The Automobile Girls at Newport; Or, Watching the Summer Parade

CHAPTER XIII—THE NIGHT OF THE BALL

Barbara truly wanted a minute to think. She had come to the ball under Miss Sallie’s excellent chaperonage, early in the evening, and had been dancing hard ever since. The little girl from Kingsbridge, who had never before seen anything finer than a village entertainment, felt almost overcome by the splendor and magnificence of everything about her.

Mrs. Erwin’s ballroom was built out from the side of her handsome villa like a Greek portico. The conservatory joined it at one end, forming an inner triangular court. This court was filled with rare trees which threw their branches out over a miniature artificial lake. The guests could pass from the ballroom into this open garden, or they could enter it through the conservatory.

The walls of the wonderful ballroom were covered with a white silk brocade, and on this night Mrs. Erwin had allowed only yellow flowers to be used as decorations. Great bowls of yellow roses perfumed the air, and golden orchids looked like troops of butterflies just poising before they took flight.

“Now I know,” said Mollie, with a catch in her breath, as she first came into the magnificent ballroom, “what King Midas’s garden must have looked like, when he went round and caressed all the flowers in it with the golden touch.”

“Clever Mollie!” laughed Ruth. “I expect it is the golden touch that has been round this ballroom, or the touch of golden dollars, anyway.”

Mollie blushed. “I didn’t mean that,” she said.

Barbara leaned her head against the rose-colored cushion, just the color of the jeweled spray in her hair; she was wearing the coral jewelry her mother had given her. Fortunately the two girls had saved their best party dresses for this ball, having been content to wear their summer muslins at the informal dances at the Casino.

Barbara, in her dainty pink flowered organdie, with her cheeks flushed to match it in color, resembled a lovely wild rose.

Curiously enough, amid all this elegance, Bab felt a little homesick. She kept thinking of her mother and the little cottage.

“It’s a wonderful experience for Mollie and me,” she said to herself. “I hope I can tell mother exactly what it looks like. I am sure fairyland can’t be half so gorgeous; fairies wear only dewdrops for jewels; but here, I believe, there must be nearly all the jewels in the world.”

Barbara did not know how big the world really is, nor how many people and jewels, both real and paste, there are in it. After all, artificial people are no better than paste jewels!

Earlier in the evening Mollie and Barbara had stood with their hands tight together, watching the men and women enter the great reception room to speak to their host and hostess.

“Diamonds,” whispered Mollie to Bab, “seem as plentiful as the strawberries we gathered for the hotel people this summer. We didn’t dream, then, that we were coming to Newport! Isn’t my Mrs. Cartwright the most beautiful of them all?” wound up the loyal child.

Mrs. Cartwright wore a white satin gown, with a diamond star in the tulle of her bodice. In her hair was a spray of diamonds, mounted to look like a single stalk of lilies of the valley, each jewel hanging from the slender stem like a tiny floweret.

The conservatory was almost empty while Bab rested and waited.

During the intermission in the dance nearly all the guests had wandered into the dining-room or into the moonlit garden.

Barbara realized that she was almost completely hidden by the great palm trees that formed an arch over her head and drooped their long arms down over her. She had crept into this seat in order that she might see without being seen.

Yet in spite of the quiet, Barbara was not resting. Her heart was beating fast with the excitement of this wonderful evening, and her tiny feet in the pink silk slippers still kept time to the last waltz she had danced with Hugh.

The conservatory door, leading into the garden, was open. Barbara saw Mrs. Post, Governor Post, