Marjorie Dean, High School Senior

CHAPTER X—HALLOWE’EN MYSTERIES

It would take at least a month, she reasoned, to prepare the house for its small guests. By that time she might have become tired of the club. Still she rather liked her office of treasurer. It made her feel very important to know that the financial affairs of the club were in her hands. The Lookout Club had deposited its funds in the First National Bank of Sanford. She had been officially introduced to its president and duly authorized to deposit or draw out money from it in their name. If she resigned from the club now she would forfeit the privilege to use the check-book which had been given her. The club would soon begin to make frequent demands upon her for money with which to meet the various financial obligations which the furnishing of the day nursery would incur. Mignon decided that she would adroitly shirk the unpleasant duties of the club, but still retain her office. So long as she proved herself to be an efficient treasurer the girls might grumble as much as they pleased about her other shortcomings. At best they were too stupidly set on fair play to demand her resignation.

Intimate association with Rowena Farnham had developed Mignon’s fund of trickery to the nth power. Rowena had taught her how to play a subtle game as long as mere subtlety would answer the purpose. If there came a time when it proved unavailing, she would leave these babies in the lurch as boldly and defiantly, as Rowena had once performed the same unscrupulous office for herself. Contrary to all expectation, Rowena had taken the news of Mignon’s advent into the club with admirable tranquility. For reasons best known to herself, she had adopted this plan of action. Mignon’s letter informing her of the French girl’s sudden rise in popularity had merely caused her to throw back her head and laugh; a sure sign that she meant mischief.

Meanwhile, unconscious of the treacherous thoughts that settled in the brain of their graceless treasurer, thirteen girls were working heart and hand after school hours toward perfecting their cherished plan. The last of October found it nearing completion. The little house in which Constance had once dwelt had taken on a new lease of life. From cellar to roof it was a vision of shining cleanliness and order. The large room where the children were to play looked like a veritable kindergarten. Rows of sturdy plants decked the spotless windows, uncurtained in order to permit the greatest possible amount of light. The two long tables flanked by rows of cunning little chairs, stood ready to receive the coming residents. All sorts of toys had been unearthed from countless trunks in which reposed the treasures of the members’ own early days, now offered at the shrine of childhood. The kitchen had been fitted out completely, and its ample cupboard boasted of a new set of pretty dishes. Upstairs the rest room, with its four tiny white beds and spotless appointments, was a joy to behold.

Marjorie, Jerry, Constance and Irma had diligently gone the rounds of the squalid mill neighborhood, announcing the creation of the nursery to the stolid, wondering inhabitants, and graciously inviting them to bring their children to partake of its benefits. Youngsters from two years of age to six were placed on the eligible list and to the care-worn toilers this enticing offer seemed too good to be true. The nursery was scheduled to open on Saturday afternoon, the first of November. A competent elderly woman and a strong, willing maid had been secured and so far as they knew the Lookouts had left nothing undone that might add to the welfare of their tiny charges.

“Really, children, I think we’ve earned our Hallowe’en party to-night!” exclaimed Marjorie Dean, as in company with Jerry, Irma, Muriel, Susan Atwell and Constance they left the nursery, to which they had repaired after school for a last fond survey of their pet.

“Please hurry over to our house early,” requested Jerry. “This is to be a weird and awesome night when spirits walk abroad and witches ride the air on broomsticks. Don’t one of you dare to forget to bring a broom with you.”

“Very mysterious,” giggled Susan. “I suppose you’ve fixed up some awesome sights for our timid eyes. You’re awfully stingy not to tell us a thing about it beforehand. All we know is that we’re to wear black masks and black dominos, and each bring a broom.”

“All shall be revealed to you in due season.” Jerry raised a dramatic arm, then dropped it and grinned tantalizingly.

“Never mind,” consoled Marjorie. “We haven’t long to wait. It’s five o’clock now. Three hours more and we’ll be in the thick of weird, mysterious happenings.”

“Three hours is as long as three days when one’s curiosity is whetted to a sharp point,” laughed Irma. “Those queer, phosphorescent invitations of yours, Jerry, were enough to keep us guessing what the rest of the party would be like.”

“Some invitations,” chuckled Jerry. “The Crane put me on; I mean gave me the idea for them.”

“When mine came, I opened it and thought somebody had sent me a queer-looking bit of paper for a joke,” confessed Susan, “so I threw it in the waste basket. I had the pleasure of hunting through the basket for it the next day, after Marjorie had explained it to me.” This sheepish admission was followed by Susan’s inevitable giggle, and five voices immediately echoed it.

With the happy prospect of the grand opening of the nursery on the morrow and Jerry’s delightful Hallowe’en frolic that evening, the sextette of girls was in high spirits as they sauntered along in the sharp, October air. Marjorie could hardly remember a time when she had felt more utterly at peace with the world. A quiet happiness permeated her whole being, and she was filled with the sense of satisfaction which the performance of a good deed always brings.

Seven o’clock saw her slipping into the exquisite peachblow evening frock of shimmering silk which she was to wear to the party under her domino, nor could she be other than pleasantly elated at the story her mirror told her. Her curls arranged in a low, graceful knot at the back of her shapely head, her cheeks glowing with excitement and her brown eyes two pools of radiant light, Marjorie could not be blamed for taking a pardonable pride in her appearance. She heaved a soft little sigh of regret as she covered the glory of her new frock with a somber domino, and hid her witching face behind a black mask. Then she ran lightly downstairs, stopping in the hall to annex the new broom Delia had left there for her.

“I’m ready, Captain,” she called in deep, sepulchral tones, as she paused in the doorway of the living room where her mother sat reading.

Sight of the sinister figure and sound of the hollow voice startled Mrs. Dean briefly, as she glanced up from her book.

Marjorie’s merry laugh rang out as she hastily stripped off the concealing domino and mask. “I thought I could scare you,” she teased. “Now tell me that I look very gorgeous and kiss me good-bye, for I must hurry along to the land of spooks and witches.”

“Remember, fine feathers don’t make fine birds,” retaliated her mother, fond admiration of her pretty daughter in her sweeping survey of the dainty vision before her.

“That means I look specially nice,” translated Marjorie. “Thank you, Captain.” Holding the broom rifle fashion, she brought one hand to her forehead in brisk salute. “Now the gallant army is off duty for a pleasant evening. I hope I haven’t kept General waiting.” Marjorie hastily resumed her cloak and mask.

“Ask him,” smiled her mother as she accompanied her to the door. Lifting the flap of the mask she kissed Marjorie tenderly. “Have a good time, dear, and come home in good season.”

“What have we here!” exclaimed Mr. Dean in mock horror as a weird, black-robed figure, bearing the proverbial witch’s broom, advanced down the walk toward the automobile in which he was seated. “Must I show the white feather and flee from this ghastly apparition?”

“You must not,” emphasized a very human young voice. “Stand your ground or be court-martialed.”

“I won’t budge an inch. I prefer the company of shades, rather than lose my prestige as an invincible general,” flung back Mr. Dean valiantly.

Helping Marjorie to a seat beside him in the limousine, and carefully disposing the broom in the tonneau, they were soon speeding down the road to cover the short distance that lay between the homes of the two families. A continual ripple of most unspectre-like laughter proceeded from behind the black mask as they scudded along. Between Marjorie and her father the serious side of life seldom rose. Whenever they were together, they invariably behaved like two gleeful children out for a holiday.

“Now go and keep company with the other horrors of Hallowe’en,” was Mr. Dean’s parting comment as he set Marjorie down at the gate, kissed her and handed her the broom.

“Just watch me go,” she called back merrily, turning to flaunt the broom in fantastic salute as she flitted up the long walk to the dimly lighted house. “Things certainly have a ghostly look,” she decided as she rang the bell.

The next instant she uttered a sharp little cry as the door opened and a frisky imp in a tight-fitting suit of black seized her by the hand and hauled her inside. From the shadowy hall a tall sheeted form loomed up before her, giving vent to a deep groan. Before she could do more than gasp, her lively conductor had possessed himself of her broom, decorated it with a piece of wide blue ribbon, pinned a rosette of similar ribbon to her domino, both of which he snapped up from a tray held by the sheeted spectre. Then he whisked her into what had formerly been the Macys’ living room. It was now transformed into a huge cavern, dimly lighted by grinning Jack-o’-lanterns. Masked and black-garbed figures flitted about its spacious confines at will. In one corner of the room stood a tripod, from which hung a large kettle. Around the kettle danced three terrifying figures who might easily have been identified as the weird sisters who appeared to the ill-starred Macbeth.

Straight to the fatal witch rendezvous Marjorie was towed by her insistent guide. Pausing in her grotesque dance, one of the weird sisters seized a cup from a number of others which stood on a small table near the tripod. Flourishing it, she pounced upon a small ladle that stood upright within the utensil. Dipping it into the steaming contents of the kettle, she filled the cup and offered it to Marjorie. “Drink ye the witches’ deadly brew,” she croaked.

The “witches’ deadly brew” proved to be very excellent chicken bouillon, which did not come amiss after Marjorie’s ride in the cool autumn air. By the time she had finished it, her goblin conductor had scurried away to answer the ring of the door bell, leaving her to mingle with the other sinister shapes that wandered singly or in twos and threes about the room. As everyone was firmly bent on keeping his or her identity a secret, conversation languished among that mysterious company. It was comparatively easy to distinguish the masculine portion of the assemblage from the feminine, however, by reason of height and the mannish shoes that were worn by at least half of the dominoed guests.

For at least fifteen minutes after Marjorie’s arrival, the helpful imp was compelled to do constant duty at the front door, and the impromptu cavern soon overran with its strange, uncanny occupants. In the midst of their perambulations a reverberating peal of manufactured thunder rent the air and the zealous imp skipped into the room.

“Friends and fellow spooks,” he declaimed in a high, piping voice, “I am the humble servitor of the Spirit of Hallowe’en. Come with me and I will show you the Cavern of Illusion where she awaits you!”

The humble servitor pranced down the long hall to the Cavern of Illusion, once the back parlor, an eager crowd of somber-looking followers at his heels. It was an orderly rush, however, although the fell silence that had pervaded the company at first was now broken by murmurs of subdued speech and frequent giggles. The Cavern of Illusion was in absolute darkness except at one end, where a square of white, presumably a sheet, stretched itself in the form of a screen. A faint light from behind it caused it to stand out clearly against the surrounding blackness.

“The Spirit of Hallowe’en,” shrilled the imp, who had stationed himself close to the screen. Hardly had he spoken the words when a long roll of thunder sounded and a fantastic shape in the high-peaked hat and circular cloak that betokens the legendary witch of All Hallow’s night, leaped upon the screen. On one shoulder perched a black cat and in one hand she bore a broom stick. Making a sweeping curtsey, she disappeared from the screen, to reappear instantly minus cat and broomstick. Curtseying again, she began a dance, fantastic in the extreme, but singularly graceful. She dipped, whirled and swayed, using her cloak with pleasing effect, and ended the performance by apparently flying straight upward to disappear at the top of the screen.

