfume was a mass

of waxy paste that Mr. Wong Sut imported from one

92

of his research workers in Japan or China, I don’t

know where. And this mass of concentrated

perfume, and it has a most exotic odor, this

concentrated wax or jelly came to our New York

shop. I was taking it to our factory in Satlenburg,

about fifty miles from here, where we were to start

manufacturing. Then I had the accident directly after

I stopped in here for tea. Up to date the lead box in

which the lump of essence came from the Orient has

been missing. I am trying to locate it to clear myself

and get my job back. I need it.”

“Surely this Mr. Wong Sut who came here

looking for this perfume base, though he didn’t

exactly say so,” spoke Carol, “surely he doesn’t

think you took his property.”

“He hasn’t said so,” answered Mr. Dutton with

whimsical ruefulness, “but he may think I did. At

any rate, he holds me responsible for the loss and I

must find that lead box. Being sealed in lead the wax

is safe from damage.”

During the conversation Mr. Dutton had been

taking his toast and had had a second cup of tea.

Carol could hear Mary Ellen speaking sharply to

Jeanette about something in the back hall, and when

finally Jeanette did poke her head in the tea room

door to tell Carol she “would be back in a little

while,” Carol was glad to be sure the girl was safely

out of the way.

93

“But why couldn’t more be made like the oriental

sample?” Carol asked when again they returned to

the question of the lost box.

“That’s the point,” answered Mr. Dutton.

“Either he can’t or won’t or thinks he can’t. The

oriental mind is peculiar. He wants this particular

concentrate to use in making his new perfume

‘Dragon of the Hills’ and none other will do.

Perhaps it’s true, this particular odor can’t be

duplicated.”

“How, then,” asked Carol, “did he expect to go

on making it if there happened to be a demand for

it? You only had one box of the concentrate.”

“Yes, but there was enough for an immense

supply of perfume. Only a very little of the gummy

wax was needed to scent a big lot of the stuff that

was to go in bottles. It’s like amber or ambergris,

you know. Amber, which is a fossil resin, is used

not only to make beads and pipe stems, but treated

with chemicals is a base for some oriental

perfumes—rather too strong for my taste, though.”

“Is that how the cigarettes are made?” asked

Carol.

“Perhaps. Mr. Wong Sut is addicted to them.

They’re a little cloying for my taste. But I believe

the cigarettes are called Ambar, spelled with an ‘a’

while the fossil resin is spelled with an ‘e.’ It may be

the same for all I know.

94

“Ambergris, as I found out by reading about it,

was originally called amber but it has nothing in

common. Ambergris is a fatty substance found in

dead whales and occasionally lumps of it are picked

up at sea or on shore. The whale evidently got rid of

it as an undesirable alien. But ambergris is valuable

for the making of many expensive perfumes. It was

at one time used as a medicine. It takes only a little

ambergris to make a lot of perfume. It’s the same

with this stuff my firm got from the Orient. A little

of it will go a long way to make scents, and in this

case scents were to make dollars—a lot of them for

Mr. Wong Sut.”

“Then the lead box of concentrate was indeed

very valuable?” asked Carol.

“Worth about $15,000,” was the answer and as

Carol gave a little gasp of surprise, Mr. Dutton

continued: “That’s why I was personally taking it to

the factory. Mr. Wong Sut didn’t want to trust it to

the mail or express though, as things turned out, it

would have been better if he had. It was my hard

luck. Now you can see why I must get trace of it.”

“I’m afraid we can’t help you,” Carol said. “Mr.

Wong Sut came here on a similar errand, but

Dorothy is sure you left nothing here after you

stopped in for tea just before the accident.”

“I’m pretty sure, myself, that I didn’t. I brought

the box in with me but I’m certain I took it back to

95

the car. It was too heavy for my pocket but I always

kept it in sight. Then I drove out through Bramble

Hill and the accident happened. I was knocked out

and when I found myself in the hospital, and could

gather my wits, I asked about the box. But no one

seemed to have seen it.

“It may have been tossed out of the car in the

upset—probably it was—but a thorough search of

the ground hasn’t yielded a trace of it,” he went on.

“And the box was about eight inches long, and about

the same in height and width. Not exactly a vanity

case—it ought to have been seen if it popped out of

my car and was thrown on the roadside.”

“Can you recollect seeing any other cars just

before,” asked Carol in true detective style.

“I can recollect events just before the accident.

There were no other cars in sight. I was driving

along, trying to plan an advertising campaign for the

new perfume when, all of a sudden, it happened. I

simply found myself turning over.”

“Did you lose consciousness at once?” asked

Carol.

“Not immediately. I had my senses long enough

to know that some voices were shouting in an old

house up on a hill, in front of which the accident

happened. I looked up and saw a girl and a boy

running toward me. And I fancied I heard an old

voice, like that of an old woman. I had a glimpse of

96

an old woman looking out and calling something—

probably directing the boy and girl what to do. The

last I remembered was that the boy and girl were

trying to pull me out of the wreck—that’s all until I

woke up in the hospital.”

“You might have heard old Mrs. Hunt calling, but

she’s dead now—died last week,” Carol said

carefully.

“Dead! Did she die suddenly?”

“Yes; in the night. Her granddaughter Priscilla

was alone with her and we were all pretty much

upset. At first it was thought the old lady had been

frightened by some prowler, but it was afterwards

found she had had heart disease and so died from

natural causes.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Mr. Dutton. “It would

have made things more complicated if she had been

frightened.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, suppose she happened to have had my box

and someone had been determined to get it from

her—”

“Oh, no, nothing like that could have happened.

You can talk with Priscilla. Dorothy and I were

there from the very beginning and no strangers were

in any way mixed up in it.”

“That’s exactly what I am grateful for,” repeated

Mr. Dutton.

97

“Priscilla’s brother Dick is not home now. He has

been away for some time,” said Carol realizing that

remark might bring suspicion toward Dick. “But you

had better talk with Priscilla.”

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CHAPTER XII

SEARCHING

For a moment, after Carol had made this

announcement, Mr. Dutton, sipping his tea, said not

a word. Then he slowly repeated:

“So the boy has disappeared?”

“Oh, I believe he just went away to seek his

fortune, as many boys do,” Carol answered, trying to

speak lightly and not give any hint of the dark

suspicion that had entered her mind. “He became a

little dissatisfied and peeved at the irksome work his

grandmother did—rug weaving—so he just went

away his sister told me. The sad part of it is he

wasn’t here when the poor old lady died and

Priscilla, that’s his sister, misses him very much. He

was a very nice boy, so Dorothy said. She knew him

rather well—he used to go to the movies with her.”

“Boys will be boys,” remarked Mr. Dutton rather

tritely and Carol thought he only said it to cover up

something that was in his mind. “Well,” he moved

to leave his chair slowly, “if my Dragon of the Hills

isn’t here it may be at Bramble Hill. I’ll have to get

99

over there and inquire, I suppose.”

“You mean—” began Carol and for a moment she

was fearful lest he might be on the verge of giving

voice to the silent suspicion in her own heart.

“I mean some one, not knowing about the

valuable perfume concentrate in the lead box, might

have picked it up after my accident and that it might

be somewhere around the old house on Bramble

Hill. Oh, of course, without anyone there knowing

its value,” he hastened to say. “As a matter of fact,

some personal belongings I had in the car were

picked up after my smash and taken into the house, I

have been told. They were returned to me after Mr.

Wong Sut came out here and began to make

inquiries. My stuff was collected and left for me at

the hospital. But the lead box wasn’t there. It seems

to have completely vanished.

“I was thinking,” he went on in a tone that he

intended to be casual, “that perhaps the boy or girl,

or perhaps the old lady, might have picked up the

lead box that was tossed out of my car together with

some of the tools and my own possessions. It might

have been thought to be a box of spare light bulbs or

some other car accessory and even now be in the old

house or the barn or shed, overlooked.”

“It’s possible,” Carol said. “But if it was picked

up it wasn’t by old Mrs. Hunt. She couldn’t walk, or

at least not enough to go to the rescue of any

100

motorist. If Dick or Priscilla picked up the box of

concentrate—”

“I don’t say they did!” Mr. Dutton quickly

remarked. “I don’t suppose they were the only ones

who rushed to the rescue after my accident. I have a

hazy recollection of several persons about my

overturned car before I lost consciousness and was

hustled off to the hospital. But if I could get back

that box of perfume it would put me back on my feet

financially as I soon hope to be back on them

physically,” and he tapped his cane on the table leg

as he stood leaning against the table.

“I think you should inquire at Bramble Hill,”

suggested Carol. “Though the old Gypsy woman

who is helping to finish the valuable rug Mrs. Hunt

had under work, is rather secretive. I’m sure if you

appeal to Priscilla, though, you’ll find out all that

she can tell you.”

“I hope so. I made this my first stop after the

hospital people said I could move about, but it’s

awkward. My next stop will be at Bramble Hill,” he

said conclusively.

“Yes,” Carol said after a moment of thought,

“and I’ll be glad to drive you over and introduce you

to Priscilla.”

“I’ll take it as a great favor if you’ll come with

me to Bramble Hill while I make some inquiries of

Miss Priscilla. She was the girl who came to my

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rescue, you say?”

“She and her brother Dick,” Carol answered. “But

Dick isn’t there. I may as well go with you now, Mr.

Dutton.”

“Oh, but I can’t take you away from the shop,” he

said suddenly.

“There isn’t likely to be any business now—not

until later, if then. Anyhow Mary Ellen can look

after stray customers. I shall be glad to help you all I

can.”

Telling Mary Ellen she would soon return, Carol

went out to get her car and in a short time she was

driving over the hill with Mr. Dutton.

Priscilla seemed a little surprised to see Carol

back so soon and more surprised when Mr. Dutton

was introduced. Priscilla admitted them into the big

lower room of the old house, and they could hear the

clanking of the loom and the murmur of voices in a

strange tongue.

“Gypsies!” said Mr. Dutton. “Working here?”

“The mother does,” said Priscilla before Carol

could answer. “The daughter is just helping her

finish a piece of work.”

Mr. Dutton looked toward the back room, Carol

thought, rather suspiciously. Then he quickly turned

toward Priscilla.

“So this is the young lady who helped me when I

was hurt?” he said.

102

“Oh, I didn’t do so much,” Priscilla answered, her

gray eyes drooping under his smiling gaze. “My

brother actually pulled you out. It was all rather

exciting with Grannie shouting from the window. It

was the first real auto accident I ever saw. I was so

sorry to hear you had been seriously hurt,” she said

politely.

“Well, I’m still here,” said the young man. “But

what I came for was to inquire if you or your brother

saw anything of a lead box, about this size,” and he

illustrated with his hands.

“A lead box?” Priscilla repeated. “I really don’t

know. There was a lot of stuff scattered out of your

car and my brother gathered it up—there were some

tools—and he put everything in the barn. He said

you’d likely send out for it later.”

“I got back everything of mine except the lead

box,” continued Mr. Dutton, and as he had

previously asked Carol not to say what was in the

box she made no mention of its value. “I’m

wondering if it still might be out in the barn where

your brother piled my tools and other things?” he

asked casually.

“You’re welcome to look,” said the gray-eyed

girl. “I haven’t been out there since the accident. I’ll

show you where Dick put the stuff. Dick isn’t here

now,” she added, rising.

“If you hear from him, in case we don’t find the

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box now,” said the young man, “would you mind

asking him—”

“I don’t know where Dick is,” and Priscilla’s eyes

looked as if tears were near them. “But if I do get

the chance of course I’ll ask him. You may come

out this way,” she said, opening a rear door. The

sound of the loom in the other room went on as

before but the two Gypsies were no longer talking.

Priscilla, as Mr. Dutton and Carol followed her to

the old, unused barn, pointed out where, in a corner,

her brother had piled the things he had picked up at

the scene of the accident. But after looking carefully

the only thing Mr. Dutton found which he could

claim was a small wrench. There was no trace of the

lead box, and after Carol had invited Priscilla over

to the tea shop any time she could spare even a few

minutes from the work of finishing up the little

home, Mr. Dutton and Carol were presently on the

way back to the shop themselves.

“Well, the only thing to do now,” he said with a

little sigh of disappointment, “is to look around the

scene where my car turned over on me. It’s rather

late to do that and perhaps there has been traffic

there, but the box might have been hurled some

distance and still be lying in the grass and weeds.

It’s getting late to make a search now, it will soon be

dark. I’m afraid I couldn’t see well even now,” he

concluded, ruefully.

104

“Yes, it is quite dark under the trees,” agreed

Carol. “You can’t search until morning. Are you still

staying at the hospital?”

“Oh, no. I have a room in town. I’ll go back there

and come over here again in the morning. I don’t

fancy the bus ride—the roads are rough and the

buses old and unfortunately my leg—”

“Won’t you stay at the tea shop?” asked Carol

impulsively. “There are a number of rooms vacant

since Dorothy and her mother are away. Mary Ellen

can make you up a bed. I’m asking you as a guest—

not a paying guest—the Dragon of the Hills doesn’t

take boarders at present,” she assured him. “But if

you want to search around here more thoroughly

you can start early in the morning. There is no point

to going back to town and coming out again, do you

think so?”

“Thanks a lot for so much consideration,” he

replied. “But I couldn’t think of putting you to all

that inconvenience.”

“No inconvenience at all. You are quite welcome.

Mary Ellen will be happy to have a little more to

do.”

“Very well. It will be a great convenience,” said

Mr. Dutton. “I brought a bag with me on the chance

that there might be a hotel or boarding house out

here, for I had resolved on an intensive search for

the missing box. I can hardly tell you how much the

105

loss means to me. I shall accept your kind invitation

because it may, as you say, give me a better chance

to look thoroughly. But I insist on paying for my

meals.”

“I won’t say no to that,” said Carol. “I’m trying to

make money for Dorothy and her mother.”

In the car Mr. Dutton asked Carol about the

Gypsies.

“You say they are well known here?” he began.

“I believe they are. But, you see, I also am a

stranger in these woods. By the merest accident I

went to Mrs. Hunt’s home for shelter from a storm,

then I found Dorothy, a friend of mine, in her tea

shop. She so needed some one I just stayed and now

I am here substituting. So you see, I know little

more than you do about my surroundings,” Carol

finished, as they made the turn where the big sign

pointed to:

“The Dragon of the Hills.”

And as they turned into the pebbly drive that led

to Dorothy’s garage they both saw, apparently at the

same instant, a figure dash out of the dense thicket

into their very path.

“Oh!” exclaimed Jeanette, who was the figure in

the path. “I got all torn to pieces on those awful

briars.”

“Why did you go into those thick woods?” Carol

asked pointedly.

106

But Jeanette, the romantic, was smiling at Mr.

Dutton, so she really couldn’t answer.

107

CHAPTER XIII

GETTING AT IT

Jeanette had to hear why Carol and Mr. Dutton

had been to see Priscilla. They were all indoors now

and apparently Jeanette had forgotten her torn

stockings as she asked:

“Now doesn’t it look like a real mystery?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Carol admitted when

Jeanette murmured:

“Oh, it’s all so romantic. I wouldn’t have missed

this for a thousand dollars.”

“And I’d give a thousand dollars now, if I had it,

to get back that box,” said Mr. Dutton. “In fact,

though Mr. Wong Sut and I aren’t exactly on the

best of terms and I actually may be under

suspension, as it were, I think I shall suggest that he

post a $1,000 reward for the return of the Dragon of

the Hills. It might bring it back. We’ve got to get it,”

he said very definitely.

“A reward might be a good idea.” Carol agreed.

“Money is always a ready talker.”

“If I find the box will I get the thousand dollars?”

108

asked Jeanette suddenly quite serious.

“I’ll recommend you for it,” declared Mr. Dutton

smiling.

“If this can’t be found isn’t there any chance of

getting more of the concentrate from China or

wherever it came from?” asked Carol. “Then your

firm could start making the perfume. Of course they

would lose the value of this box of concentrate that’s

gone, but it seems to me your firm is losing a chance

to start the business it believes will be profitable.”

“There is something in what you say,” he replied.

“But there is a reason why Mr. Wong Sut and his

friends aren’t trying to get more of the concentrate

from China, or at least these Orientals think there is

a good reason. We Americans can never understand

the tenacity of the foreign mind. It is possible that

another supply may eventually have to be obtained

though, as I said, the same wonderful delicacy and

lasting qualities of the perfume might not be

identical with this batch of concentrate. I have some

of the scent made up as samples from a tiny bit of

this lost gum—we experimented with it in New

York before I started to take it to Satlenburg to the

factory. I have a blotter in my bag permeated with

it—”

“Oh, I’d love to even—smell it,” exclaimed

Jeanette.

“So would I,” said Carol. “But you started to tell

109

us there might be a reason why your firm didn’t

want to try to duplicate this concentrate.”

“Oh, yes,” went on Mr. Dutton. “You see there

are, or have been, strangers around here and it is

very possible that the missing box has fallen into the

hands of a rival perfume company. It is likely that

the impact tossed the box a considerable distance

out of my car and that it was picked up soon after

the accident, or a few days later, by some one who

may have known me and—my business. The box is

inscribed in Chinese with the name and character of

the contents. A translation of that would have shown

its value, and so it could have been sold to one of the

many rivals to the Oriental Importing Company.

Then if we do put a Dragon of the Hills perfume on

the market eventually, some one else could do the

same, and even cut under our prices. I am speaking

as though I was still with the firm,” he added with a

laugh. “I’m out but if I can find that box I can

quickly enough get back. So the thing to do, and I

believe Mr. Wong Sut agrees with me though we are

on the outs for the present, is to try to find the

missing box and not try to get more concentrate

from China until all our efforts have failed.”

“May I help you look? I mean at the place of the

accident,” begged Jeanette. “I can scramble around

through briars and brambles like a wild goat, and

your lame leg, Mr. Dutton—”

110

“Yes, it will rather hamper me,” he admitted. “I

shall indeed be glad of your help,” he assured the

eager Jeanette.

“Wish I could go too—” Carol began.

“Then maybe I shouldn’t have said I’ll help,”

exclaimed Jeanette. “I can’t leave you alone, Carol.”

“Oh, I can manage for a while. Go on the treasure

hunt if you like,” she suggested merrily.

“I shall. And if I find it we’ll share the reward,”

declared Jeanette.

“Go slow on that reward!” warned Mr. Dutton.

“It hasn’t been posted yet. But I think it will be,” he

temporized.

Carol sought out Mary Ellen who reported a few

customers had been fed and “teaed” when Carol

asked her what had happened during the trip to

Bramble Hill, but she closed the door on Jeanette

and motioned Carol into the kitchen to hear

something privately.

“Now, Carol, you are doing fine and I’ve no fault

whatever to find except with that silly little thing

Jeanie,” began Mary Ellen, as she tipped out her

maple custards so that the little puddle of caramel

spilled all over the bottom-turned-tops on the yellow

heaps. “And I don’t think she should be rummaging

among Dorothy’s things,” ended the woman with a

tight drawn line on her thin lips.

“Rummaging in Dorothy’s things!” exclaimed

111

Carol, incredulously.

“Exactly that. And in a desk, of all things else—

—”

“You mean the old desk under the stairs?”

“I do that. She went at it while you were gone and

turned things inside out-”

“Oh, there’s nothing there but funny old-

fashioned painted post cards and such stuff,” Carol

was glad to say. “Dorothy told me she bought the

desk in a second-hand store and had left the queer

old stationery in it.” (Carol never even thought of

the silken scarf she herself had put in it after

Dorothy’s little shooting affair.)

“But she has no right to be messing into things,”

insisted the prejudiced housekeeper. “What’s it her

business to be digging about like a ferret-”

Carol felt it would be impossible to make Mary

Ellen understand why a girl like Jeanette would seek

mysteries in old desks, so she just said a lot about

the lovely caramel custards and went back to the tea

room.

She found Jeanette all excited about the

marvelous sample of Mr. Dutton’s perfume.

“Here is a little of the Dragon of the Hills. I’d like

your opinion of it as a scent,” he said to Carol as she

came in.

He uncorked a tiny flask and at once a most

wonderful and subtle odor pervaded the room. It was

112

like the perfume of a wind blowing over a garden of

the most fragrant flowers—the scent delicate and

elusive. The eyes of the girls showed their

wonderment at such a new aroma.

“As judges of perfume what do you think of it?”

asked Mr. Dutton expectantly.

“Oh, it’s the most wonderful scent I ever

smelled!” declared Jeanette.

“It is unlike anything I’ve ever smelled,” Carol

said. “It seems like incense—”

“That’s exactly it,” interrupted the young man.

“Our experts worked to get the effect of a dry

perfume. If only the Dragon can be found, I am

more and more convinced of its value.”

He corked the tiny bottle but the strange, elusive

aroma still seemed to fill the place.

“Value!” repeated Jeanette. “I know a girl who

paid thirty-five dollars for one ounce of perfume.”

“I too have heard of such fabulous sums,” Carol

said, “but I have never known or even smelled such

perfume.”

Reluctant to leave the admiration meeting, for

indeed the perfume subject was not only engrossing

but still mysterious, Carol did finally get a chance to

speak to Jeanette alone.

“Where did you go this afternoon?” she asked

directly.

“Why?” Jeanette wanted to know, but her face

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had flushed up guiltily.

“Because, Jeanette, I really should know—”

“Now, Carol, you have been such a dear—”

“Yes, that’s all right,” she interrupted, “but you

came in through the woods. Were you at the Gypsy

camp?”

“Yes, I was,” faltered Jeanette.

“But the other night you told me you had given

up that sort of nonsense-”

“Listen, Carol, this is dreadfully important—to

me,” declared Jeanette in a sudden burst of

confidence. “Please, please, don’t hold me back,”

she begged. “It’s nothing wrong. I wouldn’t do

anything really wrong.”

“Not if you knew it was wrong, Jeanette,” Carol

spoke up, “but you might not know.”

“Oh, I’m sure there can be no real harm in this,”

Jeanette insisted, and Carol was obliged for the time

being, not to press her further.

Very early next morning Carol heard Mr. Dutton

go out. However quietly he had tried to leave the

cottage his lameness had prevented him from

walking noiselessly, and Carol quickly reasoned he

was going out this early to avoid having Jeanette go

along to help in the search for the precious box.

Last evening, after her unsatisfactory talk with

Jeanette, in which she, Carol, had only succeeded in

adding to her alarming suspicions about the

114

romantic girl and her interest in the Gypsies, Carol

sat down “quietly with herself” to take stock of the

entire situation.

“First,” she recounted, “we are making a little

money for Dorothy and I have convinced her that I

like it out here and want to stay. As if I would leave

without finding out who got that Dragon of the Hills

box,” she reminded herself slyly.

“Next.” Carol was making mental notes of all

this, believing that Jeanette’s fondness for

rummaging in desks might make written notes too

dangerous. “Next,” she repeated, “we have helped

dear little Priscilla in her sorrow, but I feel she may

need more help, for the missing brother may easily

bring her more trouble.”

115

CHAPTER XIV

THE PROBLEM OF JEANETTE

“Now I suppose I am to have some real worry

about Jeanette,” Carol decided next. “I just can’t let

her have secrets about those old Gypsies, and I

know even Priscilla says the Gypsy girl Tamma,

Zada’s daughter, runs around a lot and worries her

mother. There’s no telling what mischief a girl like

that might lead silly Jeanette into.”

Such was the line of serious thought which Carol

Duncan was occupied with the night that Mr. Dutton

was a house guest at the tea shop. Of course Carol

had not forgotten about her own home in Melody

Lane, but with her father gone fishing, her sister

Cecy as usual “dashing around” with her dear friend

Rosalind Wells, whose full-fledged family knew

well how to take care of both Cecy and Rosie; there

was really nothing for Carol to worry about home in

Melody Lane.

Carol’s school friend, Glenn Garrison, was busy

again this summer training his boys to swim and

scout at camp, so that the tea shop had given Carol

116

her chance at a last-rose-of-summer fling and she

Was bound to make the most of it.

But next morning had come and was passing

quickly now, with such tasks as ‘phone marketing

for Mary Ellen, letter writing for Dorothy, and

attending to business generally for the tea shop. As

soon as Carol had satisfied Jeanette that Mr. Dutton

had to hurry with his search for the precious box and

so couldn’t wait to take her along, the girl seemed

content to fix up the porch, her real childish joy in

arranging the bright cushions always amusing Carol.

Presently, however, Jeanette insisted upon running

off the corner mail box with her usual packet of

cards and letters.

“And I’ll go out to the Four Corners for a

magazine, Carol,” she called back as she started

off—calling back being one of her tricks to get away

without Carol’s protest.

“And now I suppose it will be the Gypsies,”

Carol sighed, as she saw Mr. Dutton coming.

He was smiling, but not waving or showing any

particular jubilation, so Carol was right in guessing

he had not found the box.

“No luck,” he told her reaching the porch steps

and dropping down to rest the troublesome leg. “As

a matter of fact I didn’t expect any. I never have

doubted that the box was stolen.”

“Stolen!” Carol repeated.

117

“Yes. It was too heavy to get far away from the

road even if flung out of my car and now I’m

convinced it never remained very long where it may

have landed.”

“Would anyone, or could anyone, guess its

value?” Carol asked.

“People around here might. I mean the strangers

like the prowler who came here, and the one who

frightened poor old Mrs. Hunt. Whoever that was

might have been actually following me and even the

car accident may not have been completely an

accident, you know,” he told Carol in a lowered

voice intending confidence.

“Oh, I never thought of that,” she answered.

“Would Priscilla’s missing brother be suspected?”

she in turn whispered.

“Until Dragon of the Hills is found or he is

eliminated, of course his actions at that time or after

that time would have to be accounted for,” he

replied.

“Poor Priscilla!” Carol sighed. “Isn’t she awfully

young to have so much trouble?”

“But certainly she will not be involved,” Mr.

Dutton spoke quickly.

“But if her brother is?”

“Well, he isn’t at present. There are others, you

know. I have trace of more than Mr. Wong Sut in

the village. However, Miss Carol, I can’t thank you

118

enough for all you have done for me,” the young

man said warmly. “It’s very unusual to find a girl so

young as you so free from petty formalities—”

“Oh, you see, Dad has always given me so much

freedom, perhaps I do do things other girls might

hesitate about. But there’s always a good old Mary

Ellen in the background,” she put in naively. “I

have a darling old Rachel at home.”

“Good for Rachel,” cheered Mr. Dutton, “and for

Mary Ellen too. Which reminds me, I must say

goodbye to her,” he remarked tactfully. “I hear her

in the kitchen.”

Carol knew Mr. Dutton would give Mary Ellen a

“nice tip” for her attention while he was at the tea

shop, and hearing her chuckle as he talked to her

confirmed that suspicion. Back again to speak to

Carol he recalled he had promised her and Jeanette a

bit of blotting paper scented with the wonderful

perfume.

“It may help you if you ever find a clue,” he said.

“I have it in my small bag. I’ll get it.”

When he returned with the bit of absorbent

blotting paper wrapped carefully in waxed paper and

protected by an envelope besides, it was easy to

realize that the elusive and mysterious incense of the

Orient was in the room.

“Oh, how lovely!” Carol exclaimed. “It will

perfume all—my things.”

119

“Yes, I think it will. And here’s one for little

Jeanette,” Mr. Dutton offered.

“She will be crazy about it, I know,” Carol

assured him. Then, as her expression changed, he

asked if she was worrying about Jeanette.

Briefly and tactfully she tried to tell him why she

felt rather responsible for the girl, then, in a flash,

she remembered about having put the bit of silk in

the desk under the stairs the morning after Dorothy

had tried out her automatic. And at the same time

Carol remembered that Mary Ellen had complained

of Jeanette rummaging in that desk!

“But you are worried,” Mr. Dutton insisted. “Just

now your eyes are miles away. Can’t I help you?

I’m a lot older than a little girl like you.”

“Oh, thank you, but there really is no reason for

worry. Jeanette has been splendid until now, and

she’s only just becoming interested in the Gypsies,

they’re so romantic, you know,” she added lightly.

“And tricky,” added Mr. Dutton.

“But old Zada is very reliable, Priscilla says. In

fact she has been a good friend to both Priscilla and

her grandmother.”

“Oh, yes, the old Gypsy would be reliable, I’m

sure. But how about that dashing young daughter?”

“Tamma? I suppose she is dashing,” conceded

Carol, “and I don’t want Jeanette to get too

interested in her fortune telling either. But, Mr.

120

Dutton, I had not realized until you told me your

suspicions about your accident that your life was in

danger while you were known to have had that

precious box.”

“It was, I guess,” he admitted hesitantly.

“And perhaps the prowler who came here that

night I told you about, he might also be looking for

the box and think it was in here, since you were in

here that day,” Carol reasoned.

“You mean that a desperate character was

searching for it; had looked over the road, perhaps,

was trying to see if old Mrs. Hunt had it and had

even tried looking in here? Well, that isn’t my

theory. I believe now more than one person was

trying ‘to get me,’ as they say, to secure the box.

One got it first, but the other, not knowing that, kept

on looking. However, don’t feel you are in any

danger here,” he assured Carol. “By now the entire

situation has changed.”

“You mean there will be no more searching?”

“I think not, it has been found, I am almost sure

of that; it is the thief we have to look for now.”

Carol drove Mr. Dutton to the bus station and as

he left she felt a sense of loneliness.

“Perhaps Dorothy will be able to come back

soon,” she told herself. “Or maybe Thally will turn

up; she usually does when I need her most.”

Thally was Carol’s best and dearest friend, afraid

121

of nothing and eager for everything.

But the thought of Jeanette going through the old

desk and taking that scarf was something to worry

about definitely.

“The old rag might be dirty,” Carol was

deliberating. “Might have been around someone’s

neck—I had intended to put it in a big envelope, and

then forgot all about it. Well, that’s one thing I can’t

postpone. I must ask Jeanette about it this very day.”

And then she turned her car in the direction of the

narrow little lane that cut in from the main road and

brought up in the fields where the Gypsies were in

camp.

At the cedar tree point, where a lane connected

with the main road, Carol was surprised to see a blue

sport car parked under a group of low trees. So low

were some of the tree branches that they touched the

glistening top of the auto.

“My!” Carol thought, “some young man must be

interested in fortune telling, or maybe, it’s a young

girl, for certainly that model of a car must belong to

some one young.”

Then it occurred to her she had better wait for

Jeanette at a little distance from the camp. It would

be embarrassing to abruptly meet whoever this car

belonged to. So she turned around and drove back to

a secluded road that was the entrance to a farm. She

waited a few minutes and then turned back toward

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the Gypsy camp.

When she was again within a short distance of the

lane, just as she expected, the blue sport car passed

her.

“And the driver is a young man,” Carol was

noticing. “Very dark. I couldn’t get more than a

glimpse of his face as he dashed by, but I’m sure he

was dark,” she concluded, this time making straight

for the lane leading to the Gypsy camp.

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CHAPTER XV

VANISHED

It was but a few minutes before Jeanette came

smiling down the lane. She appeared a little

surprised to see Carol and the car.

“You didn’t need to come for me,” she said,

“though it was sweet of you, Carol. I could have

walked back.”

“It’s too far, Jeanette, and it’s getting past lunch

time. Well, did you get a good fortune?” she tried to

ask pleasantly.

“Oh, Tamma was quite wonderful! Not like a lot

of the ordinary fortune tellers. She really knows

things. And she told me things that puzzled me—

really that frightened me a little.”

“You shouldn’t be so credulous, Jeanette,” chided

Carol. “Come along.”

“Oh, well, you don’t know what she said. Not

that I believe them—at least not all of them. But I

am to go back again,” she announced climbing into

the car.

“Go back again?”

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“Yes, in about a week. She is going to dream on

my handkerchief.”

“Jeanette, you surely aren’t serious!” Carol

exclaimed.

“Oh, but I am. She said she had to have

something very intimate from me—something I had

worn. The handkerchief was all I could think of.

Perhaps it was on account of the perfume.”

“Perfume?”

“Yes—the Dragon of the Hills, you know. I held

that bottle a moment last night you know, and some

of the scent must have gotten on my handkerchief.

As soon as I went in the tent Tamma noticed it,

though I had almost forgotten it. She asked me what

scent it was.”

“Jeanette,” Carol said severely, “you know you

should never have even mentioned that perfume to

the Gypsies.”

“Why, is it a secret?”

“Well, a sort of secret for the time being. Perhaps

the less we say about Mr. Dutton’s perfume the

better. So Tamma was attracted by it, was she,

Jeanette?”

“Well, I had to leave her my handkerchief. She

says she will put it under her pillow and dream on it

and tell me more of my fortune. Oh, of course it’s all

nonsense,” and Jeanette laughed, “but it’s awfully

thrilling. And I’m starved!”

125

“Well,” Carol said, “I must warn you not to get

too close to these Gypsies. Next time she may want

your wrist watch to dream on.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t get that! But Tamma is

perfectly honest. Why, you told me her mother

worked for years for old Mrs. Hunt,” Jeanette

reminded Carol.

“So I did. Oh, she may be all right. Only don’t

think too much about Gypsy fortunes, Jeanette.”

Carol just couldn’t question Jeanette about the old

scarf just then.

“I shan’t, Carol,” the other promised. “But it was

lots of fun.”

As they drove back past the old house on

Bramble Hill, a man ran out in the road waving his

arms to halt them.

“Why, it’s Squire Eaton!” Carol exclaimed. “I

wonder if anything can have happened?”

Evidently something had happened for there was

an anxious look on Squire Eaton’s face as Carol

brought the car to a stop near where he stood in the

road.

“Isn’t she with you?” he asked.

“Do you mean Tamma?” asked Carol. “Does her

mother want her to help on the rug?” For from the

open window of the room where the valuable rug

was being secretly woven came the clank of the

loom.

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“No, I mean Priscilla,” answered the justice of the

peace. “I thought she went to the Gypsy camp with

you or your friend,” and he looked particularly at

Jeanette. “I thought—”

“No, she didn’t go with me,” Jeanette answered.

“I went alone, but I saw her as I passed. She was

walking, too. Why do you think she might have

gone with me?”

“Because she isn’t here,” was the answer.

“We haven’t seen anything of her since early this

morning,” Carol said.

“I am right worried, Miss Duncan,” said the

squire. “There’s no two ways about that. It isn’t like

Priscilla to go away from the house so suddenly. I

don’t like it. I came over here, leaving some of my

business, to have a talk with Priscilla about some

matters of her grandmother’s estate and I am told

she went away in a hurry a little while ago. Now

I’ve got to drive around to look for her and I haven’t

much gas. Not much gas!”

He nodded toward an ancient roadster parked just

beyond where the path led uphill to the old house.

“I’ll have to go to the Gypsy camp, I guess. I’ve got

to see Priscilla.” He was talking more than he was

saying things. This made Carol feel that he was

unusually stirred up. “Got to see her!”

“I don’t believe you’ll find Priscilla in the camp,”

Carol said. “We just came from there and if she

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hadn’t yet reached it we would have passed her on

the road. Unless,” she added, “there is some other

way of getting there.”

“There are other ways,” the Squire admitted. “But

Priscilla wouldn’t be likely to take ’em. There’s a

lonely road over back of Bramble Hill but it’s longer

than the main highway. She wouldn’t go that way.

No, she wouldn’t.”

“What makes you think she went to the Gypsy

camp?” Carol asked.

“I’m only guessing at it,” he admitted. “There

doesn’t seem any other place for her to go. I thought

maybe she went after you, fearing you might have

lost your way.” Again he looked at Jeanette. “Lost

your way.”

“No, I didn’t get lost and I saw Priscilla only a

moment,” declared Jeanette.