The wild burst of ardent applause that followed her clever terpsichorean effort pointed to the fact that the masked audience was at least possessed of very human young throats. The Spirit of Hallowe’en declined, however, to respond to the frantic demonstration, and a moment later the imp’s falsetto tones made themselves heard above the din.

“Follow me to the Hall of Fate,” he ordered. “There the Three Weird Sisters tarry to wail the Chant of Destiny.”

This invitation conveyed the information that where the fateful kettle simmered under the guardianship of the weird three must undoubtedly be the Hall of Fate. The guests did not wait to follow, but made a bee-line for it, at least half of them reaching it ahead of their obliging master of ceremonies. Once they had gathered there the Weird Sisters entertained them with a spirited dance about the kettle, to the accompaniment of an unearthly chant, pitched in a minor key.

At the conclusion of it a terrific burst of thunder broke and the Hall of Fate became suddenly flooded with light.

“All aboard for the ball room!” shrieked the imp in a voice that strongly resembled that of Danny Seabrooke. “The Test of True Love will presently be held there.”

This astonishing statement raised a shout of laughter. The young folks needed no second urging, however, as they willingly mounted the two flights of stairs after the imp, who skipped nimbly ahead of them, while the Three Weird Sisters brought up the rear. The apartment used by Hal and Jerry for a ball room, when entertaining their friends, was situated on the third floor of the east wing of the house. It was especially large and airy, with a beautifully polished floor, and, therefore, well suited to the purpose. Jerry always referred to it as the “town hall” and took considerable pleasure in the possession of it.

Arriving in the ball room, the maskers found that the four musicians hired to play for the dancing were already at their post. Despite their curiosity as to what particular ordeal awaited them in the cause of true love, the enticing measures of a waltz sent the masculine portion of the company scurrying for partners. It was not until the fifth dance was over that the imp staggered into their midst, heavily laden with a freight of beribboned brooms. Depositing them in a corner he promptly disappeared, to return presently with a second load. By that time the sixth dance had ended, and the dancers were beginning to murmur concerning their masks, which were becoming rather too concealing for comfort. Then, too, nearly everyone had come into a fair knowledge regarding the identities of at least part of his or her companions.

It was, therefore, wholly to their liking when the ubiquitous imp marched to the center of the floor and declaimed in true Danny Seabrooke fashion: “Damsels of the Domino, please line up across the floor. The Test of True Love is about to begin.” His next order, “Knights of the Domino, your fiery steeds await you! Kindly march in line to the corner and select your steed, then find your partner for the evening!” evoked a tumult of laughter. The Test of True Love promised to be decidedly amusing.

CHAPTER XI—AN UNWILLING CAVALIER

“You’re not sorry, are you?” Hal smiled rather tenderly at the lovely girl beside him.

“Of course not,” was Marjorie’s frank reply. “I am awfully glad. I’d rather have you for a partner than any other boy in school.”

“Would you, Marjorie?” Hal’s voice contained a hint of eagerness. Lately he had begun to realize that his boyish affection for Marjorie Dean was verging on a far deeper emotion. Yet the very candidness of Marjorie’s heartily expressed preference for him, showed him quite plainly that she meant it merely in a sense of frank friendliness.

“You know I would,” she nodded seriously. “Aren’t we sworn comrades?” The real meaning of his question had passed entirely over her head.

“We are, indeed,” was the hearty response. Inwardly Hal vowed that for the present he would try to regard Marjorie wholly in that light. Yet within himself he cherished a fond hope that some day he might come to mean more to this sweet, unselfish girl than a mere comrade. Although Marjorie did not realize it, that evening marked the beginning of Romance for her.

“I’ll have to confess that I found you out before you unmasked, Marjorie,” he laughed. “Naturally I picked the broom that wore the blue ribbon.”

“You are a most designing knight,” she answered heartily. “I wonder if Laurie discovered Connie beforehand and did likewise.” Her glance travelling the long room a soft “Oh!” escaped her. Laurie had indeed acquired a partner, but that partner was Mignon La Salle. A quick survey of the room discovered Constance standing beside Miles Burton, a senior at Weston High School. Marjorie could not help noting how delighted Mignon looked. Laurie, however, did not appear specially elated. He was making a desperate attempt to hide his disappointment under a show of chivalry which Marjorie knew to be forced.

Before she had time to make further observations, the announcing strains of another dance rang out and she floated away on Hal’s arm. When that dance was over Sherman Norwood claimed her for the next and the succeeding one she danced with Hal.

“Now I must find Connie and have a talk with her,” she declared brightly, when that dance was finished.

“And I must do my duty by Jerry’s guests,” commented Hal somewhat ruefully. “Be a good comrade and save as many dances for me as you can, Marjorie.”

“I will.” Marjorie left him with a smiling little nod and set off to find Constance. Half way across the floor she encountered Jerry who was hurrying to meet her.

“I was looking for you, Marjorie. Come downstairs with me and see if you can’t persuade Veronica, I mean Ronny, I’ve decided to call her that, to stay for the evening.”

“Veronica!” Marjorie’s brown eyes widened. “Is she really here? I thought you said she wouldn’t come. I haven’t seen her.”

“Oh, yes, you have, only you didn’t know it,” chuckled Jerry. “You saw her do that shadow dance. She did say she wouldn’t come. Then when I told her about the stunts I was going to have she offered to come of her own accord and do that dance. But she doesn’t want anyone else to know that she’s here. I can’t understand that girl. She’s certainly the world’s great mystery.”

Marjorie’s face registered her surprise. “She does act queerly sometimes. I don’t know why, unless it’s because she feels that her position at Miss Archer’s might make a difference with us. As though it could. I’d love to see her to-night, if only for a few minutes. Your party is lovely, Jerry. It is so original. I hadn’t the least idea until they unmasked that Harriet, Rita and Daisy were the three witches. I suspected that tall, white figure to be the Crane, and, of course, I knew Danny Seabrooke the minute I first set eyes on him. You and Hal must have worked awfully hard to decorate everything so beautifully. It’s the nicest Hallowe’en party I’ve ever attended.”

“I’m glad you like it.” Jerry beamed her gratification. “It did keep Hal and me hustling. I’m sorry for poor Laurie, though. It’s too bad that he had to go and draw Mignon for a partner. She’ll stick to him all evening like grim death. Trust her to do that.”

“Oh, well, Connie won’t care. It will only amuse her. Laurie isn’t very happy over it though,” was Marjorie’s regretful comment.

As they talked the two girls had been making their way downstairs. In the back parlor they found Veronica, a demure little figure in her plain blue suit and close-fitting blue hat. “I’m glad you came down, Marjorie,” she greeted. “You look so sweet in that peachblow frock. It’s a joy to see you.”

“Thank you, Veronica. Your shadow dance was also a joy to see. You are a very clever young person. I wish I could dance like that.”

“Why can’t you stay, Veronica?” lamented Jerry. “I’d love to have you meet the Weston High boys. They are nice fellows and good dancers.”

“Don’t tempt me.” Veronica made a smiling gesture of protest. “I love to dance. When I was——” she stopped with her usual strange abruptness. “I must go,” she asserted decisively. “My—Miss Archer will wonder what has kept me so long.”

“But we came down here as a special committee of two to persuade you to stay,” pleaded Marjorie.

“Thank you ever so much. It is dear in you to take so much trouble for a poor servant girl.” Veronica’s gray eyes twinkled as she referred to her lowly estate.

“I wish you wouldn’t say that, Ronny,” protested Marjorie, unconsciously using Jerry’s new name for the pretty girl.

“Where did you hear that name? I mean the name ‘Ronny?’” Veronica’s startled question held a note of sharpness. “I never mentioned it to you. I am sure of that.” A decided pucker of displeasure showed itself between her dark brows.

“Why—that—why—Jerry mentioned it,” stammered Marjorie, somewhat taken aback by Veronica’s brusque manner of speaking. “She thought of it herself, I suppose.” Flushing, she turned to Jerry for corroboration. The stout girl’s round eyes were fixed shrewdly on Veronica.

“I take all the blame and the credit for it,” was Jerry’s prompt assertion. “It’s a cunning nickname and easier said than Veronica. If you’d rather we’d not call you Ronny, then we won’t. Of course, you never mentioned it to me. I just made it up. It suits you, though. I’ll bet we’re not the first persons to call you by it, either,” she added, hazarding a shrewd guess.

A tide of pink flooded Veronica’s white skin. Her forehead smoothed itself magically. With a short, embarrassed laugh, she said briefly: “I don’t mind if you girls call me Ronny.” She made no attempt, however, to affirm or deny Jerry’s guess. “Now I mustn’t stay another moment, or some of your guests may wander downstairs and find me here.” So saying, she began to move determinedly toward the doorway that opened into the hall, Jerry and Marjorie following. Pausing at the front door only long enough to offer them her hand in parting, Veronica made a quick exit from the house and sped down the drive. Accompanying her as far as the veranda, Marjorie and Jerry watched her in silence until she had been swallowed up in the black shadows of the night.

“Some little puzzle.” It was Jerry who spoke first. “I’ve always said that I knew everything about everybody, but I’ll have to make one exception. I don’t know a single thing about Veronica except what she has chosen to tell me. There’s no way of finding out anything, either. I’d as soon think of asking the Shah of Persia how much gold he had in his royal treasury as to ask Miss Archer about her.”

“No; we couldn’t question Miss Archer,” Marjorie agreed soberly. “We must accept Ronny at her own face value, and not trouble ourselves about her peculiarities. Some day she may explain to us of her own accord the very things that puzzle us now. The best way to do will be to pretend not to notice anything mysterious about whatever she may say or do. We know that she is generous and high-principled and truthful. That ought to be enough for us to know.”

“Yes, that’s so,” admitted Jerry. Tearing her thoughts from the strange girl, who had just left them, she linked an arm in one of Marjorie’s, saying: “We’d better go back to the town hall. We’ve already missed two or three dances.”

Deeply absorbed in conversation, they entered the house and climbed the stairs to the ball room, quite unaware that a black-eyed girl in an elaborate old gold satin evening frock had slipped cautiously from the living room and sheltered herself for a moment in the alcove formed by the stairs.

Mignon La Salle had left the ball room almost immediately after Marjorie and Jerry had exited from it. She had not seen them leave it, however. She had come downstairs on an errand of her own, which had nothing whatever to do with them. Overjoyed at having Laurie Armitage for her partner for the evening, she had resolved to make hay while the sun shone. Mignon had arrived at the Macys’ in her runabout, driven by the long-suffering William. But she did not purpose to return home in it. She intended to return in Laurie’s roadster. On arriving, her lynx eyes had spied it parked before the gate. As Laurie had drawn her for a partner for the evening, she was positive that courtesy would prompt him to see her home, if the occasion demanded it. To make sure of this, she planned secretly to telephone her residence and leave word that William need not come for her. As her father was out of the city on business, she ran no special risk of having her plan fail. When the party was over, she would loudly bewail the non-appearance of her runabout and lay it at the door of poor William’s stupidity. Then Laurie would be obliged to take her home in his roadster, or appear in a most ungentlemanly light. It would also be a great triumph over that hateful Constance Stevens.