“Well, I was waiting here until you got back

hoping you might have seen her,” and he addressed

himself to Carol. “But if you haven’t—”

“Tell us just what happened, or what you think

happened?” Carol suggested.

“’Twon’t take long to do that. As I say I came

over on a matter of business with Priscilla. The law

reads that I have to consult with her on certain

matters and I always uphold the law. So I drove over

here. Priscilla wasn’t here so I talked to Zada. She’s

one of the best of the Gypsies—woman of sound

128

common sense—none of the silly fortune-telling

business.”

“But about Priscilla,” urged Carol fearing the

subject might get side-tracked. However there was

no fear of that with Squire Eaton as engineer.

“Well, when I found Priscilla wasn’t here,

naturally I asked where she was and Zada told me

she was out some place. I looked up and down the

road but I didn’t see her or any of you folks. None of

you folks.”

“Zada said she went out early didn’t she?” Carol

asked the Squire. “And didn’t she come back at all,

Mr. Eaton?”

“Oh, yes, she came back, but I didn’t see her,” the

Squire replied. “She came in the rear door, as I

could tell by her voice for I was up stairs lookin’

over some truck, and I heard her call to Zada that

she would be back in a little while. I thought that

would be all right. I figured she was busy about

errands or somethin’. But she didn’t come back the

second time. And I’ve been waitin’ ever since,” he

added impatiently. “Ever since.”

“Where could she have gone? There are so few

places, and I have been almost to town myself,”

Carol told them.

“That’s what we’ve got to find out,” said the

official. “I admit it’s got me worried for Priscilla

isn’t the kind of a girl to go gallivanting away over

129

Bramble Hill and just now ‘taint any too safe for

her.” He didn’t explain what that meant.

Carol was also worried, more especially as she

remembered the prowler of the night who had come

trying doors at the tea shop. If some Orientals who

were employed by Wong Sut to find his missing

perfume were sneaking about Bramble Hill they

might have terrified Priscilla when she unexpectedly

encountered them on the woody roadway.

There was considerable questioning and

answering and it sifted down to this:

Carol knew very little of the matter. She had not

seen Priscilla for some time before having driven

Mr. Dutton to the bus station.

“I was going to help him in his search,” said

Jeanette, not specifying to the Squire what the

search was. “But he got up too early and went

away.”

“Yes,” Carol confirmed. Then, seeing that the

Squire looked rather interested at the mention of the

word “search,” Carol went on to add: “Mr. Dutton

lost something from his car at the time of the

accident and came back to search for it.”

“Did he find it?” asked the Squire.

“No.”

“I wonder if he saw Priscilla?” Carol ventured.

“Yes, he did,” said Jeanette unexpectedly.

“How do you know?” asked Carol quickly.

130

“Because Priscilla, though I only saw her for a

moment, said she had seen him searching along the

roadside and she helped him look. But she had no

luck, either, and then she left him and went back

home.”

“How do you know that?” asked the Squire.

“Priscilla told me.”

“Then you must have had quite a talk with her—

quite a talk.”

“It didn’t take long just for what we said,” smiled

Jeanette.

“But did anything happen just before or just after

you met her and she said, after she had met Mr.

Dutton, she was going back home, and she did come

back home for I was there?” asked the Squire of

Jeanette. “Did you see or hear anything suspicious?”

“No, not a thing. I saw some cars pass after

Priscilla went around the turn in the road and I went

on to the Gypsy camp. Wait, though, I did hear

something.”

“What?” asked the Squire and Carol together,

quickly. “What?” the Squire repeated.

“I heard a whistle,” Jeanette said. “A queer

whistle just after Priscilla went around the turn of

the road.”

“Whistle!” exclaimed Carol.

“Oh, you mean the Bob White?” asked the

Squire.

131

“Bob White?” repeated Carol, thinking for a

moment it might be some Gypsy lad who, strolling

over Bramble Hill had whistled at Priscilla. Then in

another moment she remembered the call of the

quail, whose whistle, freely interpreted sounds like:

“Bob White!”

“You’re right,” said the squire suddenly. “It was

right after Priscilla ran out. I did hear a quail

whistling. I didn’t think anything of it just then, but

she did hurry off right after that.”

“And we haven’t seen her since,” Jeanette said.

“It’s mighty queer,” mused the Squire.

“Something happened between the time she went

down to the turn of the road where this girl, Jeanette,

saw her, and the time she came back to the house

and called to Zada that she’d be back in a little

while. She went off somewhere and—well, I don’t

like to say it, but I feel sure something happened to

her. Something has happened.”

“Oh, no!” Carol exclaimed. “It’s broad daylight

and—”

“Well, how do you account for it?” he asked

rather sharply. “She’s gone. There’s no getting

around that. And she isn’t a girl to stroll about

Bramble Hill. I guess I’d better get Lem. Better get

Lem.”

Jeanette said aside to Carol:

“That old fellow must know more than he’s

132

telling us. Why ever would he make all that fuss

about Priscilla being away from home in broad

daylight?”

“That’s what I’m thinking, too,” Carol answered

her. “But since he is sure to know what he’s talking

about although we don’t, we had just better follow

his advice and go looking for Priscilla.”

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CHAPTER XVI

PRISCILLA’S SECRET

Jeanette seemed happy at the very prospect of a

live mystery.

“I thought,” she remarked, “that they didn’t

happen away from Melody Lane. Oh, I’m thrilled!”

Then she raised her voice so that Squire Eaton could

hear, “Do you think anything really has happened to

Priscilla—I mean something that we’ll have to get

detectives out here for and will it be in the papers?”

“Not if I can help it,” said the Squire grimly. “I

don’t want Priscilla’s name read all around Bramble

Hill. And I don’t believe it’s anything of a mystery,”

he snapped back. “No mystery at all!”

“We didn’t mean it exactly that way,” Carol tried

to explain. “We meant it was strange she should go

away so suddenly and remain so long.”

“’Tis strange,” the executor admitted. “But I

guess it can all be explained. It’s likely,” he went on,

“that she may have slipped and sprained an ankle

and so she can’t walk home. Though why she should

want to go so far away and on such short notice I

134

can’t imagine. As for detectives, we’ve got one right

in town.”

“You have! How thrilling!” exclaimed Jeanette

with her usual hair-trigger poise.

“I’ll get Lem on the case if Priscilla doesn’t come

back or we can’t find her ourselves,” he decided.

“Of course we’ll help look for her,” Carol

offered. “But I really ought to go back to the tea

shop. I’ll come back immediately after lunch, Squire

Eaton, and help all I can—if she isn’t heard from

before then.”

“I’ll appreciate that, Miss Duncan. ’Tis near

lunch time. I guess we’d all better eat. We may be

all the afternoon hunting. I’ll run on to town and

come back as soon as I have a bite.”

“How would it be,” suggested Carol, “to get Zada

and her daughter Tamma and some of the Gypsies to

look for Priscilla? The Gypsies are wood-folk.”

“I don’t trust ’em!” said the officer shortly. “Not

but what Zada is all right and maybe her daughter.

But there’s always a lot of strange Gypsies that

come to the encampment every year and it’s them I

don’t trust. No, we’ll work this out ourselves. Work

it ourselves,” he repeated.

He went into the old house to tell Zada, who was

still clanking away at the rug loom, that they would

all return and start the search for Priscilla soon. The

old Gypsy woman did not seem much perturbed at

135

Priscilla’s strange absence. Perhaps she was

accustomed to the young people of her own tribe

going away like that.

“But then,” Carol reasoned when the Squire came

back to report Zada’s seeming indifference,

“Gypsies are more accustomed to looking after

themselves in the woods and fields than Priscilla can

possibly be.” She was beginning to take on some of

the Squire’s strange anxiety.

When Carol and Jeanette returned to the tea shop

Carol still holding back her question about the

missing scarf from the old desk, Mary Ellen was

found in rather a flustered state. For once the

efficient Scotch woman seemed to have lost her

poise.

“I was getting worried about you, my dear,” she

said to Carol, ignoring, as was her wont, the

frivolous Jeanette. “I guess you were near to

forgetting that this afternoon the Ladies Aid are to

have their affair here.”

“Oh, I did forget it! I’m so sorry!” Carol

exclaimed. “But something strange happened to put

it out of my mind. Is there any trouble about it—I

mean because I wasn’t here?”

“Oh, no. I took care of everything. They’re

sending their own people to take charge. There’ll be

no need for you or the other young lady to be here at

all this afternoon or evening. The other ladies will

136

do everything. Though I’ll stand around to make

sure they do no damage to Miss Dorothy’s

possessions. Only I was worried lest you have a

headache from not eating your lunch on time.”

“I am hungry,” Carol said.

“Starved!” declared Jeanette.

Mary Ellen served a substantial lunch. Then

Carol, making sure everything was in order for

turning the tea shop over to the Ladies Aid for the

remainder of the day, instructed Mary Ellen to

receive and take care of the money to be paid.

“Now, we’ll see what we can do in the way of

finding Priscilla,” she said as she brought her car

around to the side door. Already some of the ladies

were arriving for their annual affair, all a flutter and

each simply swelling with her own importance.

Carol and Jeanette got away quickly although

Jeanette did say she would like to stay “to see the

fun.”

They found Squire Eaton waiting for them when

they arrived at Bramble Hill. One look at his face

told Carol there was no news. The Squire said he

had shouted himself hoarse but found no answering

call back from Priscilla. With the Squire was

Detective Lem Higgon.

“What’s the thing to do now?” Carol asked. “You

had better do the directing, Mr. Eaton.”

“All right. I will. Lem and I mapped out a sort of

137

plan. He’s going to cast around on foot over the hills

and dales around here. It’s possible Priscilla’s lost.

There’s swamps and bogs not far from here where

anybody might get lost. Lem knows ’em better than

I do. Though why Priscilla wanted to wade through

’em I can’t guess.”

“It does seem strange,” Carol agreed. “But what

will we do?”

“You drive along the roads and make inquiries,”

suggested the Squire. “Somebody must have seen

the girl. I’ll do the same, but first I’ll go to the

Gypsy camp and make some inquiries there, I’ll do

that myself. It’s possible some of the young fellows

who are always wandering around—they don’t seem

to have much to do—they might have seen Priscilla.

After I get through with the camp I’ll scour around

on the roads. We’ll meet here at the wind-up but if

she isn’t back by then—”

He didn’t entirely finish. But Carol, determined

not to give in to even such faint suggestion, said:

“Oh, she’s sure to be back or we’ll surely find her

before then.”

“I hope so,” said the Squire.

So the search began.

Carol, with Jeanette who, in spite of Carol’s

advice to remain quiet, kept repeating that she was

“thrilled,” took a road that wound about Bramble

Hill and came out in the lonely country beyond it.

138

Detective Lem started straight up over Bramble

Hill on foot. He had a determined air about him as

though by his very strength and persistence he

would solve the mystery and as Jeanette would and

did say: “Bring her back alive.”

Squire Eaton headed his rattling car down the

road that led to the lane at the end of which, in the

woods, was the Gypsy camp.

Up in Priscilla’s strange, old house Zada clanked

away at the loom. It seemed to be an obsession with

her to get the rug finished—the rug that was to have

crowned the life work of old Mrs. Hunt. In all the

talk and conjecture about Priscilla the Gypsy had not

once shown herself out of the house.

Following the plan the Squire had outlined, Carol

drove along various roads. Occasionally they met

other motorists, mostly country people from the

neighborhood. Of them, as well as of casual

travelers in smarter cars they asked for news of the

missing girl. They gave no explanation of their

inquiries and, in fact, none seemed to be expected.

The answers were all in the negative.

“She just seems to have disappeared,” said

Jeanette. “Oh, I do hope she’s all right,” she finally

settled down enough to remark.

“I do not know,” Carol said. “Bramble Hill is a

very lonely country. There are so few houses around

here and we ourselves have seen quite a few

139

strangers, you know.”

Carol saw how quickly Jeanette turned her head

away and changed the subject, making some

unimportant remark about how late the summer

weather was remaining. Once again Carol felt she

would have to ask Jeanette about the old scarf, and

once again she hesitated.

“I just must have a chance to talk seriously to her

when I begin on that,” Carol decided. “And just now

while she is bound to be with me I don’t believe she

will be seeing much of the Gypsies.”

As they drove along they stopped to make

inquiries of the few persons passing thinking

Priscilla might have been seen by some one, or even

have been taken to a farm house if she had met with

an accident. And as very few houses around

Bramble Hill had telephones, the farmers could not

have notified anyone except personally.

It was a disappointing search. It just seemed no

one had seen Priscilla, and yet where could she have

gone?

The long afternoon passed. The shadows were

lengthening and Carol, now fully realizing what this

might mean, decided they had better turn back. After

all, the Squire or Lem might, by this time, have

located Priscilla. Jeanette was glad enough to give

up the search. So the car was turned around and they

headed back for Bramble Hill.

140

When they were within perhaps a mile of the

place, and it was now fast getting dusk, Carol saw,

just ahead of them on the side path, a girl walking

along. And she knew who it was.

“Priscilla!” she called, in a shrill, sharp voice.

The girl turned, after a start of surprise at hearing

her name, and waited for the car to come up.

“Priscilla!” Carol exclaimed. “Where have you

been? We’ve been looking all over for you. Squire

Eaton is so worried! Where did you go?” She was

breathless now, and Jeanette was exclaiming also.

For a moment the girl hesitated. She looked down

at the dusty road and then her clear, gray eyes met

those of Carol unflinchingly.

“Where were you?” Carol demanded again.

“I—I’d rather not tell,” Priscilla answered. “But

I’m all right. I’ll ride back with you if I may. But I

can’t tell you where I have been. Please don’t ask

me.”

But her little gingham dress and her well worn

“sneaks” showed that, wherever she had been, the

way must have been rough and dusty.

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CHAPTER XVII

DETECTIVE CAROL

Priscilla’s determination not to tell where she had

been seemed to shock the searchers into silence—at

least for the moment.

Jeanette, rather pertly, as might have been

expected, said:

“I think that’s hardly fair.”

“Fair!” faltered Priscilla.

“Yes,” went on Jeanette. “Here we all give up our

afternoon to look for you, and you come along as if

you’d just been for a walk and say you won’t tell us

where you were. And you know we were all terribly

frightened.”

“I’m sorry,” said the gray-eyed girl. “I didn’t

mean to give you any trouble. But couldn’t I just go

for a walk by myself?” she asked suspiciously. “I

often used to do it when Grannie was alive. I didn’t

see any harm in it,” she drew in with a show of

something like indignation.

“None, as long as you didn’t come to any harm,”

said Carol kindly. “But get in the car, do. I must

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hurry you back home. The Squire will be there

wondering and worrying.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry if you worried,” said Priscilla

contritely, as she got into the rumble seat. “But

really it wasn’t anything. I just went to be off by

myself. I wasn’t needed to help Zada with the rug

and—”

“Well, if you just went for a walk,” Carol said, “it

took you an unusually long time, I think. And I can’t

see why you don’t want to tell us where you were.

Not that it’s any of my business,” she tried to

explain. “We are only helping Squire Eaton who, in

a way, is responsible for you. I suppose you will tell

him where you were,” she pointed out, wisely.

“No,” said Priscilla and her voice seemed firmer,

“least of all will I tell him. Oh, it isn’t anything!”

she burst out with a little sob. “I haven’t been up to

any mischief—I haven’t done anything—I have

come to no harm—I just wanted to be alone! Oh,

why do you have to tease me!” She seemed on the

verge of tears and realizing this would not help

matters Carol quickly said:

“We don’t mean to tease you. If you think you

shouldn’t tell that is your affair. You aren’t a little

child. It remains to be seen whether or not the Squire

will accept your refusal, that is all I am trying to tell

you.”

“He’s got to accept it!” Priscilla cried with energy

143

that seemed to preclude the possibility of tears. “I

just won’t tell him every time I take a walk.”

“Well, we mustn’t get excited,” Carol tried to

soothe as she drove on. “And you haven’t had any

lunch.”

“I had berries—there were plenty of them,” said

Priscilla and she showed her stained, brown hands as

proof of this. “I didn’t get hungry, though I am

now,” she admitted. “It’s too bad there was all this

fuss over nothing.”

“It wasn’t exactly ‘nothing,’ my dear,” said Carol

gently.

They saw Squire Eaton walking restlessly up and

down in the gathering dusk as they approached

along the road in front of Priscilla’s home. The

clanking loom was quiet. Zada had evidently gone

back to the Gypsy camp and in the doorway of the

house stood Mrs. Mason, shading her eyes with her

hand.

“Did you find her?” called the Squire as Carol’s

car drove up.

“Yes, I’m here! I’m all right!” Priscilla answered

for herself. Carol thought it best to let her handle the

matter with her guardian.

“Well, where in the name of goodness were

you?” Mr. Eaton demanded rather sharply. “You’ve

given us a fine fright, Priscilla! I was thinking, if

you hadn’t come along now, of sending out a

144

general alarm to the State Police.”

“Oh, the police!” exclaimed Priscilla as she

alighted from the car. “Oh, no! Don’t do that!” She

seemed frightened. “Not the police!”

“No need for ’em, now you’re back,” said the

Squire grimly. “But where were you? Where’d you

find her, Miss Duncan?”

“Walking along the road,” Carol answered,

smiling.

“Where were you all this time, Priscilla?”

demanded the Squire.

“Gathering berries—for one thing,” she said,

slowly.

“Gathering berries! Without a pail or basket?”

“I ate them!”

“What else did you do?” His voice was getting

angry.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you every little thing,

Squire Eaton,” Priscilla answered. “Oh, let me

alone! I’ve done no harm—I’m all right—I just

wanted to be alone!” And again her voice was

tearful.

“Well, of all—” began the Squire but Lem broke

in with: “There’s no tellin’ what young folks do

these days. Goin’ berryin’ ’ithout a basket an’

wantin’ to be alone when night’s comin’ on.”

Priscilla walked on up toward the house. Squire

Eaton looked at her with a half-puzzled, half-angry

145

air but the girl seemed strangely determined and self

reliant now. She appeared to have gotten over the

little hysteria which was noticeable when she first

encountered Carol and her friends.