Filled with this laudable intention, Mignon had sped cat-footed down the stairs. The sound of girlish voices suddenly emanating from the back parlor brought her to a halt. She heard Veronica’s warm greeting of Marjorie and recognized her unmistakable tones. Breathlessly she took in the conversation that ensued. The moment she heard Veronica announce her departure, Mignon made a swift, noiseless dash for the living room, gaining it just in time to avoid being seen by the trio as they passed from the back parlor into the hall. Hardly had the front door closed upon them when she darted across the room and took refuge behind a Japanese screen.

Determined not to be balked in her resolve to telephone her home, she crouched there and waited until the sound of the reopening and closing front door followed by footsteps on the stairs and the hum of receding voices, informed her that Marjorie and Jerry had returned to the ball room. Fearing further interruption to her project, she lost no time in calling up her home and impressively delivering her command to the maid who answered the telephone. Well pleased with what she had heard and done, Mignon returned to the dancers inwardly congratulating herself on her own cleverness.

As the evening progressed she found Lawrence Armitage a far from devoted knight. True he danced with her several times and was uniformly courteous in his behavior toward her, but whenever he could seize an opportunity to spend a moment or two with Constance Stevens he made good use of it. At supper, which was served at small tables in the dining room, she was secretly furious to find herself and Laurie at the same table with Constance Stevens and Miles Burton, the senior from Weston High School. Her instant suspicion was that the situation had been arranged by Jerry at Laurie’s request. Although she had only surmised this, at least part of her conjecture was quite true. Out of sympathy for Laurie, good-natured Jerry had favored him to this extent. Hal also had privately rallied his boy friends to the cause by saying to them sub rosa: “You fellows had better keep Mignon busy dancing. Are you on?” Mignon’s swift rise in popularity as a dancer proved that they were. This, however, she did not at first suspect. Her insatiable vanity prevented her from seeing through that ruse.

It was not until supper had ended and the dancing had been resumed that light began to dawn upon her. It came with the dismaying knowledge that Laurie had not been near her for six dances. Three of them he had danced with Constance Stevens. Following on that discovery came the disagreeable suspicion that perhaps he had persuaded his friends to help him out. She was by no means anxious to believe this. Nevertheless, the bare idea of it plunged her into a most unpleasant mood. Too wise even to intimate to the young man that she disapproved of his tactics, she began to look about for someone on whom she might vent her spite.

It may be said to Laurie’s credit that he was entirely innocent of the crimes she attributed to him. He knew nothing whatever of Jerry’s and Hal’s private campaign for his benefit. Noting that Mignon was receiving plenty of attention from his friends, he very naturally gravitated toward Constance. In reality none of the young folks except Mignon looked upon the broom episode as being other than a huge joke. Her sentimental preference for Laurie, which she knew was not reciprocated, caused her to clutch at any straw that would win her his attentions.

Gradually becoming convinced of her cavalier’s perfidy, Mignon crossly snubbed two Weston High boys who asked her to dance and switched haughtily toward a corner of the room where a big punch bowl of fruit lemonade awaited the thirsty. As she neared it her elfish eyes began to sparkle with malicious purpose. Standing beside it was Lucy Warner, her small face aglow with half envious delight as she watched the dancers. Unfortunately for Lucy, she did not know how to dance.

“Having a good time?” inquired Mignon patronizingly, as she toyed with the handle of the silver ladle preparatory to filling a cup with lemonade.

“Oh, yes.” Forgetting the disapproval of Mignon which Marjorie Dean’s recent explanation concerning the secretaryship had caused her to feel, Lucy answered almost eagerly. The next instant she stiffened perceptibly, and started to move away from Mignon.

“Wait a minute,” ordered Mignon, quick to note the change. “What’s the matter? Are you angry with me? I’m sure you have no reason to be.”

Remembering Marjorie’s injunction not to allow herself to be drawn into a quarrel with the French girl, Lucy hesitated. “You will have to excuse me,” she said quietly. “I am going home now.”

“Oh, are you? That’s too bad. I was just about to tell you something. Never mind. Perhaps it wouldn’t be wise to tell you.”

“What do you mean?” Lucy’s green eyes gleamed surprised displeasure. The suspicious side of her nature, however, clamored for information. She knew that she ought to go on about her business, but curiosity stayed her feet.

“Oh, nothing much.” Mignon shrugged her shoulders. “It was merely about something that happened last year. I’ve changed my mind. I am not going to tell you. You know it’s forbidden among the Lookouts to gossip. I’ll just give you a piece of advice. As a Lookout, it would pay you to keep your eyes open. There are some very deceitful girls in Sanford High School. One of them in particular pretends to be your friend. I should advise you to be careful what you tell her. She is not to be trusted.”

“What do you mean?” Lucy again demanded, with a deep scowl. She wondered if Mignon’s last insinuation meant Marjorie Dean.

“Use your eyes and ears and you’ll find out for yourself.” With an amused laugh, Mignon set the cup she held on the table and walked away, her spite for the moment satisfied. She had managed to plant a seed of discord in Lucy’s inflammable brain. She hoped with all her heart that it had sprouted and would grow rapidly.

That it had not died became evident in the rather reserved farewells which Lucy made to Jerry, her hostess, and several of the girls. Among them was Marjorie who wondered a little at the other girl’s chilly demeanor. Earlier in the evening Lucy had been radiant. Always charitable in thought, Marjorie laid it to the fact that Lucy was perhaps a trifle tired. Yet the almost hostile stare of her peculiarly-colored eyes haunted Marjorie for the remainder of the evening.

Twelve o’clock marked the wind-up of the Hallowe’en party. By a quarter after that hour the young revelers had begun to troop down the front steps of the house, their gay good nights echoing on the still air. Greatly to her joy, Lawrence Armitage dutifully inquired of Mignon if her runabout were parked outside, or if she expected the La Salle’s chauffeur to come for her. On replying that her chauffeur would be waiting at the gate with the runabout, she was even better pleased to hear him politely announce his wish to see her safely to it.

Mignon was doubly elated by the fact that Constance and Marjorie were directly behind her. Mr. Dean had come to take both girls home, as Constance was following her usual after-party custom of spending the night with Marjorie. The French girl was quite ready to set up an out-cry over the non-appearance of her runabout. She was anxious that Constance in particular should see her calmly appropriate both Laurie and his roadster.

Her black eyes blazed with triumph as she surveyed the little row of automobiles which stretched itself along a portion of the street in front of the Macys’ residence. Her runabout was not among them.

“Why, where is my car?” she cried out in well-simulated dismay. “Isn’t that provoking? That stupid William has misunderstood that he was to come for me. It’s just like him to make such a mistake! What am I to do?” Mignon rolled appealing eyes at Laurie.

Sheer vexation sealed Laurie’s lips for an instant. He knew only too well what courtesy demanded him to do, and he rebelled at the thought. Mignon’s loud outcry had already attracted the attention of a group of guests who stood surrounding Hal and Jerry Macy. The young host and hostess had strolled to the gate with their friends to wish them a last good night. Every pair of eyes was now centered on Mignon.

Drawing a long breath, Laurie reluctantly came to the French girl’s rescue. “I will take you home——” he began with polite aloofness.

“There comes your runabout, Mignon,” called Muriel Harding sweetly. Her alert eyes had spied it as, with William at the wheel, it passed under the arc light and made rapid approach.

Muriel’s announcement elicited no response from Mignon. She stood motionless on the walk, her gaze fixed fiercely upon the undependable William as he turned the runabout and halted it just ahead of the other cars. Under the glare of the gate lights the varying expressions of her stormy face told their own story. With the realization of defeat came the need for instant action. William was already moving toward the group of young folks. He was looking for her. She must intercept him before he came too close to them.

Electrified by the fear of exposure, she darted toward the chauffeur, who, glimpsing his charge, strode forward. She was just a second too late. “I got your ’phone message not to come for you, Miss Mignon,” he boomed mercilessly, “but your father just got home and he says that I was to drive over after you just the same.”

Taken at a complete disadvantage, Mignon could only mutter an embarrassed good night to the outwardly grave, but inwardly gleeful Laurie. Ignoring the amused group of boys and girls, she flounced into the runabout without a word to the innocent betrayer of her carefully-concocted scheme. During the drive home, however, she shed tears of heart-felt rage against her father’s untimely interference. She vowed vengefully that he should pay for it, thereby proving conclusively that, when it came to a matter of a grudge, she was no respecter of personages.

CHAPTER XII—A DISCOURAGED REFORMER

“I was truly sorry for her,” Marjorie answered with evident sincerity. “She must have been terribly embarrassed.”

“Not she,” sniffed Jerry. “She was probably mad as hops, though, to think her scheme fell flat. She must have telephoned her house while we were all upstairs dancing. It was silly in her to do a thing like that. It’s funny, though, what a crush she’s always had on Laurie. She’s cared about him ever since her grammar school days, but he has never liked her. He’s awfully fond of Connie, though.”

“I know it.” Marjorie smiled. “Somehow one never thinks of either Connie or Laurie as being foolish or sentimental.”

“That’s because Connie is so sensible and nice about Laurie,” explained Jerry. “She just treats him as a boy friend and makes him understand it. Laurie is different from Hal and the Crane. He’s a musician and has associated a good deal with older men. That makes him seem ever so much older than he really is. Naturally he is more serious and grown-up. He and Hal are almost the same age, but Hal seems younger than Laurie. Danny Seabrooke and the Crane are more Hal’s speed, but Hal thinks there’s no one quite like Laurie.”

“Nearly all the Weston High boys are splendid,” praised Marjorie. Her glance happening to stray to Lucy Warner who stood across the room, talking to Muriel Harding, she said anxiously: “Jerry, do you think anyone said anything last night to Lucy to hurt her feelings? Just before she went home I tried to talk to her and she hardly answered me. She hasn’t more than spoken to me this morning, either.”

“She was pretty icy to me when she said good night,” returned Jerry unconcernedly. “That’s just her way. She’s like February weather, always thawing and freezing. I wouldn’t worry about her moods. You certainly have been nice to her. Very likely she felt a little out of things last night because she didn’t know how to dance. We ought to teach her. Go and propose it to her, Marjorie. Muriel has just left her. Now is your chance. I’ll stay here. You can talk to her better alone.”

Suiting the action to the word, Marjorie crossed the room to Lucy. “I’ve something very special to ask you, Lucy,” she said, adopting a casual tone.