“Well, I’ll have a talk with you later,” the Squire

said. “I’ve got to be getting back now. I came over

on some business about your grandmother’s affairs,

Priscilla, but it can keep until tomorrow. I thought

you’d be back any minute when you ran into the

house and out again so quick.”

“I thought I’d be back in a little while myself,”

Priscilla told him over her shoulder, “but I walked

farther than I intended. And it was so lovely I hated

to come back. But I’m here now,” she said with a

little laugh, “and I’m sorry I gave you all so much

trouble. Thank you for your interest, Carol.”

“Oh, I was glad to help,” Carol said.

“She’s queer!” said Jeanette as Priscilla went on

into the house with Mrs. Mason the house-worker

and the Squire, who with another shake of his head,

motioned to his detective to get in the car for the trip

back to town.

“Well, Carol, what do you think of the latest

development in the Dragon of the Hills case?” asked

Jeanette as they drove back to the tea shop.

“Do you imagine that Priscilla found the box of

valuable concentrate and has it hidden somewhere?”

Carol said, forgetting for the moment her suspicion

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of Jeanette’s possible intrigue with the Gypsies.

“If you ask me,” drawled Jeanette, “she went out

to meet a boy friend and they got talking and she

didn’t realize how late it was.”

“Nonsense!” said Carol. “Don’t be silly,

Jeanette!”

“All boy friends aren’t silly,” Jeanette said

importantly. “And besides that,” she went on, “she

possibly slipped off to have her fortune told by the

Gypsy and she was ashamed to admit it. I’m not—I

don’t care what people think of me. I like the

Gypsies’ fortunes.”

“Well, Jeanette,” Carol began, her voice showing

how hard she was trying not to show her

indignation, “I’ve been waiting for a chance to ask

you something. And although the ladies are here

now for their party—”

“Ask me something!” Jeanette laughed lightly.

“Fire away, Carol dear, I’ll be right here with all the

answers.”

“If you take that silly tone I’m afraid I’ll still

have to wait for a better chance.”

“Whew! Serious as all that? Murder or

something?”

“It might have been,” Carol replied surprisingly,

remembering Dorothy’s firing her automatic in the

dark when the bit of silken scarf must have been

dropped that night on the porch—the scarf now

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missing from the old desk under the stairs. But Carol

could hear the chatter of the Ladies Aid at their

party as she turned her car in the drive. And

remembering her duty to Dorothy’s interests, and

how much the money from this sale would mean to

her, Carol actually bit her tongue in new

determination to wait a little longer for the important

talk with Jeanette.

But Jeanette’s interest was aroused. She cared for

nothing more than for things that concerned herself

and she flung back at Carol:

“Go ahead, Carol. Don’t tell me I’ve got to wait

for a story with murder in it.”

“Jeanette, please,” Carol begged. “You know we

must do all we can to help Dorothy with this affair.”

“Dorothy, Dorothy,” scoffed the other girl as she

followed Carol who was already out of the car. “I’m

just sick of hearing of all we should do to help

Dorothy,” she sneered.

“Are you?” fired Carol, aroused now beyond

endurance. “Then, perhaps, Jeanette, you should end

your visit here. Remember you are still Dorothy’s

guest.”

“End my visit! Now?” What a quick change that

idea brought to Jeanette.

“Yes; why not? If you are sick and tired of it

here—”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that, Carol,” and Jeanette

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seized Carol’s arm to detain her. “I just—meant—

well, why doesn’t Dorothy come back and take care

of her own place?” she blurted out. “You said in her

last letter—”

“Yes, I know,” Carol interrupted. “Dorothy’s

mother is being brought to a rest home and Dorothy

could leave her if I wanted to give up here. But I

don’t—not yet,” said Carol definitely.

“So keen on the mystery,” Jeanette’s composure

was returning; the little scare of being sent home

seemed to be patching itself up. “I don’t blame you.

When is Mr. Dutton coming back?” Carol was

almost at the kitchen door.

“I don’t know,” she answered sharply. “Please

give this cheese to Mary Ellen. I must put the

lemons in the pantry.”

For the Ladies Aid party was getting well under

way now.

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CHAPTER XVIII

UNDER FIRE

Not even the success of the Ladies Aid party,

which netted for Dorothy more than she expected

according to her estimate given Carol, served to

divert Carol from the ever increasing suspicions and

problems in the mystery of the Dragon of the Hills.

“I thought a mystery was just that, a straight go-

get-it mystery,” Carol reasoned, after counting her

petty cash for the day and putting it in the big strong

envelope with the check from the Ladies Aid, “but

this isn’t just that, it’s a mystery made up of a lot of

pieces scattered here and there, yet they must

somehow fit together in one pattern in the end.”

Mr. Dutton had returned that evening and Mary

Ellen had insisted upon his staying, although he had

already made other arrangements.

“What’s the expense of this place for,” the

woman argued as Mr. Dutton was about to leave, “if

it shouldn’t be used in some way? Certainly we will

take a roomer now and then,” she went on, “and

don’t we know you? And why shouldn’t you take

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the accommodation?”

So Mr. Dutton was staying, perhaps even now

asleep in the alcove room, for he had been traveling

all day over the wild country, searching out garage

men who were said to have towed his car away after

the accident, although, as he told Carol, he might

have saved himself that trouble for he had learned

exactly nothing about the lost box.

And there was the strange disappearance of

Priscilla that day, still unexplained. No use denying

that it was strange, for even Priscilla’s own attempts

to treat it lightly and “laugh it off,” as Jeanette had

said, merely added to the suspicions that Priscilla

had been some place she was unwilling to own up

to. And that was so unlike her that Carol felt she was

either shielding some one or hiding something or, it

might be, she was doing both.

Then, there was Jeanette to be watched and

perhaps to be sent home, for Carol was no

“policeman,” as she had often told Thally, her best

girl friend, who, by the way, had just written Carol

that she was going to do some extra studying before

school opened, and so could hardly get out “to take a

whack at the Dragon of the Hills mystery.”

This news had been disappointing to Carol, for

Thally was the last word in the best of girl friends

and the first and last word on Melody Lane

mysteries.

151

Trying to reason out some answer to the queer

mixup, Carol took out her little note book and added

the newest memorandum. It concerned Priscilla and

Jeanette, in different items, it included Mr. Dutton’s

“report” of no new clues, but progress by

elimination, which meant, of course, that the loss of

the box was narrowing down to a “few suspects.”

Mr. Dutton had refused to make that any clearer

even for Carol. And when she spoke of Priscilla’s

queer disappearance that day (Mr. Dutton

confirming the fact that she, for a little while, had

helped him search), she watched his face to see if

she might be able to guess whether he had any

suspicions against the girl, who could do no wrong

intentionally, Carol was sure, but who might all

unknowingly do a real wrong to help some one else,

especially if that some one else should be her own

brother Dick.

Carol wondered about Dick. Nothing was being

said about him lately, in fact even his name was not

being mentioned in the little group surrounding

Priscilla.

And the rug that dear old Mrs. Hunt had set such

store on must surely be almost finished now, for the

Gypsy woman Zada had been working constantly on

it. Thinking of Zada, Carol wondered about the

Gypsy’s daughter, Tamma. She didn’t like the girl’s

laugh; it was too bold, Carol thought, and she

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seemed too proud of that mouthful of flashing white

teeth. The color on the dark girl’s lips was always a

brilliant red, and the color on her cheeks, not natural

but the most flaming rouge Carol had ever seen

used, even in their school plays, when Gypsies were

supposed to be greatly exaggerated in make-up.

No, Carol didn’t like the Gypsy girl. Now, sitting

in Dorothy’s neat little room, not listening to but

clearly hearing the chirp of the anxious crickets, the

call of the katydids and the trilling of the tree-toads,

Carol suddenly wished she had not said “all right”

that evening, when Jeanette came dashing in after

supper to ask could she go to the pictures. Jan, the

girl on the corn farm, and her brother Stan, the boy

“with the most gorgeous tan and the handsomest

head of blonde hair Jeanette had ever seen” were

driving the little car to the village movie.

So she had gone. The farmer’s children were hard

working and bore the very best of reputations and

Carol felt it was good for Jeanette to see the real

splendor of such simple yet brave country folks. But

the movie was never out very early and Jeanette was

sure to insist upon giving them ice cream. And what

young folks, especially a girl and a boy who had

been working all summer in every single hour of

daylight, could be expected to hurry when eating ice

cream after a movie?

Carol was, nevertheless, waiting for Jeanette.

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Tonight, although it might be midnight, she was

determined to ask the girl what she knew about the

bit of silk scarf that was gone from Dorothy’s desk

under the back stairs.

There were voices now sounding outside.

Yes, there was the car; and they were coming. No

need for quietness in those woodlands even at night;

in fact, it was better to be noisy, it seemed braver

and certainly happier.

Jeanette was calling good-night, and Stan was

answering with that healthy, carefree laugh of his.

How strong such boys seemed, Carol was thinking;

she hoped Glenn, her own good friend, would be

strong and well and have a laugh like that ready

after his summer at the boys’ camp.

“I wish Jeanette wouldn’t shout like that,” Carol

was thinking, as the car groaned away and Jeanette’s

light step sounded upon the porch. “She never thinks

that Mary Ellen might be sleeping now, after being

up since five this morning.”

After that there was the usual talk about the

movie, although Carol scarcely heard a word while

Jeanette was rattling on, for Carol was certainly

going to ask the girl about the scarf.

Jeanette looked very pretty and very young

tonight, Carol could not help noticing; her blond hair

was beautiful from the dampness and her eyes just

sparkled from excitement. Jeanette surely was

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155

pretty—perhaps that was why she so loved romance.

“Sit down, Jeanette,” Carol began, “you know I

have been waiting to speak to you alone—”

“About that murder story,” giggled Jeanette.

“Don’t disappoint me now, Carol. I’ve been waiting

for days.”

“Please be serious. It’s late and I’ve been wanting

to have a serious talk with you.”

“Oh! Go ahead. I’m sitting down and I’m

serious.” Jeanette was sitting down, but didn’t look

exactly serious.

“Did you take an old scarf out of that desk under

the stairs?” The question was simple but startling.

Jeanette’s face flushed guiltily and her eyes

sought refuse by shifting their gaze to Dorothy’s old

whatnot in the corner. Her lips moved but she closed

them, as if she had changed her mind in replying.

Carol waited. She had asked a simple question

and she expected as simple a reply.

“An old scarf?” Jeanette finally spoke. “Why?

What about—an old scarf?”

“Did you take it?”

“Carol, what do you mean?” she was almost

sobbing. “Why are you questioning me like this?”

“Because I have a right to; you know that

Jeanette. I must know if you took that scarf.”

“If I took it?” stumbled Jeanette. “You don’t

think I would steal—”

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“Now listen, Jeanette,” Carol interrupted. “I am

not going to act like some one in charge of you. That

would be silly. I am only a girl like yourself, but I

am in charge of Dorothy’s place, and I did promise

Dad to do all I could to—well—to have you enjoy

yourself while you are out here.”

“Enjoy myself—”

“Please don’t raise your voice. Others might be

sleeping.”

“Others,” sneered the girl who had tossed her

sweater aside and now looked angry and defiant.

“You think you, Mr. Dutton and his precious

Dragon of the Hills mystery is terribly important,

don’t you? Well, let me tell you, Carol Duncan,

you’re fooling yourself. Perhaps there is no

mystery.”

“What do you mean? Do you know anything

about that lost box?” Carol demanded.

“And if I did?” snapped Jeanette.

Carol bit her lip and tried to decide quickly how

best she could reason with the girl who had so

suddenly flared up into such a rebellious mood. It

would surely not be wise for Carol to show temper,

although she felt pretty indignant and completely out

of patience. But it was late, and this discussion

which she had been putting off was now, just as she

had feared, running into trouble. Finally she decided

to reason quietly, if possible, and perhaps reach

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Jeanette’s sense of honor.

“You know, Jeanette,” she began, “the loss of that

box means more to Mr. Dutton, and even to his firm,

than we girls can possibly understand. I’m willing to

admit,” she said humbly, “I don’t understand it, but

I’d be the happiest girl around here if I could

actually help find the wonderful box.”

“So would I, if I got the reward,” answered

Jeanette rather cynically.

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of that,” Carol said. “But

you know, Jeanette, besides the mystery of its loss

there is the suspicion thrown upon—well, upon a

number of persons, and it might happen some one

would be accused unjustly.”

“So what?” asked Jeanette slangily. It was not

easy to appeal to her sense of honor, Carol was

discovering.

“They could be arrested,” she answered Jeanette.

“And then this old dump would wake up,

wouldn’t it?”

Carol looked at her companion while she felt her

face burning. “Now look here, Jeanette,” she said

sharply, “I’m not going to keep this nonsense up all

night. I began by asking you about the old silk scarf.

If you won’t tell me what you know about it and you

insinuate you also know something about the lost

box, why, what more can I do?”

At the mention of the scarf Jeanette seemed to

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lose her fighting spirit. Her eyes sought Carol’s with

a look distinctly appealing.

“Whatever makes you think I took that rag?” she

mumbled.

“I am almost sure you did,” Carol said gently,

“but I am really sure you did not know what it might

mean.”

“What?” Jeanette asked.

“I told you about the night Dorothy fired her

automatic when we heard a prowler outside, didn’t

I?”

“Yes,” Jeanette whispered.

“Well, that scarf was dropped on the porch by

whoever was trying to get in, and it was our only

clue to whoever that might have been.”

“It was!”

“Yes. I put it away myself and intended—well, I

intended to use it as a clue however I could find it

might help. You know, we were terribly disturbed

when poor old Mrs. Hunt, Priscilla’s grandmother,

was found dead. There had been prowlers about that

night, too, and at first the doctor thought she might

have been frightened into a fatal heart attack.”

“But Priscilla told me the doctors said she just

died naturally,” Jeanette interrupted.

“Yes, I know. But there had been sneaks about.

— Oh, well, we all know they tried more than once

to get in here and when Dorothy frightened them

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they must have dropped that old scarf,” Carol

finished rather wearily.

“Couldn’t some one else have dropped it?”

Jeanette asked eagerly.

“No; the person who tried the big window

dropped it; both Dorothy and I are sure of that. But

look at the time! Jeanette, you must tell me. Did you

take that scarf?”

“Oh, please Carol! If you knew how I feel about

this. That you should suspect me of—of doing

anything really wrong,” sobbed Jeanette, who was

no longer trying to keep her courage up.

“But I don’t suspect that, Jeanette,” insisted

Carol. “I feel sure you did not knowingly do

anything wrong. But you admitted you had been

going to the Gypsy Camp.”

“Yes.”

“Do they know about the mystery of the Dragon

of the Hills?”

“They—tell the future,” murmured Jeanette

hesitantly.

“And perhaps they, that Tamma, has promised to

tell your future?” urged Carol.

“Yes, yes, she has. That’s it,” Jeanette’s face

lighted up at the suggestion. “And, Carol, Carol

dear, please give me until tomorrow to answer your

question about—the scarf!”

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CHAPTER XIX

THE DESERTED CAMP

Complete realization of Jeanette’s pitiable

weakness, her love of so-called romance and her

will to attain it even at the cost of principle and

uprightness caused Carol, herself so free from such

pettiness, to look now upon the girl before her as if

she were actually a child.

“She can’t see things straight,” Carol was quickly

deciding. “That’s why my dad offered to help her

dad, and so I must be careful. A wrong move may

cause her to do something desperate.”

Jeanette, seeing through her own misty eyes that

Carol was softening, that Carol’s deep blue eyes

were deeper in perplexity, seized upon the moment

to get away from the unpleasant situation.

“Yes, Carol,” she was saying, her hand on the

door knob, “it is dreadfully late. Is there any early

marketing I can do for Mary Ellen?”

“Yes, I have her list,” Carol replied in even tones.

She might wait for the answer to that question about

the missing scarf, but she could not forget how

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important that answer might be—for Jeanette.

So the night was finally put to its proper use and

Dorothy’s guests were, presumably, sleeping.

Early in the morning Mr. Dutton, having

breakfasted first, told Carol he was leaving.

“I’ve about run down all possible clues,” he said,

“and I am truly sorry that my presence around here

has brought suspicion to this pretty little tea shop,”

he apologized.

“Suspicion?” Carol repeated. “How? What?”

“Didn’t you hear anything last night?”

“Not late—I had been talking with Jeanette until

almost twelve; after that I didn’t want to hear

anything,” she said, smiling.

“I’m glad you didn’t,” the young man continued.

“But I smelled smoke—”

“Smoke?”

“Yes, the Ambar cigarette kind, and I came down

stairs to look around. As I suspected, I saw some

one sneaking off and I just fired a shot after him, for

luck.”

“I never heard a sound,” Carol answered,

incredulously.

“Mary Ellen did though, and she joined my Light

Brigade,” laughed Mr. Dutton. “Just as you said

before, I first thought the cigarette smoke and noise

were caused by someone mistaking this for a road-

house, but when I saw the someone run, I knew I

162

was wrong. I’m convinced that some of my rivals in

trade know I am here and probably think I have

found my box,” he said in an undertone, as a few

breakfast patrons were on the porch eating at a

secluded table.

“But if they are merely trade rivals,” Carol

ventured, “why should they sneak around at night?”

“Well, that accident of mine doesn’t exactly seem

so simple now as it did at first,” he reminded her. “A

car might have side-swiped mine purposely. You see

the sort of Orientals that have followed the Dragon

of the Hills from the desert are not easily frustrated.

But now, I imagine, some simple minded person

may have outwitted them and have actually found

the precious box.”

“Some simple minded person?” Carol repeated

thinking of Priscilla or even Jeanette. “Have you any

suspicion of such a one?”

“Now, now, young lady,” he objected, “don’t be

too much of a detective; you might trip me up. Let

things rest for a while. I think the guilty party is just

getting plenty of rope—you know, the old saying

about plenty of rope?”

Carol did not answer that. She was listening with

one ear to Jeanette’s talking to Mary Ellen in the

kitchen. Certainly Jeanette was in a hurry to do the

marketing this morning.

Nor was it the marketing that caught Carol’s

163

interest. It was Jeanette’s nervousness to get out,

and, of course, Carol linked that with Jeanette’s

promise of the night before to tell her very soon

anything that she knew about the scarf. That piece of

silk that Carol had been so loathe to touch she had

picked it up gingerly and put it in tissue paper to

save her fingers from contact with it.

But she knew she could not mention to Mr.

Dutton the slightest hint of suspicion against

Jeanette, the girl she had rather unwillingly

undertaken to influence—yes, merely to influence

not to “cure,” as Cecy had so sensationally put the

matter.

Mr. Dutton was ready to go, and that brought to

Carol a sense of relief. He would not be there to see

what might happen if Jeanette had foolishly been

tempted by the Gypsy, Tamma, and also, as he

himself had said, his leaving might remove that

reason for the mysterious prowling around at night,

the prowler always smoking Ambar cigarettes.

Just as he was shaking hands with Carol and

thanking her for her part as hostess in Dorothy’s

Dragon of the Hills shop, he said quite too casually:

“How long is little Jeanette going to stay with

you?”

“Why?” stammered Carol, immediately alarmed.

“Oh, I just wondered,” the young man replied

evasively. “I was thinking you have undertaken

164

quite a job here, considering you are doing it for

some one else.”

Carol laughed merrily at that. “Every summer our

crowd of girls run into something different,” she

answered. “You should know what we did last year,

the year before and the year before that,” she told

him. This was her way of referring to the other

stories of this series, the Melody Lane Mysteries,

and, as she was saying, this tea shop story with the

mystery of the Dragon of the Hills was not thus far

quite as exciting as the others had been.

“But you still have this mystery unsolved,” he

reminded her. “You can’t tell. I might even find the

box.”

“Then what?” she asked, hopefully.

“Well, I could get married then, as I had

planned,” he said sort of boyishly. “But that great

loss and the old game leg—”

“But you scarcely limp at all now,” Carol

encouraged. “Oh, I do hope we find the box. I didn’t

know it would mean so much as that to you.”

“It does,” he said going to the door. “And of

course she is the sweetest little girl in the world.”

As he walked over the little hill to meet the bus—

he had insisted upon walking as he could not drive

his own car until the injured leg was entirely

better—Carol stood on the porch and saw him as he

turned to wave when he reached that clear spot on

165

the top of the hill.

“We must get that box,” Carol was thinking with

renewed and increased determination. “Mr. Dutton

has simply got to marry the ‘sweetest little girl in the

world.’ ”

But the summer was going fast; Cecy would soon

be ready to leave all other joys to join her sister even

out on lonely Bramble Hill. And surely Dorothy

would want to come back as quickly as she had

finished those special lessons in beauty work which

she was now taking in the city, while at the same

time she could be near her mother. Besides all these

considerations, Carol had decided to take two weeks

at the beach before she herself went back to her high

school work.

“So I’ve got to work fast and spare nobody,” she

was deciding. “First, I’ll try my luck at the Gypsy

Camp. I’m not afraid to ask Tamma questions,

although I’m almost sure she will not answer them.

Perhaps I had better drop in to see Priscilla on my

way over,” she again reasoned. “If she wouldn’t

persist in being so mysterious about the times she

slips away I might get some clue to work on.”

“I’ll tell her, which is true,” Carol decided, “that

Dorothy wanted me to help her in any way I could.

And I’d love to help her myself. I wish she wouldn’t

be so mysterious.”

But Priscilla wasn’t in the old house. Zada was

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working away at the loom and Mrs. Mason who was

still in charge of Priscilla’s home, when asked where

the girl was, answered:

“Priscilla hurried away soon after breakfast.”

“Did she say where she was going?” Carol asked.

“To the Gypsy camp,” Mrs. Mason replied,

frowning. She had told Carol before she did not like

the girl, Tamma.

“I’ll drive over and meet her,” Carol quickly

decided.

But when she parked her car at the foot of the

lane leading up to the grove she was surprised to

find the place vacant.

It was apparent that the Gypsies, like the Arabs

from whom they were descended, had folded their

tents and silently sped away.

Startled and a little alarmed, Carol stood at the

edge of what had been a large Gypsy encampment

and looked on all sides. There was no doubt about it,

the dark-faced men, women and children—for there

had been several of the latter—had departed.

Contrary to what might have been expected they had

left the place neat and in order. There was no

rubbish scattered about, no litter of empty cans and

rumpled papers.

“I suppose,” Carol mused, “they expect to come

back here next season, or perhaps later this season,

and they know if they left the place untidy the owner

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of the land wouldn’t let them camp here again.

These Gypsies have a sense of order and neatness I

wouldn’t have given them credit for.”

Carol looked curiously about her. Here and there

were worn places beneath trees where, evidently,

horses had been tethered. For despite the fact that

most of the wanderers used autos, the old-fashioned

covered wagon had been part of the equipment here.

In other spots the grass was worn down showing

where tents had stood and on several spots the grass

had faded to a pale, sickly yellow, where autos,

parked over it, had cut off the sunlight.

But there were no signs of the dark-faced tribe,

neither was there any sign of Priscilla. At that Carol

had a most alarming thought.

“Can Priscilla have gone away with the

Gypsies?” she asked herself. She knew there could

be no question of the Gypsies having taken the gray-

eyed girl away against her will. The Gypsy tribe was

well known in the neighborhood, they had returned

to the same place year after year and could easily be

traced. They attracted almost as much attention,

wherever they went, as did a circus parade. The

women and girls always wore such strikingly

colored dresses and their dark braids of hair were

ornamented with glittering coins.

“If Priscilla went with them she went of her own

accord,” Carol decided. “Could it be possible that

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she was overcome with the supposed romance of

leading a Gypsy life, after her drab existence in

Bramble Hill, and has really run away with them?

That might account for her strange disappearance

the other day and her refusal to tell where she had

been. She may have been arranging for this

departure, and the Gypsies wouldn’t betray her

secret.”

Yet the first, natural thought that Priscilla had

gone away with the Gypsies was soon modified as

Carol remembered that Zada was still back at the

house on Bramble Hill finishing the weaving of the

rug. Why should the tribe go away and leave Zada

behind? That seemed strange. She was one of the

oldest and most important members, Carol felt sure.

No, Priscilla was not the sort of girl to turn

Gypsy. But where could she be?

“It’s just another puzzle to add to the

complications of the Dragon of the Hills,” Carol told

herself. “I wonder if there is any connection between

Priscilla’s going away and the loss of Mr. Dutton’s

precious box?”

169

CHAPTER XX

BOB WHITE

Standing a moment on the little path that had

served the departed Gypsies, Carol tried to fit this

last piece into the mystery puzzle. The Gypsies were

gone, Priscilla was nowhere in her usual haunts.

Jeanette would not tell about the silken scarf and

Mr. Dutton wanted to marry his “sweetest little girl

in the world,” but was afraid he could not if the

precious box was not found.

The first thing to do, Carol knew, was to find

Priscilla. To make sure she could not go far, if she

really had gone with the Gypsies even for a lark,

Squire Eaton must be told. He could follow the

Gypsies easily and bring Priscilla back if she had

been foolish enough to have gone.

“But I don’t think she would be so foolish,” Carol

decided. “Yet I cannot take chances. Something

might happen to her, she is so young and such a

little mousie creature.”

Then another strange aspect of the matter

occurred to Carol.

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“If Priscilla planned when she left the house early

this morning to go away with the Gypsies, why did

she tell Mrs. Mason where she was going? If she

wanted to keep her movements secret she would

have said she was going anywhere else but to the

camp. And from the looks of things I believe the

Gypsies must have left in the night or late yesterday

afternoon. They couldn’t have gotten ready to leave

and cleaned up the place so well even if they got up

at dawn. They must have left late yesterday or in the

night.”

For a moment this theory seemed plausible and

she was trying to fit in another piece of the puzzle.

This was where Priscilla would proceed to some

prearranged meeting place, there to join the

migrating tribe. That was possible.

But again, if the Gypsies left in the night how was

it Zada came at her regular time to work on the rug,

saying nothing about the departure of her people?

“The only way I can account for that,” thought

Carol, “is that Zada kept secret the fact of her tribe

going to another camp. She would have to have a

reason for that. Surely she could not have deserted

the tribe.”

It was all strange and puzzling. Carol felt that it

was her duty to do something to save Priscilla from

whatever secret she was harboring. Squire Eaton, as

her guardian, would be the one to act. He must be

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told at once.

Carol decided to take a last look around the camp

before she went back to her car to drive to Millford

to report to the executor of the rug weaver’s estate.

She hoped she might see Priscilla, perhaps lingering

under a tree or in some little glade, herself surprised

to find the Gypsies gone. But there was no sign of

the gray-eyed girl wherever Carol peered through

the lanes.

She was on the farthest edge of the camp site,

where broad fields and patches of woodland

stretched to the distant hills and as she stood there

she heard suddenly the clear, sharp whistle of a

quail.

“Bob! Bob White! Bob White!”

Carol looked quickly around her, for the quail’s

whistle sounded near at hand and she always liked to

see one of those rather rare birds. In Melody Lane

she had often heard the characteristic call of “Bob

White,” and, occasionally she had caught a glimpse

of the bird. But quail are shy creatures, because of

persistent hunting, and being rather small, not as

large as a pigeon, and having a mottled gray and

brown plumage that gives effective color protection,

they are not easily seen though they may whistle

within a hundred yards of a listener.

But Carol now saw nothing of the quail although

the whistle continued, seeming to decrease in

172

volume, as if indicating that the bird was going

away.

Then, suddenly, as suddenly as had come the

whistling call, Carol had a sight of a girl hurrying,

almost running, across a distant field toward the low

hills. There was something in the figure and

movement of the girl that instantly Carol

recognized.

“It’s Priscilla,” she exclaimed.

She was sure of it. Then, in a flash, came another

thought.

“That quail whistle is a signal I Priscilla came out

here to meet some one and she goes to the place

where the call sounds and it isn’t a quail at all.”

Surprised she stood there and watched Priscilla

hurry across the fields toward a patch of woods

beyond which rose the hill.

“I’m going to follow her and see where she goes,

what she does and whom she meets—whoever the

mysterious quail whistler may be,” Carol decided.

“Here’s where I do some more detective work,

though perhaps I flatter myself,” she mused with a

little inward laugh. “I haven’t really done any yet—I

haven’t found out a thing. But I think I’m going to

find out something this time.”

Crouching low in the grass and weeds of the field

between her and Priscilla she determined to follow

without being seen. Now and then Carol raised her

173

head above the green foliage and looked ahead. She

could see Priscilla still hurrying on toward the edge

of the woods where the hills began. The girl

apparently was not aware that any one could see her,

as Carol was too low in the grass to be seen and the

lane to the camp site was completely deserted.

There was no further whistling of the quail, or, as

Carol felt sure it was, of the signal call of some one

hidden whom Priscilla was going to meet. But who

could it be?

It was hard to make progress through the grass

and weeds in this crouching fashion, and Carol soon

began to feel stiff, but she did not give up. At last

she reached the edge of the field of high grass and

taller weeds. At the same time Priscilla—and she

was now positive of the girl’s identity—had come to

the edge of the woods.

“As soon as she’s fairly in there,” Carol thought,

“I can stand upright and what a relief that will be.”

“I don’t believe she can see me now,” thought

Carol. “I can straighten up.” She waited another few

seconds before doing this. It was just possible that

Priscilla might suspect something and hide behind a

tree to look back and watch for possible followers.

Then, as she had brief glimpses of the hurrying girl

passing on and on among the trees, Carol rose to her

full height.

As she did so she could not repress an

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exclamation of surprise. For up from behind another

clump of burdock, not fifty yards from where she

had been concealed, arose the figure of Zada, the

Gypsy rug-weaver.

If Carol was surprised so was Zada. It was as

though the two had been spying one on each other

and both on Priscilla. It was a complete surprise.

“Oh!” exclaimed Carol and her voice in the clear

air must have carried to the ears of the Gypsy

woman for Zada turned to face her. “I thought you

were back in Bramble Hill,” Carol said.

“All’s finished at Bramble Hill,” said Zada. “Rug

all finished. I just do the last of the weaving so I

come away. Come back later for my money. Squire

Eaton—he pay me.” The Gypsy affected this way of

speaking, Carol knew, although it was merely

affectation.

“Oh, yes, he’ll pay you,” Carol said, not knowing

what other reply to make. “But what are you doing

here? Were you looking—” Suddenly Carol decided

not to mention Priscilla. After all, Zada might not

have seen the girl. So Carol shifted her remark to:

“Your people have gone away. The camp is moved.”

“Yes, I know,” Zada said. “I go to them in new

place. Good-bye!”

Saying that brief word the Gypsy woman

suddenly walked back across the field toward the

former camp site whence Carol had come. Then,

175

while Carol watched, Zada actually disappeared. It

was as though she had gone down some hole in the

ground, but Carol quickly realized there must have

been a little hollow there, deep enough to conceal

the Gypsy.

“But what does it all mean?” Carol mused. “I’m

sure she was either following me or Priscilla. Then,

as soon as she was discovered, she turns back. And

she must have left Bramble Hill suddenly too. I

wonder if Priscilla knows the rug is finished?” Then

many questions rushed into Carol’s mind as she

looked first in the direction of the woods that now

hid Priscilla and then toward the waving grass and

weeds that concealed the Gypsy.

This was surely a peculiar coincidence.

“If Zada knew her tribe was going to move away

and she didn’t plan on going back to the old camp,

why is she away off here in the fields? Why didn’t

she go along the road to the new camping place?”

reasoned Carol.

“And why, if everything is all right, did Zada go

away so suddenly when she encountered me?

Though I wasn’t exactly friendly with her she knew

I was trying to help Priscilla. So why should Zada

act as if she was afraid to talk to me?”

There were no answers to these questions and

Carol was becoming completely confused by them.

“I’ve got to make a choice,” she mused. “I’ve

176

either got to follow Priscilla or Zada. Which shall it

be?”

She quickly decided that it would be best to keep

on after Priscilla. The trail of the Gypsy would be

easier to pick up if that seemed necessary.

Pausing to give one last glance in the direction

where she had last observed Zada, so she would be

sure to remember the spot, Carol now hurried across

the field toward the woods. She felt Priscilla was too

far away to see her and she didn’t want her to run

away.

Hurrying her pace she was soon in the woods.

Once in the shadow of the trees she paused for a

moment to get her bearings and to listen to any

crackling branches or trampled underbrush that

might give a clue to the direction taken by Priscilla.

But the woods were silent.

As she stood there, pondering and beginning to

fear she was not really on the right track after all,

Carol caught a glimpse of something waving in the

breeze. It was red and in an instant she remembered

Priscilla had on a red skirt.

“There she is!” she murmured and once again she

was on the trail.

Then she saw the girl swing off to the left and cut

across a small triangle of trees. Once more Priscilla

was in the open beyond the woods at the foot of the

hill. And as Carol followed, concealed by trees and

177

bushes, she saw the girl she was following pause for

a moment in front of a dark spot in the side of a hill

that rose abruptly from the fringe of forest.

Then and there Priscilla disappeared.

“She’s gone into a cave!” Carol was now

positive.

178

CHAPTER XXI

DANGER

Caves! There were natural caves in many parts of

these country sections; Carol knew that. But each

cave had always presented its own particular

dangers, that too she remembered from other

adventures in Melody Lane. What would this bring?

“I’m quite sure Priscilla went into that dark hole

in the side of the hill,” Carol reasoned. “It must be a

cave, but what sort of cave can it be?” she

wondered.

Then she laughed at her fears. Bramble Hill might

conceal a mystery but “pirates’ dens” had

disappeared long since from that part of the country.

“At worst it can be only a natural cave,” Carol

reasoned, “and it may be a place where farmers keep

their supply of ice. I’ve seen plenty such places in

Melody Lane, so why shouldn’t there be some out

this way?”

Carol, having waited a few minutes without

moving forward and without seeing Priscilla come

out of the cave, now decided she would at least have

179

a look inside the cavern.

“I wish I had a flashlight,” she said, half aloud.

“It’s sure to be dark in there. And I must have a

reason ready if Priscilla asks, as she is likely to, why

I am following her.”

Pausing another moment to make sure of her

surroundings, Carol was startled by again hearing

the call of the quail. Once more came the almost

spoken name:

“Bob! Bob White!”

And the whistle came from the cave!

Suddenly Carol had a new theory. Perhaps

Priscilla was catching and trying to tame some quail.

She might have cages of them in the cave. Though

almost as soon as she had given thought to this

fantastic idea Carol dismissed it. Wild birds—any

birds, in fact—would not live long in a dark cave.

She even had doubts about the possibility of caging

a quail. But certainly that characteristic whistle had

come from the black hole that concealed Priscilla.

“I’ve just got to see what she’s doing in there!”

Carol sighed. “I don’t care if she does see me! I

have a right, in a way, to look after her. I’m sure

Squire Eaton will say I did right in following her

here.”

Casting aside all hesitation now, Carol advanced

toward the cave. The way led up a little hill to the

abrupt face of one of the largest of the group of hills

180

surrounding the territory. It was in the rocky and

gravelly side of the hill that the entrance to the cave

presented itself. The entrance, in fact, was like a

rough archway between two slanting rocks coming

to a point overhead, picturesque and unusual.

“I hope the rocks are fixed firmly in place,” Carol

found herself reasoning. “I shouldn’t like them to

tumble down on me.” The rocky entrance, however,

looked very substantial. So Carol finally dipped her

head to clear the jagged entrance, and then she was

in the cave.

At first the transition from the bright sunlight

enclosed her in intensely dark, dank gloom. She

could see literally nothing and with a little shiver of

fear she took not another step but stopped to listen.