Lucy frowned portentously. “What is it?” she questioned in cool, terse fashion. Mignon’s treacherous counsel still rang in her ears. Her moody frown changed to a flash of interest, however, as Marjorie stated that she and Jerry were anxious to teach her to dance. Something in Marjorie’s gay, gracious manner sent a swift rush of shamed color to Lucy’s white cheeks. Marjorie had befriended her and she had repaid her kindness by allowing suspicion to warp her belief in this delightful girl.

“I’d love to learn to dance,” she heard herself saying heartily. Then on sudden impulse she continued almost pleadingly, “You are really my friend, aren’t you, Marjorie?”

“Why, of course!” The answer conveyed absolute truth. “What makes you ask me that, Lucy?” Marjorie eyed her steadily.

Lucy’s color rose higher. “I’m glad you asked me that. I wanted to tell you something, but I didn’t know whether I’d better. It sounds gossipy.” In a few words she related what Mignon had said to her. “I shouldn’t have listened to Mignon,” she apologized. “I tried to leave her, but she kept on talking.”

Patent vexation held Marjorie speechless for an instant. When she spoke it was in a firm, almost stern manner. “I have only one thing to say, Lucy. You must not allow Mignon to make you feel that I am not your friend. Please remember that I am and hope always to be. I haven’t the least idea what she meant by saying that she knew me to be deceitful. She evidently meant me though she didn’t mention my name. I despise deceit, and I have always been straightforward with you.”

“I believe you,” Lucy earnestly assured her. “Hereafter I shall have nothing whatever to say to Mignon.”

“You must do as you think best about that. I am glad you came to me frankly. If you are in doubt at any time about me, please come to me and say so. Misunderstandings are dreadful.” Marjorie’s mind had harked back to the memory of the cloud that had once shadowed hers and Mary Raymond’s friendship.

On the way home to luncheon that day, in company with Jerry, Irma and Constance, she was unusually quiet. Her thoughts reverted gloomily to the conversation between herself and Lucy Warner. It had shown her plainly that no amount of club ethics could stop Mignon’s spiteful tongue. Her crafty attack on Lucy was merely a beginning. Into what sort of tangle her mischief-making proclivities might yet involve the Lookouts was a question which time alone would answer.

The pleasant excitement of the afternoon went far toward banishing Marjorie’s dark forebodings. The house warming was a signal success, thanks to the grateful eagerness with which the residents of the mill district received the kindly effort made in their behalf. Altogether thirty youngsters were enrolled as members of the day nursery, and their mothers showed a shy, pathetic pride and pleasure in the new movement which greatly touched their young hostesses. They did hungry justice to the dainty luncheon prepared for them, and, their diffidence gradually vanishing under the hospitable treatment they were receiving, they talked and laughed in friendly fashion with the patronesses and the Lookouts.

Greatly to the surprise of her fellow members, Mignon deigned to lend her elaborately-dressed self to the house warming. It was well into the afternoon when she appeared, haughty and supercilious. As the majority of the humble guests knew her by sight, her arrival had a somewhat dampening effect upon them. The knowledge that she was the daughter of one of Sanford’s wealthiest residents rather over-awed them, and her grandiose manner served to deepen the effect. Although she was fairly affable to her schoolmates, a hint of scorn lurked in her roving black eyes, which told its own story to those who best understood her ways. No one of the band of earnest workers honestly regretted her departure which occurred not more than half an hour after her arrival.

Before five o’clock the humble guests had departed with much handshaking and friendly bobbing of heads, leaving the house to the Lookouts. The patronesses left shortly afterward and the bevy of girls turned to with commendable energy to spend a merry hour setting the nursery to rights.

“Let’s sit down at the table in these cunning little chairs and have a consultation,” proposed Muriel. “I am really tired out. This has been a strenuous afternoon, not to mention last night.”

“Not for me,” was Jerry’s discouraged comment. “One of those playhouse affairs would last about ten seconds if I attempted to sit in it.”

“We’d better be moving toward home,” suggested Daisy Griggs. “It’s almost six o’clock. I am going to a musicale this evening and I mustn’t be late for it.” Daisy made a determined march for the stairs, and disappeared in search of hat and coat.

“Daisy is a very energetic person,” laughed Irma. “I am going home, eat my dinner and go straight to bed. I’ve been sleepy all day.”

“So have I,” complained Rita Talbot. “I am glad I don’t have to be a spook the year round. Spooks must lose a lot of sleep.”

“I suppose they must. I never interviewed a real one, so I can’t say positively,” giggled Susan.

Following Daisy’s example the Lookouts trooped upstairs in search of their various belongings, exchanging light nonsense as they went. Soon afterward they descended ready for the street. Marjorie, Jerry and Constance lingered while Jerry locked the door, depositing the key in a secret refuge of its own, the location of which was known to the woman who had been engaged to come early Monday morning in order to receive her small charges.

“I wish you and Connie would come over to our house to-night,” invited Jerry. “Hal, Laurie and Dan will be on the job, I mean on the scene. Hal has a brilliant idea that he thinks might interest the Lookouts. He won’t tell me what it is, either. Unless you two are kindly disposed enough to come over, I’ll have to take my curiosity out in guessing.”

“I’ll have to ask my superior officer,” demurred Marjorie. “Captain may think that I ought to stay at home this evening. I’ll do some expert coaxing just to please you, Jerry.”

“My aunt may also be of the same mind about me,” said Constance. “Still, I think I can come.”

“Saved!” Jerry clasped her fat hands in exaggerated thankfulness. “I see I stand some chance of having my curiosity satisfied.”

“Can’t you telephone your aunt and stay to dinner with me, Connie?” begged Marjorie.