There might be some deep cavern close within the

mouth of the cave and she might step right into it,

then what?

Fearful lest she stumble into unknown pitfalls,

she moved very cautiously. Then, as her eyes

became accustomed to the gloom she saw that the

cave was not altogether dark. Far in the distance was

a dim natural light as if some of the rays of the sun

filtered in through the cracks and crevices of the

rock.

Carol stood still waiting and listening, but she

heard nothing. The whistle of the quail did not

sound again. As she waited it seemed to be getting

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lighter in the cave, but Carol knew it was only her

eyes adapting themselves to their new requirements.

Cautiously she advanced one foot, feeling her

way in the dark. And she was relieved to find firm

earth and rock reply to her touch.

Step by step she advanced, looking, listening and

wondering. Then, some distance ahead of her, Carol

caught the bright gleam of what she at once knew to

be artificial light. It was the gleam of an electric

torch. Priscilla—or somebody—had switched on the

light they carried. More than ever Carol now wished

she had one of her own to light her way.

And then Carol, in the light of the distant torch,

saw a strange sight. She saw Priscilla run to meet a

young man and a moment later throw her arms

around him and kiss him.

Gasping in surprise, she had to put her hand over

her lips to keep from calling out. And as she stifled

herself into silence there came to her ears the

murmur of voices. They were distorted and made

rumbling by the echoes of the cavern, so she could

not catch any words. But it was certain that Priscilla

and the youth she had met and kissed were talking

together in great earnestness.

“Oh, I mustn’t spy on her!” Carol found herself

thinking and she felt her cheeks burn under this

accusation. “But what shall I do? Shall I wait

outside until she starts home and then meet her? Or

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shall I slip out and go to Squire Eaton? I wish Thalia

were with me instead of that little kitten of a

Jeanette, though she might be better than no one.

Whoever can Priscilla be meeting here secretly?”

The distant murmur of voices came to her still,

and the light, glowing steadily as if it had been set

down on a ledge of rock, threw into relief the two

figures standing close together. Whatever they were

talking about must indeed be a serious matter to

them both.

In complete bewilderment Carol turned to go

back out of the cave. They must not catch her spying

on them. But she had come in farther than she

realized and as she turned she was surprised to find

blackness confronting her. It seemed much darker

here. Could she have stepped out of the path?

Then as her panicky fears subsided, and with a

sense of relief she reasoned that she must have made

a turn after coming in and there was a wall between

her and the mouth of the cave. Once she had swung

around this angle she was sure she would see

daylight ahead of her.

Turning her back on the two young persons she

had seen within the cave, she retraced her steps

quickly, advancing with outstretched hand so she

would not collide unexpectedly with the rocky wall.

But she had not gone more than a few yards when

she was startled by a light flashed in her face. And

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by the gleam she saw that before her stood a man—

obviously an Oriental.

It needed but a moment of thought to identify him

from Dorothy’s description.

Mr. Wong Sut, owner of the lost Dragon of the

Hills, was blocking Carol’s exit from the cave.

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CHAPTER XXII

CAPTIVE

To meet a strange man, an Oriental, at the very

mouth of a cave was surely enough to frighten any

girl, and Carol Duncan was girl enough to be

frightened. But quickly realizing the situation called

for common sense reasoning, she attempted to smile

as she stood there, not taking a step farther out of the

cavern.

This certainly was Mr. Wong Sut, and very likely

he had just discovered the cave. What could be more

reasonable than he would look within it for the

precious box? Caves and robbers and their loot still

held the sensational possibilities of old stories, in

spite of the dashing away in autos, and other modern

means of escape. Autos must have license plates and

even a common car is easily recognized when one

takes a good look and wants to remember it.

“Priscilla and that boy can’t be far in the cave,”

came a reassuring thought to Carol.

But Mr. Wong Sut, after the momentary glimpse

of Carol that his flashlight had given him, did not

185

continue on into the cave. Instead with a startled

exclamation he turned away and his light vanished.

Carol was again in darkness. Mr. Wong Sut was

actually running away from the cave.

Her feeling of relief was shattered a second later,

for instantly her ears were filled with a dull,

rumbling sound and that was followed by the

unmistakable noise of rocks falling against rocks, of

stones clattering on stones, of gravel sliding over

gravel, and of soft dirt piling itself up on other piles

of dirt. A blast of air, driven against her from the

unseen mouth of the tunnel cave, for it was more

like a tunnel than a cave, sent the girl staggering

back. Then the dreadful thought came to her that she

was made captive by a fall of rocks and dirt over the

mouth of the cavern.

“I’m trapped in here!” Carol exclaimed aloud and

her voice re-echoed in the darkness that was like a

pall of impenetrable blackness all about her. “I’m

trapped!” she murmured, helplessly.

The heavy fall of earth and rocks was probably

brought about by the recent heavy storms the girl

realized, and this cave was a dangerous place she

knew now, although there had been no intimation of

danger when Carol entered.

But Priscilla and her friend must still be in the

cave Carol knew, as surely they would have to pass

her to get out.

186

“How silly I am to be afraid,” she told herself.

“That Oriental came here only out of curiosity. He

must have been as much surprised as I was at the

landslide. It’s lucky he got out in time. Perhaps he

can take word to some one and they’ll come to

rescue me. But I’ll make my way back to where I

saw Priscilla and that boy. I must.”

It was one thing to come to this resolution but

quite another to put it into effect. For as Carol turned

to leave the pocket that the falling rocks and earth

had made her captive in, she realized more fully that

it was dangerous to even try to walk about in that

cave in the dark. She might tumble into some deep

pit or fall on jagged rocks.

She could see absolutely nothing. The darkness

seemed to press down on her heavily for there was

scarcely any air to breathe. She had not seen the fall

of rocks and earth, she had only heard the noise

made, but she could picture what had happened. The

entrance by which she had entered the cave was

closed. Perhaps the Oriental was now crying the

alarm, running down the hillside and toward the

woods where the quail had whistled, surely some

one would come soon to rescue her.

“I don’t dare walk toward where I saw Priscilla

and the boy in the other end of the cave,” Carol

reasoned. “I must stand still and call to them.

“They have a light and perhaps can walk safely.

187

Oh, why are there always caves to swallow people

up like this!” That fevered thought dashed through

her anxious mind as she remembered The Forbidden

Trail with a cave accident similar to this.

Now she raised her voice in a loud shout for help.

She called Priscilla saying this was Carol calling and

wouldn’t someone help her?

“Help me! Come quickly! I’m Carol,” she

screamed. “I’m shut in the cave! Can’t you hear me,

Priscilla?” she called hoping Priscilla might hear.

“Only come to me! It’s terribly dark and I have no

light! Come to me! Priscilla! Please!”

Frantically, desperately, imploringly she called

and called, and as the echoes ceased, there was

nothing but silence. Priscilla did not answer nor did

the boy she had been with at the other end of the

tunnel. Could they have left the cave?

Regaining her breath, again Carol called but

silence was her only answer.

Once more came the panic of fear. How terrible!

If only she could live to get out!

“They’ve gone out by some other way and left me

here alone!” she gasped, speaking aloud in a

trembling voice. “Or they may have been injured by

a fall of rocks and earth at their end of the cave. Oh,

what am I to do? The only one who can save me is

that Oriental. He alone knows I am in the cave. But

will he go for help?”

188

Fear made Carol desperate. She decided to risk

working her way in the dark toward the place where

she had last seen Priscilla and the boy. They had a

light. Perhaps there were no hidden pits around her.

The path might be level and clear; that was her only

hope.

With her hands out before her, Carol moved

slowly to penetrate deeper into the cave. Inch by

inch she moved her feet shufflingly along the rocky

floor. Then, suddenly, something seemed to strike

her on the head. It stunned her, and with a low,

moaning cry she collapsed. The blackness was

complete and nothing at all mattered.

Unconsciousness engulfed her.

When Jeanette had rushed off to do Mary Ellen’s

marketing that morning just as Carol had guessed,

there was something much more urgent than

marketing hurrying her on.

“That scarf! I must get it back,” the girl kept

repeating to herself. “That old piece of silk Carol

says she had wrapped in a paper because she

wouldn’t even touch it. And I—”

Ever since Jeanette had been confronted and

practically accused by Carol of taking the scarf out

of the old desk under the stairs, the girl’s mind had

refused to obey her own pleadings, and the words

“clue, scarf, clue, scarf,” racked her brain until sheer

189

exhaustion gave her rest last night, while the hint of

day and her palpitant awakening brought back the

same cry:

“Scarf! Get that scarf! It is the only clue!”

Small wonder she had hurried off without waiting

for Mary Ellen to look over her stock in the back

pantry. Hurried off, but now she was back and upon

her worn little face there was no sign of relief.

She brought in the groceries and dropped the bag

on the kitchen table.

“Take care of those things!” protested Mary Ellen

sharply. “They have to be paid for.”

To that challenge Jeanette usually would have

given a retort in kind, since she was a visitor and

even at that she was paying board. Her father would

not have allowed her to stay at Dorothy’s place

under any other conditions. But now Jeanette let

Mary Ellen’s sharp words pass. They didn’t seem to

matter in the least.

Sensing this change, Mary Ellen glanced at the

girl.

“What’s the matter?” she asked in a softened

voice. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I have,” replied Jeanette. “Where’s

Carol?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” the woman

retorted. “She’s a long time away. If it was that

Prissy the whole town would be out scouring for her

190

now.”

“Prissy? Oh, you mean Priscilla. Yes, that’s so,”

answered the still down-cast Jeanette. “But Carol is

different. She knows how to take care of herself.”

A step on the porch stopped their talk. Jeanette

went toward the door and there met Mr. Dutton.

“Oh, Mr. Dutton!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad

you came back.”

“Why?” the young man asked, taking off his

Panama hat and preparing to cool off his forehead

with a handkerchief, as it was a sultry morning.

“Why?” Jeanette had no answer ready, but

somehow she was glad to see him. “Oh, nothing

especial,” she answered with a flattering smile.

“Where’s Carol?” he asked. First names had been

decided upon soon after early introductions.

“I don’t know. Mary Ellen doesn’t know—”

“You mean—”

“I wish she’d come back,” Jeanette interrupted.

“She’s been gone a long time. I’m getting anxious

about her. She may have had a flat tire or her car

may have broken down. I wonder—” Jeanette

stopped suddenly.

The sound of girls’ laughing voices out in the

road, and of a car coming to a stop arrested her

attention. Some one was calling out merrily.

“Here it is girls! Here’s the Dragon of the Hills!”

Surprised, Jeanette and Mr. Dutton looked toward

191

the road. Then they understood that the voice was

referring to the sign of the tea shop.

Someone else called:

“Carol! Jeanette! Where are you?”

“Oh, it’s Cecy! She’s Carol’s sister,” Jeanette

exclaimed as she saw three girls coming up the

steps. “And Rosie Wells and Thalia Bond are with

her. Isn’t it great! Hello, girls!” she called running

out to greet them. “However did you get up here?”

“Oh, I finished my tour,” Cecy answered

casually, “and I just couldn’t stay away from Carol

any longer. So I collected Thalia and Rosie, and we

packed our bags, got Thalia’s car and here we are.”

“Oh, I’m so glad you came,” Jeanette exclaimed

sincerely. Somehow the girls’ presence gave her

courage. Now, perhaps, she would not have to

worry every minute about the old scarf. Surely all i

these girls would lend distraction.

“Where’s Carol?” Cecy wanted to know at once.

“I went out marketing for Mary Ellen and while I

was away she left to see a girl,” Jeanette answered,

feeling that was not giving Cecy much information.

“She’s been gone quite a long time—”

“Who’s the gent?” asked Thally gaily, referring

to Mr. Dutton who had strolled off toward the side

porch.

“Oh, yes,” Jeanette eagerly answered, “he’s Mr.

Dutton.” Then in a louder voice: “Mr. Dutton, these

192

are our friends from Melody Lane. Carol’s sister

Cecy and her friends Thally Bond and Rosie Wells.”

Thally never missed a chance for a little fun and

while meeting Mr. Dutton’s polite glance with one

eye, she was all but winking at Jeanette with the

other. Mr. Dutton was, after all, more than just a

young man with a very slight limp: he was very

good looking.

Getting acquainted was a simple matter and the

break in her own anxiety, from worrying about the

old silk scarf, seemed to help Jeanette. She was

already recovering her usual frivolity.

“This surely is visiting day,” she went on, “and,

girls, you don’t need to think Melody Lane has all

the mysteries—we have one up here—”

The sound of rapidly running feet brought them

all to silence. Mr. Dutton looked out the window,

and then said, in rather a restrained voice.

“It surely is visiting day. Here comes Mr. Wong

Sut and he seems much excited.”

A moment later, the Oriental stood before them.

Indeed he was much excited, even his dark skin

showing a flush of red as he tried to tell them all that

something terrible had happened.

Just for a moment there was a flash of hostile

glances between Mr. Dutton and Mr. Wong Sut.

Jeanette was the only one of the girls who

understood why the Oriental and Mr. Dutton might

193

not be friendly. It was because of the loss of the

Dragon of the Hills, of course.

“I beg your pardon for so abruptly appearing

before you,” said Mr. Wong Sut, “and what there is

between us, Mr. Dutton, may be laid aside for the

moment. There is another matter more important.”

Even the Oriental showed excitement. “There is a

girl—a young lady and I believe she is a friend of

yours, and from this very restaurant—” and he took

in the tea shop with a quick darting glance of his

dark eyes.

“Do you mean Carol?” cried Jeanette interrupting

him impatiently.

“I do not know her name—I have seen her in

your company,” and he indicated his former

employee and Jeanette.

“That’s Carol! Where is she? Has anything

happened to her? Tell us quickly!” Jeanette

demanded, all her girl-life centering into the dread

she felt for Carol.

“That is why I ran here to tell you,” went on the

Oriental. “I wish I had had my car, I could have

come quicker. But I left it in the town to roam the

woods and fields afoot. Miss Carol is held prisoner

in a cave,” he actually exploded.

“Prisoner!” exclaimed Cecy. “Oh! In a cave! Oh,

where?”

“Do you mean held by Gypsies?” demanded Mr.

194

Dutton.

“No. The Gypsies have gone. But I had a glimpse

of Miss Carol in a cave back of Bramble Hill,”

panted Mr. Wong Sut. “Then came the land slide

just as I sprang out. Great rocks fell, closing the

entrance. Much help will be needed to dig them

away so Miss Carol can get out. I do not believe she

is hurt but she is shut in. I came to tell you to

organize a rescue party.”

“Of course we will!” cried Cecy.

“Poor Carol! I was beginning to be afraid

something had happened to her,” Jeanette broke in

more practically.

“But where is this cave—how far from here?”

asked Mr. Dutton.

“Not far. I can guide you. I saw a big car outside

as I ran up,” the Oriental told them.

“It’s mine,” Thally said. “It will hold us all. Oh,

let’s get going.”

“What were you doing in the cave that you

happened to see Miss Duncan there?” Mr. Dutton

asked Mr. Wong Sut rather stiffly, as they made

their way to the car.

“We may pass that question for the moment,”

answered Mr. Wong Sut. “It so happened that I

started to explore the cave, not knowing anyone was

within. I had a flashlight with me. I went in a little

way when, of a suddenness, I saw this young lady

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coming out of the darkness toward me. She

screamed in fright, naturally, and startled, darted

back. No sooner was I outside than the rocks fell. So

I ran back here as the nearest and best place to give

the alarm, the Gypsies being no longer in their

camp, no one was nearer than this.”

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CHAPTER XXIII

TO THE RESCUE

Of all the group, thus brought together under such

exciting circumstances, poor Cecy, Carol’s “little

sister,” was naturally the most frightened.

“Carol always takes such risks,” she sobbed, as

Thally, Carol’s best friend, tried to comfort her.

“But she always comes out all right,” Rosie,

Cecy’s friend was saying.

“Yes, and I feel she is all right now,” spoke up

Jeanette as if trying to assure herself of that.

“But to be trapped in a cave—” wailed Cecy.

“Well, we’ve got to hurry,” Mr. Dutton told the

anxious group. “Does anyone know anything about

the cave? It may have another exit besides the one

that the rock slide has closed and it would save time

to find that out. Do you think your housekeeper

would know about it? And are there any picks or

shovels around here, Jeanette? We may need them,”

he finished ominously.

“Yes, there are some out back in a sort of tool

shed. I’ll run and get them.”

197

“We’ll all go,” offered Thally, as Mary Ellen, the

Scotch woman appeared excited and worried when

told what had happened to Carol. She wanted to go

to her at once, but it was pointed out that Thalia’s

car could hold only so many. As for any information

about the cave, Mary Ellen was dumb.

“I never knew there was a cave,” she said. “But

you had better stop at Priscilla’s house and ask her.

She’s lived around here a long time and she’s like a

boy for roving the woods and fields. Stop and get

Priscilla,” she ordered, sharply, as they finally got

the shovels.

“A good idea,” Mr. Dutton said. “And we’d better

telephone the alarm to Squire Eaton. We may need

men to dig. Now girls, let’s get going,” he insisted.

“I will stay here in case you need to send

messages back,” said Mr. Wong Sut. “I will have

my car sent out from the village. It may be needed. I

will help all I can. And after this is over I may have

a word to say to you, Mr. Dutton.” He spoke rather

formally.

“I shall be at your service, Mr. Wong Sut,” called

back Mr. Dutton who seemed to have forgotten all

about his lame leg.

Jeanette called out to Priscilla as Thally slowed

up the big car before the Hunt house.

Priscilla, hearing Jeanette’s call came hurrying to

the door. Her face showed surprise as she saw Mr.

198

Dutton and the others in the car.

“Priscilla!” burst out Jeanette. “Carol is caught in

a cave. There was a slide of rocks over the entrance.

Mr. Wong Sut was there. He saw Carol in the cave

and he ran to us to get help. We’ve sent for Squire

Eaton and some men to dig, too,” she went on

breathlessly. “But can you tell us about the cave?

Has it more than one entrance? Quick, tell us! You

must come with us!”

“The cave? The cave?” Priscilla’s voice was

questioning.

“Yes. It’s a cave somewhere around here. You

must know about it.”

“I do know about it. I was in it a little while ago,”

Priscilla admitted, surprisingly. “But I didn’t see

Carol there. It’s a big cave, though. It’s like a tunnel

and I was at the far end—the end that comes out

near Briar Creek. She may have gone in the entrance

near Crow Woods. That’s where I went in but I

didn’t come out that way. I walked through and

came out the Briar Creek end.”

In spite of their anxiety and haste it seemed that

Jeanette and Mr. Dutton at least, would like to have

asked Priscilla what she was doing in the cave. But

they all knew that Carol must be in danger, and

quickly as the extra girl had piled in with the rest of

them, Thally had started her car.

“Can you take us to this other entrance you speak

199

of?” asked Mr. Dutton. “I mean the one you came

out of at Briar Creek?”

“Oh, yes, I can show you that, easily,” Priscilla

said. “You can go almost to it in the car but you’ll

have to do a little walking. It’s in a lonesome place.

You won’t have to do any digging,” she went on as

she noted the shovels. “That is, if Carol isn’t caught

by the rocks. She can easily walk out at the Briar

Creek entrance. Maybe she’s found it by this time,

though I doubt that. The cave is very dark unless

you have a flashlight and she probably doesn’t know

about it.”

“I’m sure Carol didn’t have a flashlight.” Jeanette

had not lost her own sense of guilt.

“But while we are talking she may be frightened

to death or something dreadful may be happening to

her!” cried Cecy. “Oh, let’s hurry and get her out of

there!”

“But the car can’t go any faster, Cecy,” Rosie told

her. “And we must find out all we can.”

As they hurried on, away from Bramble Hill

along the road that led to the former Gypsy camp,

they noticed waiting near the lane that led up to the

place, a blue sport car, new and glittering in the sun.

A young man, as sporty in appearance as his car,

was just getting out. He started to walk up toward

where the camp had been when the noise of Thalia’s

car attracted his attention. He turned, gave one look

200

at the car, crowded with five girls, and a man, then,

leaping to his seat he grasped the steering wheel,

stepped on the starter and was off down the road in a

cloud of dust.

“Looks as if he thought we were after him,”

remarked Rosie.

“Maybe we ought to be,” said Thalia. “He did act

as though he was afraid. Does anybody know who

he is?”

No one had ever seen him or his car before and

Thalia said he might have been looking for the

Gypsy camp.

“But they’re gone,” said Priscilla. “I don’t know

why and Zada wouldn’t tell me. She was at our

house this morning finishing Grannie’s rug. I just

went out for a little while and when I got back Mrs.

Mason said Carol had called, but I never dreamed

she was in the cave. Oh, I hope she isn’t hurt!” she

sighed, ruefully.

Thalia drove on fast, taking the roads and lanes

indicated by Priscilla and in a few minutes they were

at Briar Creek.

“From here we’ll have to walk,” said Priscilla.

“But it’s only over that little hill.”

“We’d better take at least one shovel,” suggested

Mr. Dutton. “We may need to move some dirt away,

as Wong Sut said a lot had caved in. I’m not going

to be of much help, but I’ll do all I can.”

201

202

“I brought my flashlight,” Priscilla said. She

seemed to know the cave and its frightening

darkness.

“And we have another flashlight,” Thally said, as

hurriedly they all left the car and started over the

hill.

Pushing their way along a small trail, amid

brambles, briars and through brush, over fallen trees

and amid rotting stumps, along the chattering, noisy

creek, the rescue party, led by Priscilla, made its

way. Mr. Dutton showed how completely better the

lame leg really was by keeping up with the rescue

party although Cecy was running on ahead calling

Carol’s name and showing the natural anxiety she

felt for her sister.

“It’s lonesome here all right,” observed Rosie,

trying to keep up with Cecy.

“Oh, I’m so glad you girls came up!” exclaimed

Jeanette. “I wouldn’t have known what to do in this

awful time without you.”

“You’re doing all right,” Thally remarked dryly.

“Oh, I’m so glad I can do something to help,”

Jeanette went on. “Carol has been so sweet to me,

really she has.” There was that same guilty tug at her

conscience she had felt ever since Carol had asked

her about the old scarf. Suppose that had had

something to do with poor Carol’s predicament?

“Well, here’s the place!” announced Priscilla

203

suddenly as they made a turn in the trail and came to

a tangled thicket of small trees and bushes. “The

other entrance to the cave is just behind that rock.”

They crowded forward and looked at the dark spot.

204

CHAPTER XXIV

THE “DRAGON” DISCOVERED

“Do we have to go in there?” exclaimed Jeanette.

“We do if we’re going to rescue Carol!” said

Cecy sharply. “Come on.”

“There’s no danger,” Priscilla assured them. “But

it’s dark. The floor is almost level. It’s like Walking

into a tunnel and the roof is high enough so you

won’t hit your heads once you’re inside. You have

to crouch to get in, though. I’ll go ahead with my

light and one of you can come with the other light.

Don’t be afraid. There’s not a bit of danger.

“Let’s call first,” Thally said and immediately

Carol’s name rang out through the woods.

The cave, as Priscilla had said, opened up high

and had some width once they were through the

Briar Creek entrance. As if Nature had actually

helped to make the cavern ideal for secret purposes,

that entrance was well hidden with accommodating

hazel-nut trees, their knotty clumps of dark green

providing a dense screen back of which and against

the rocks, thicker blankets of wild ivies and wild

205

honey-suckle fell in a curtain over the top of the

hole in the wall. But there was a hole, an entrance,

and the broken vines surrounding it showed it had

been used often and even recently.

“Oh, can we get in there?” Rosie demurred, as

they faced what seemed to be complete density.

“It’s all right,” insisted Priscilla. “Don’t be afraid.

Inside it is like a tunnel. I often go in. I was in there

a while ago,” she stated, amazingly.

“A while ago! Then Carol cannot be in there,”

Mr. Dutton concluded quickly.

“Oh, yes she might be. This is one end and before

you get to the other, there are turns. You see,”

Priscilla pointed over the rough green toward the

West, “the cave is very long. It runs all the way—”

“Oh, come on,” wailed Cecy. “I’m going to

shout. Carol!” she called, her two hands against the

sides of her mouth.

“Here—I am!” came back a call in an unsteady

voice—but it was Carol’s!

“That’s Carol!” cried the excited sister. “Where

are you?”

“Here! Here! In—the—cave!”

Everyone glared at Priscilla.

“You said you were—in the cave?” Mr. Dutton

accused her.

“I was—”

“Then why didn’t you see Carol?” Cecy

206

demanded.

“She is at the other end.”

“Come quickly. You know the way,” Thally

ordered. “Let’s get to Carol. Car-ol! We’re

coming—”

“It isn’t so far,” protested the embarrassed

Priscilla. She had been in the cave and Carol had

seen her, but who knew that besides Carol? She,

herself, had no idea that she had been seen.

“Well, she’s alive anyway,” Cecy murmured.

“Oh, my head! Look out for that sharp rock—” for

Priscilla was quickly leading the small band with

their flashlights into the dark cave that poor Carol

had been trapped in so suddenly.

Between calls and exclamations the girls finally

reached Carol, and even in the close little tunnel

Cecy’s arms went joyously about the girl who was

always brave but this time, foolish.

“Oh, oh,” she gasped. “However—did—you get

here?”

“Are you hurt?” Rosie begged to know.

“Those stones, Carol darling, look out—” Thally

exclaimed.

Mr. Dutton was trying to save the girls’ heads

from rocks, and trying to save their feet from

pitfalls.

“Hello, gold-digger,” he said to Carol. “Or is it

coal-digger? Let’s get out of here. This is no place

207

for a tea-party.”

There always is a rift in cavern rocks and there

was one just beyond this perilous turn in the cave.

“See Priscilla go!” said Jeanette.

“Like a—a mountain goat,” Thally put in. “See

her leap over the rocks.”

“Priscilla? Is she—gone?” Carol asked.

“Oh, no. I guess she’s just making room for the

return march of the doughboys,” Mr. Dutton

remarked.

They were just emerging into the welcome air

and daylight when Mr. Dutton saw Carol’s hand

covered with a handkerchief.

“Phew! What’s—that—perfume!” Thally

exclaimed.

“Whatever—” Cecy began.

But Mr. Dutton seized Carol’s hand and brought

it to his face.

“Kissing her hand?” Jeanette charged gaily.

“Not exactly,” Carol said quietly. “You know

what that scent is, don’t you, Mr. Dutton?” she

asked seriously.

“Cat’s sake, let’s sit down some place,” begged

Rosie. “This sort of world’s tour is too much for my

tootsies,” and clear of the cave now she found

enough space to squat down on.

“That perfume!” Mr. Dutton’s words were tragic

in tone. Carol and Jeanette knew the complete story

208

of the lost Dragon of the Hills, but the other girls

from Melody Lane had only received the barest

outline of it in Carol’s and Jeanette’s letters.

“Carol!” he said, slowly, and no one attempted to

interrupt him. “Where—is—it?”

“In the cave,” she replied, looking at the young

man with sparkling eyes, for she knew what her

discovery meant to him.

“In there—”

“Don’t go in now, Mr. Dutton,” Carol stopped

him. “It was just where the rock hit me that suddenly

I put my hand out and on a little ledge I felt—a

smooth, small thing—”

“The box.”

“Yes; I soon realized that,” Carol answered, while

the girls listened in wonderment. “And it must have

been cracked—”

“It is lead,” Mr. Dutton insisted.

“But whoever put it there might have pierced the

lead,” Carol ventured.

“You’re right; they might have tried to open the

box. This handkerchief” (he had the handkerchief

Carol had given him from her hand) “is pretty well

scented. One drop, you know, or even the spot

where one drop had been, would make plenty of

perfume,” he explained. “But I can’t take any more

chances. I’ve got to get it now.”

“But, Mr. Dutton,” Carol implored, “it’s

209

dangerous. You might get penned in. The rocks

seemed to tumble all about me.”

“Can’t wait,” he declared, “it might get covered

up. And you know what I told you, Carol, about my

marrying that sweetest little girl in the world, if I can

only get back the priceless box I lost,” he managed

to declare.

“Yes, of course, I remember, Mr. Dutton,” Carol

answered smilingly. “But if Priscilla hadn’t run

away she could have shown us the way. She knows

the tunnel.”

“Said she had been in there—” he was already

slashing the young trees back from the hole under

the hill.

“Yes, and there was a young man with her,”

Carol finally said.

“A young man!” exclaimed Jeanette. “What did

he look like?”

“I don’t know; I couldn’t see. Why?”

At that instant there flashed between Carol and

Jeanette a look of strange understanding. Carol was

thinking: “That’s about the scarf,” and Jeanette was

thinking: “That’s the fellow Tamma has been talking

about.” The other girls had been standing aside.

Cecy was trying to give a few words of explanation

to Rosie and Thally, but she herself knew very little

about the Dragon mystery.

Presently Mr. Dutton was already in the cave and

210

Carol was following him.

“Here!” called Jeanette to Thally. “Let me take

your flash, please. There’s a big reward for finding

that box and maybe I haven’t been working on it.”

“Are you going in too?” Cecy asked.

“You bet I am. I’d take the risk of plenty of big

rock falling on my head to get hold of that box,” and

with Thally’s flashlight in her hand Jeanette went

forth like a torch-bearer, the small light held high

and her calls to Carol adding to the melodrama.

“Is she crazy?” Rosie exclaimed.

“They used to think she was—a little,” Cecy

answered jokingly, “but Carol wrote she was not in

the least spoofy and romantic now; not since she

came up here.”

“Another one of Carol’s reform cases,” Thally

added. “Well, when they get through running in and

out of this old cave I’d like to sit down some place

myself,” and she groaned loudly in protest of all the

excitement.

“You certainly are entitled to a recess, Thal,”

Cecy agreed. “Driving out here wasn’t so easy—”

“But did you get that perfume?” Rosie asked with

a loud sniff of the air which might even yet hold a

faint aroma of the “Dragon.”

“Did I! No wonder Mr. Dutton had to find that. It

is like the stuff Mildred Powers paid thirty-five

dollars an ounce for last Christmas,” Thally told

211

them from her precious seat on a little hill of dirt.

“Thirty-five dollars an ounce for perfume?”

gasped Rosie.

“And even more,” added Cecy. “But imagine

Jeanette trailing it to get a share of the reward.

Maybe we’re just dumb standing out here.”

“Listen! They’re shouting. Thirty-five an ounce

or a hundred an ounce I guess they’ve got it,” Thally

ventured, falling off her hill in a cloud of dry dust.

“You bet Carol didn’t leave that trail unmarked,”

Cecy said. “Carol is used to caves. Remember the

one out at old—”

“Here they come! Listen to Jeanette. I tell you

she’s not like the Lane girls,” Rosie criticized.

“Thanks,” said Cecy, “but she’s the first out all

the same.”

“We’ve got it! We found it!” Jeanette was yelling

as she came out with her flashlight high in the air

even into the broad daylight.

“We!” said Thally aside.

Then they saw Carol. She was carrying the small,

precious box and Mr. Dutton was holding his

flashlight in true comedy style right over her head.

“Star of hope!” he intoned. And everyone knew

he meant it, too.

“Let’s see it! Let’s see it!” the girls were begging

in one voice.

“No; I was only allowed to carry it out, because I

212

found it. Here you are, Mr. Dutton. Here’s your

precious Dragon of the Hills!” Carol said, passing

the small battered lead box to the young man’s eager

hands.

They all watched him as he took it. Somehow it

was easy enough to understand what it meant. He

had lost the box when he had almost lost his life in

the auto accident. As soon as he could leave the

hospital he started the search. That was what

brought him to the Dragon Tea Shop; what caused

him to come again and again to this same vicinity.

From the beginning Carol had helped, and, to give

Jeanette her due, she also had tried to help. Perhaps

Jeanette’s seeming failure, her unfortunate dealings

with the Gypsy girl had, in reality, helped more than

she knew, as yet.

“I’ve got to get back to Mr. Wong Sut,” Mr.

Dutton said, with pardonable excitement in his voice

and manner.

“Where is he?” Carol asked.

“At the tea shop,” Cecy answered her. “We had a

sweet reception. Got here to find you missing,

Jeanette tearing out her pretty hair in alarm, and a

good-looking and very gentlemanly Chinese running

around telling us you, Carol-love, were buried in a

cave—”

“Oh, then Mr. Wong Sut gave you the alarm—”

Carol now realized.

213

“We’ll say he did and some alarm, too,” quoth

Rosie.

“Pile in,” ordered Thally. “Never shall it be said

that the charge of the girls’ brigade failed to bring

home the bacon,” she ended up in her old good-

natured way.

“Hold on to your box, Mr. Dutton,” called out

Rosie.

“Better sit between two girls this time,” suggested

Cecy. “The same fellow might come dashing along

and run you down again.”

“He won’t,” said Jeanette surprisingly. “That

sport car is far from here by this time.”

“The blue sport car!” exclaimed Mr. Dutton.

“Then that was the car that ran me down and the car

we saw leaving the cave, wasn’t it?”

“According to Tamma the Gypsy girl, yes, it

was,” said Jeanette. For some minutes no one asked

Jeanette any more questions as the car finally got

going along.

Carol knew this was no time for her urgent

questioning of Jeanette, the other girls knew better

than to confuse matters with such questions as they

might ask, and Mr. Dutton, with his priceless box

that even now sent out a “perfectly heavenly

perfume” according to Rosie, cared nothing about

the mysterious details.

“But I must see Priscilla, soon,” Carol said as

214

they neared the tea shop.

“She was in the cave, wasn’t she?” Jeanette

repeated, her face serious and her laughter gone.

215

CHAPTER XXV

THE OLD SCARF

“Did you ever see two men happier?” exclaimed

Thally, when back in the tea room the girls were

trying to understand what magic power had urged

Mr. Dutton and Mr. Wong Sut to jump into Mr.

Wong Sut’s car and dash away toward the city like

racers at a motor meet.

“Can you blame them?” Carol asked. “Just the

loss of a formula for the world’s choicest perfume,

doesn’t seem like a life and death matter, but it

really was just about that.”

“And you mean to say the man in the sport car

deliberately ran Mr. Dutton down to get that

concentrate?” Cecy asked, as bit by bit the mystery

was being explained to the new arrivals.

“Followed him half way around the world to do

it, too,” Carol added. “But as usual crime didn’t

pay,” she finished.

“But, as usual also, crime cost a lot in stopping

payment,” Thally attempted to paraphrase.

“But what’s on your mind, Jeanette?” Cecy

216

asked, for there sat Jeanette as solemn as a young

owl while all the others were chattering.

“Plenty,” replied Jeanette.

“Why, Jeanie,” Carol coaxed, “surely there’s

nothing for any one to feel badly about now. The

box is found, Mr. Dutton and his friend in business,

Mr. Wong Sut, are on top of the perfume world

again, and not the least but possibly the most of the

big things will happen when Mr. Dutton marries his

‘sweetest girl in the world.’ I like a man who talks

like that about his girl,” she told the crowd who

were spooning ice cream sodas around one of

Dorothy’s little orange and black tables.

“Come on, Jeanie, be a sport,” further coaxed

Rosie. “Why are you so disappointed?”

“I’m not really,” Jeanette finally spoke, “but I

feel like such a fool.”

“What kind of fool? Is it about the old silk scarf?”

Carol urged, knowing that must be in the

background of Jeanette’s worry.

“Yes; exactly that, Carol; the dirty old scarf—”

The girls were again mystified but in a few

sentences Carol quickly explained about Dorothy’s

shot in the dark that night when Carol had just come,

and her own, Carol’s, finding the old scarf next day,

and later her putting it away as a clue to the

midnight prowler. Then, finally, its disappearance

from the old desk under the stairs. And at that point,

217

of course, Jeanette’s part in the plot thickened.