“Of course she can. That’s a good idea. If your aunt says ‘yes’ then so will Mrs. Dean,” calculated crafty Jerry. “As Professor Fontaine beautifully puts it, ‘We weel conseedaire the mattaire as settled.’”

Mention of the little professor reminded Constance and Marjorie of an unusually long translation for Monday recitation, at which neither of them had looked. The talk immediately drifted into school channels to continue in that strain until Jerry left them.

After saying good-bye to her, Marjorie and Constance strolled silently along for a little.

“Marjorie,” Constance’s clear enunciation startled her chum from brief reverie. “I am afraid we can never be of much help to Mignon.”

Marjorie flashed a half-startled glance toward Constance. She wondered what new quirk in Mignon’s behavior had occasioned this observation. “Why?” was all she said.

“I’ve been waiting for a chance to tell you something I heard this afternoon. It was Gertrude Aldine who mentioned it. She said that Mignon told her last night that Jerry had hired Veronica to come to the party and do that shadow dance.”

“Hired Veronica?” Marjorie cried out in nettled amazement. “That is perfectly ridiculous and not true. But how did Mignon happen to know that it was Veronica who danced? Only Jerry, Hal, Laurie, you and I knew it. Even I didn’t recognize her on the screen. I don’t see how Mignon could have.”

“She must have, or else——” Constance paused significantly.

“Or else what?”

“I hate to say it, but Mignon must somehow have overheard you and Jerry when you were talking to Veronica in the back parlor. I saw her leave the ball room soon after you girls did. I saw her come back again after you had returned. I didn’t pay any particular heed to it then. You see I didn’t know about Veronica until you told me last night after the dance. Even then I didn’t connect her with you girls, although I guessed from what the La Salles’ chauffeur said to Mignon that she must have gone downstairs and telephoned her home.” A tiny smile played about Constance’s lips as she recalled Mignon’s defeat. “When Gertrude mentioned what Mignon had said about Veronica, the whole thing flashed across me in a twinkling. Gertrude promised not to tell anyone else. I know she won’t. But Mignon will circulate it throughout the school. Of course she won’t mention, though, how she came by the information.”

“It was contemptible in her if she really did spy upon us,” was Marjorie’s indignant outburst. “I don’t see how she could have managed to, though. I didn’t see a soul downstairs while we were there. If she does gossip it in school, Veronica won’t care. She will only laugh.”

“But Jerry will care,” reminded Constance gravely. “As soon as she hears it she will go to Mignon and make a fuss about it. You know what she said that day at Sargent’s. She meant it, too. We can’t allow our president to resign from the club.”

“We will tell Jerry about it tonight,” decreed Marjorie. “It is better for her to hear it from us than from someone else. She will be cross, of course, but she won’t resign. Something will have to be done about Mignon, though. She’s not keeping her word of honor to the club. This is not the first offense. I can’t explain what I mean by that because I promised a certain person I wouldn’t tell what she told me. Someone will have to go to her and remind her of her duty to the club. If she keeps on saying such hateful things about others, outsiders will form a bad opinion of us all.”

“As president, it’s Jerry’s duty to tell her,” asserted Constance. “No doubt she will wish to do it. That’s just where the trouble lies. She will be apt to tell Mignon very bluntly that she must either stop gossiping or resign from the club. Mignon will simply snap her fingers at Jerry and Jerry herself will resign rather than be in the same club with Mignon.”

“Very likely,” nodded Marjorie. Constance’s theory entirely coincided with her own. “If we talk things over with Jerry beforehand it may make a good deal of difference. Although I wouldn’t say it to anyone but you or Captain, I’ve lately come to the conclusion that trying to help Mignon is a waste of time, energy and peace of mind. It’s like building a sand castle on the beach. Before one has time to finish it the sea washes over it and sweeps it away. If it hadn’t been for that affair at Riverview last year, I would never have troubled myself about her again. Do you realize, Connie, that this is the fourth year that we have had to contend with that girl’s mischief-making?” Marjorie’s question quivered with righteous resentment.

“Yes, but she has never been really successful in a single piece of mischief she has planned,” reminded Constance. “She’s caused us a good deal of unhappiness, but in the end she has been the one to suffer defeat. It generally happens that way with persons like her. They may seem to succeed for a while, but always there comes a day when they have to pay for the trouble they make others. As I have said to you before, I am sorry for Mignon. Honestly, I don’t think we can ever help her much, but she might better be in the club than out of it.”

“Then you think that no matter what she may do we ought still to be patient with her and make allowances?” Marjorie’s query indicated profound respect for Constance’s broad-minded opinion. It made her feel as though her brief flash of resentment of Mignon had been unworthy of herself.

“Yes;” came the unhesitating reply. “What else is there to do? You and I, in particular, made ourselves responsible when we insisted that Mignon should be asked to join the Lookouts. As good soldiers we have no right to shirk that responsibility.”

“I am not going to shirk it.” Marjorie squared her shoulders with an energy that bespoke fresh purpose. “After all I said to the girls about Mignon joining the club, it was cowardly in me to complain so bitterly about her. You’ve made me realize all over again that we ought to look out for Mignon, because it’s the right thing to do, not because of our promise to her father.”

“I’ll stand by you.” Stopping in the middle of the walk, Constance offered her hand to Marjorie in pledge of her offer to stand by.

Both girls laughed as they went through with the little ceremony of shaking hands, little realizing that their compact would, later, turn out to be no laughing matter.

CHAPTER XIII—JERRY DECLARES HERSELF