“Yes, I took it,” she admitted quickly, as if now

eager to have it over with, “I took it to the Gypsy

girl, Tamma.”

“Why?” Cecy asked first.

“She told me if I brought her something to dream

on, a bit of ribbon or a handkerchief or some silly

thing like that, she could tell me about the lost box,”

Jeanette said weakly.

“She knew about it?” Carol asked.

“I should say she did,” flared back Jeanette.

“From the mysterious way she acted about it I

suspected she was the one who found it.”

“Tamma!” exclaimed Carol. “Mr. Dutton himself

suspected the Gypsies but I knew how loyal old

Zada had been to Priscilla’s grandmother, and to

Priscilla, too, since her grandmother’s death.” Carol,

for the moment seemed to be thinking out loud,

rather unmindful of her listeners’ rapt attention. This

matter was certainly between Carol and Jeanette.

“I’m sure Zada is all right, Carol,” Jeanette said,

still very serious. “But that Tamma—”

She broke off suddenly and jumped up from the

little table. Carol followed her as she sank down on

the wicker divan in the corner. She was completely

upset, and almost sobbing.

“Now, listen, Jeanette,” Carol said sharply, “don’t

be silly. I know you have done nothing wrong.”

218

“Nothing wrong to listen to that—that Tamma?”

wailed Jeanette. “She asked me to bring her—

something to—dream on—” Jeanette was plainly

nervous; no pretense this time.

“Yes?” Carol encouraged.

“First, I brought her my own handkerchief.”

“Wasn’t that enough?” Carol knew Jeanette

would have to tell her story, and the girls sitting

quietly at the table a few feet away, also seemed to

understand Carol’s questions.

“At first, yes, she said that was fine. But she kept

asking me if I ever saw any young Oriental

customers at the tea shop; ‘Chinks,’ she called them

but I knew what she meant,” Jeanette added. “Then

when I was dusting the old desk under the stairs and

I found the old scarf there, somehow, I don’t really

know why, I did mention that to Tamma. You see,

the scarf looked Oriental, and because this shop was

the Dragon Tea Shop—oh, I suppose I just got

sentimental again and that’s exactly why I made that

mistake,” finished Jeanette lamely.

“After all, Jeanette,” soothed Carol, “what

difference does it make now?”

“A lot of difference to me, Carol. Frankly, at first

I had to try hard to drop those foolish sentimental

ideas I had about writing letters and all that.”

“But you did drop them, Jeanie,” Cecy put in,

kindly. “You’re an entirely different girl now. We

219

all noticed it when we came up.”

“That’s because I liked Carol so and she was so

kind and understanding. After my first attempt it

seemed perfectly easy to fall into her busy ways—”

“But go ahead, Jean,” urged Rosie, “tell us about

your Gypsy scarf. I can just see it waving,” and she

waved her brief skirt because it was the only thing

she could grab.

They all joked and laughed so that Jeanette’s

story lost some of its grimness, and she herself lost

some of her nervousness. Finally she went on:

“As soon as I said ‘scarf to Tamma she made me

describe it. Then she got so excited nothing would

do but I must come right back here and get it for her.

I know now I had never intended to touch it. I just

felt it was a good story to tell Tamma,” Jeanette said

a little shyly.

“Too good!” chimed in Thally. “Trust them

Gypsy gals to make the most of a fellow’s lost

necktie.” Thally always saw the funny part of a

story.

“That’s just what she did,” said Jeanette. “It was

the fellow who rides around in the sport car who lost

that scarf.”

“Then he was the one who tried to get in here the

night Dorothy fired her automatic,” Carol said.

“Yes, he was. And when Tamma got the scarf and

recognized it as belonging to Lon—she just called

220

him Lon—she said that changed everything,”

Jeanette tried to explain.

“How could it?” Carol asked.

“Because Tamma had promised to get the

precious box for Lon and he had promised to get her

a big reward for finding it.”

“She did find it then?” That was another question

from Carol.

“She said she did, but now I don’t believe

anything she told me. She got wildly excited when I

gave her the scarf, she said Lon was trying to get in

here to search for the box when he had pretended to

believe her and all that— Well, I imagine that was

when the so-called love affair blew up,” said

Jeanette, and in spite of the seriousness of her story

they all laughed at the way she told it.

“Those Gypsies can be desperately jealous,”

Thally said. “Don’t you know, Carol, the tribe that

settled on Fern Hill one summer? They watched

their own youngsters pretty closely.”

“Yes,” Jeanette answered, instead of Carol doing

so, “and Zada watched Tamma pretty closely, too.

Tamma told me she never dared take a ride in Lon’s

new car.”

“That’s something,” remarked Thally.

“But, Carol, I did try to get the scarf back,”

Jeanette declared. “I went right up to the camp and

asked Tamma for it.”

221

“Did she give it to you?” Rosie asked. This was

exactly Rosie’s kind of romantic story.

“No; indeed she didn’t. She started in all over

again to blame Lon for everything that had gone

wrong with her plans to get the big reward, in fact,

she even started in to blame me, when her mother,

Zada, came along. Then she closed up like a trap.”

“Did she say she had really found the box?” Carol

asked again.

“No she didn’t. It was only after I brought her the

scarf that she admitted knowing about it.

“Then she lost her temper and said anything and

everything; it was hard to know what she did say,

she was so excited,” Jeanette finished.

“But Zada put her in her place. Well, that’s that,

Jeanie,” Carol said lightly, “and your record is

perfect. The scarf matter only proved you could do

hard things when you tried. I know it was hard for

you to confront that fiery young Gypsy and demand

the old scarf back.”

“Yes, it was rather hard,” admitted Jeanette and

the jangling telephone interrupted presentation of

more “bouquets” as Rosie remarked aside.

Carol answered the phone.

“She’s talking to Dorothy,” Jeanette whispered.

“I hope she’s coming back here soon,” Thally

also whispered. “We came up here to get Carol to go

to the Shore; remember?”

222

But Carol talked on and the girls waited patiently

to hear her report of the phone message.

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CHAPTER XXVI

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED

When Carol turned away from the phone and

faced the girls, she was smiling happily.

“Of course Dorothy is coming right back,” she

told them, “but we don’t have to wait for her. She

says leave everything to Mary Ellen.”

“Checks and all? I mean all the money we have

made for her?” Jeanette asked, childishly.

“Of course, darling. Mary Ellen ran this shop

before we came up here, that is, she often tended it

in Dorothy’s absence,” Carol pointed out.

“Oh,” sighed Jeanette. “Then we didn’t do so

much after all.”

“Sure you did,” chimed in Thally, “and you had a

lot of fun doing it. Now, Carol, let me warn you. No

more schemes to hold you back. We’re going. In

fact, we’re practically on our way. Can we leave

tomorrow morning?”

“There are a few things—”

“I knew it. Well, ‘leave them stayin’,’ as our dear

old maid Mary used to say.”

224

“But I’ve got to see Priscilla. Do you forget I

saw her in the cave with a young man—”

“And she ran like a mountain goat before you

could speak to her? No, we’re not forgetting that,”

Jeanette put in, “and as Carol says, we’ve got to see

Priscilla.”

“We,” mocked Rosie.

“Why, of course, Rosie, we,” repeated Carol.

“There are no more secrets; no need for them, but I

wouldn’t go away from here and not know how

Priscilla is making out. She, too, may need girls to

talk to.”

“It looks as if she might,” Cecy ventured. “Well,

when do we go over to see her?”

“No time like the present,” Carol answered glibly.

“I’ve just got to tell Mary Ellen the good news about

Dorothy and her mother coming back, then we’ll all

ride over to Bramble Hill.”

“But say, Carol,” Cecy asked when Carol had

returned from conveying the good news to Mary

Ellen, “what about this shop and the Dragon of the

Hills? How did it come by that big scary dragon sign

at the corner and the one out front? Is Mr. Dutton or

Mr. Sut Wong—”

“Mr. Wong Sut,” Carol corrected her.

“Well, all right, have it your own way,” Cecy

continued. “But did either of those gentlemen paint

that sign to advertise their world’s best perfume?”

225

“Oh, no,” Carol explained. “It seems that

particular dragon is the most famous of all their

kind, and when Dorothy was buying her supplies at

an Oriental shop in the village, she mentioned to the

proprietor her want of a name for her place. He, an

artist as well as a dealer in foreign wares, quickly

suggested Dragon of the Hills. He told her a

fascinating story of the dragon legend and even

offered to paint her signs. Of course she gladly

accepted so generous an offer, and that’s how the tea

shop got its name,” Carol concluded breathlessly.

“But Dorothy never guessed what publicity that

sign and name might bring to her little shop, did

she?” mused Cecy.

“Like queer people coming around losing their

neck-scarfs.” That was Thally.

“And getting shot at—” That was Cecy.

“And grabbing up stray boxes. Rosie, please take

my candy box off that window sill and you might

stop nibbling at it at the same time,” Thally teased.

“No use leaving more precious boxes around in

plain sight to tempt dragon robbers.”

“Come along, if we’re going to Priscilla’s,” Carol

ordered. “But after all, girls, you just got here. Don’t

you think you ought to stay a few days? This is a

lovely place—”

“Beautiful,” agreed Thally, facetiously, “but I

already feel as if I had spent the best part of my life-

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time here, so much has happened. No, as the girl

who runs the big bus, I insist on getting back to

Melody Lane, from whence to take our departure for

the ocean’s briny path—”

“Oh, come on, Thal; it’s getting late and we still

have things to do,” Carol urged. “Besides, those

flights of oratory are being wasted on us. Save them

up for a dull evening at Seacrest. Pile in, girls. Thal

says she’s the big bus driver, so we’ll take her at her

word.”

More chatter but no more serious conversation

filled in the short time it took to reach Bramble Hill,

and Carol was thinking, if not saying, that this was

like old times; that no amount of adventure could

make up for the loss of companionship among girls.

Now they were all together again, now Thally was

teasing. Rosie was joking, Cecy was agreeing and

even Jeanette was having a good time.

“I’ll be glad to get back to Melody Lane,” she

admitted. “After all, the same old hills, when they

are strange hills, do grow monotonous.”

“That’s exactly what I told you,” said Thally.

“Oh. Look at the swell car in front of Priscilla’s,”

exclaimed Jeanette, as they neared the place.

There certainly was a swell car in front of

Priscilla’s, a big limousine and a driver standing

before the door, on the rough country road.

While the girls were exclaiming, there flashed

227

through Carol’s memory that day when she had

driven up to Bramble Hill in the heavy

thunderstorm. So much had happened since that day

and now she was almost ready to turn away from the

summer country place, and go back to the more

substantial beauties of Melody Lane.

“She’s got company,” said Rosie, foolishly,

meaning Priscilla, of course.

“So we see,” said Thally.

“Perhaps we better wait,” Carol began. But as the

sound of the girls’ car must have reached those in

the little cottage, Priscilla appeared at the door.

“Come along, girls,” she called out, “come on in.

I’m so glad you came.”

“That settles it,” said Jeanette, “we’re glad we

came ourselves. How does my hair look?”

Paying no attention to such flippant remarks, they

all started up the walk. Not a single comment was

made about the little runway Carol had been so

curious about when she first came up to that door,

for every one was too intently speculating upon the

visitor who had come in the big car.

Priscilla was simply dancing with excitement.

Her prim little gingham dress that had always

covered her brown knees was flying recklessly now,

her light hair was just as wild as it had been when

she ran out of the cave “like a mountain goat,” and

her wonderful gray eyes were flashing happily.

228

“Pretty,” said Cecy under her breath.

“Lovely,” added Thally.

“Come right in. I was hoping you might come.”

Priscilla was leading them in through that queer

little shed on the front porch, and now they were in

the living room.

“Girls,” sang out Priscilla, “first, this is my

brother Dick; Dick these are the girls I have been

telling you about. And Mr. Bradshaw, let me

introduce my friends—”

But it was her brother Dick, and not the stately

Mr. Bradshaw, who held the girls’ attention.

Carol knew now. This was the young man

Priscilla had met in the cave. And wasn’t he

handsome?

“I wish I could stay longer, Priscilla,” Mr.

Bradshaw interrupted. “But I’m delighted with my

rug. It’s superb. If only I could have thanked your

dear grandmother—”

Priscilla stepped aside and Mr. Bradshaw could

be seen handing her a check. He also kept

expressing his pleasure at getting the rug that poor

old Mrs. Hunt and Zada had worked so hard on.

As he left he bowed courteously to all the girls

but clasped Priscilla’s hand.

“I want you and Dick to come up to my place in

Vermont and see this rug on the floor of a real

farmhouse,” he insisted.

229

The chauffeur carried the rug from the room

down the walk to the big car.

As the elderly gentleman entered the machine,

while the chauffeur carefully stowed the rug in the

front seat, Priscilla stood at the door of the

grandmother’s small home where so many hours had

been spent in planning, designing and weaving the

great hand-made piece.

Now, as Priscilla turned again to face her friends

in the living room, her eyes were glistening with

tears.

“Dick,” she said, “you must take this check over

to Squire Eaton right away. Excuse me for a minute,

girls,” she apologized, “but we have so many things

to attend to and—”

“We can just as well run over again some other

time,” Carol interrupted.

“Oh, no! Stay now, please. Dick and I won’t be a

minute. Now, Dick, be sure to tell the Squire that

Zada must have more out of the money this rug

brought than Granny promised her. Tell him Zada

has done more work on it than was planned because

Granny—wasn’t able to do it all—all of her part.”

“All right, sis, I’ll fix it up. So-long, girls. Hope

I’ll be seeing you again some time.”

And while Dick made one more attempt to get

that blonde curl off his well-tanned forehead, he

smilingly rushed away to carry out his gray-eyed

230

sister’s orders. He was whistling “Bob White,” and

Carol recognized this as the mysterious signal she

had heard from the cave.

Then Priscilla turned quickly to Carol.

“Carol,” she exclaimed, “did you get the box?”

“Yes, Priscilla.”

“I was so afraid it might be covered up when all

that cave dirt fell.”

“Did you put the box there?” Jeanette asked

sharply.

“Yes, I did,” Priscilla answered just as sharply.

“Did you find it, Priscilla?” Carol asked that.

“Not where it was first lost. I mean not directly

after Mr. Dutton’s accident. But I found it later,”

Priscilla said. “Girls, do let’s sit down,” she invited

and it was upon the needlepoint chairs they all

finally found places.

“Yes, Priscilla,” Carol said quietly, “we are all

very anxious to hear the real story of the lost Dragon

of the Hills.”

“You see,” Priscilla began after a pause,

seemingly to collect all the loose ends of her

thoughts, “Granny, Dick and I saw the car accident

and we all saw the blue sport car that struck Mr.

Dutton’s auto. Right after that Tamma came running

along. She was coming here to see her mother, Zada.

Of course Dick and I ran out. Mr. Dutton was soon

taken away in another car to the hospital and Tamma

231

kept looking around on the road and in the grass

where the things had been scattered out of Mr.

Dutton’s car.”

“Then she found the box!” broke in Rosie.

“Yes, she did. I saw her pick it up but of course I

didn’t know it was anything valuable. Well, you

know Grannie died soon after that and everything

else went out of my mind except that she was dead

and that Dick had gone away.”

“Why did Dick go?” asked Carol simply.

“He was all ready to go. I knew about it but he

made me promise not to tell Granny until he wrote

me that everything was all right. He had gone to a

forestry camp—he wants to be a forest ranger—and

Squire Eaton wanted him to keep on at school and

then become a lawyer,” Priscilla explained.

“He’ll make a handsome ranger,” Jeanette

managed to get in, but no one noticed the remark.

“I wanted Dick to tell Squire Eaton his plans and

then go, no matter what was said, but Dick thought

the best way would be to try it out first. Well, he has

done that and now he is back and Squire Eaton is

perfectly satisfied.

“But I heard people say that perhaps Dick had

taken the box of perfume,” went on Priscilla, “so I

made up my mind to get it and prove Dick didn’t

take it.”

No one attempted to interrupt her story now.

232

“I noticed Tamma so often going out to the spring

back of the old oak,” proceeded the gray-eyed girl,

“that I just looked around there and found the box

hidden in a little cradle of bricks. I took it.”

“You did right to take it,” Carol declared.

“I knew I did because I had heard Tamma and

that fellow she calls Lon talking about it. He was

offering her a lot of money if she would find it for

him and she was holding back until her mother

would consent to her going with this stranger. Of

course Zada never would, and I knew the box

belonged to Mr. Dutton. So I just took it and hid it in

the cave until Dick could come back and be cleared

of all suspicion. He came back today,” Priscilla’s

gray eyes were lighting up proudly, “and I was

going to get the box right after Dick came back from

seeing Squire Eaton—he went there first.”

“Then I got caught in the trap,” laughed Carol.

“And the box literally fell into my hands.”

“Yes, and I’m so glad it did, Carol!” murmured

Priscilla. “You deserve to have found it.”

“And you deserve to get some of that reward Mr.

Dutton talked about,” said Jeanette, keeping her

interest in that end of the business.

“Oh, I don’t want anything. I only took it to save

Dick,” declared Priscilla, and the honesty of her

remark was indicated in her eyes.

“But you took a big chance between that Lon and

233

a girl like Tamma,” Carol said. “But it’s all right

now and, Priscilla, as we are all going back home

tomorrow, can’t you tell us what you plan to do?”

“Oh, yes, of course. You see Squire Eaton was

related to my Grandfather Hunt, so he and his

wife—we call her Aunt Harriett—they are coming

here to live. Then Dick can go to his forestry school

and I guess I’ll finish High at Swanton. After that,”

she flushed a little, “maybe I can go to college.”

“If we don’t all go into Dragon Tea Shops or

Dragon Perfume factories,” Carol suggested as the

girls of Melody Lane and little, gray-eyed Priscilla

Hunt went on planning ever greater adventures.

THE END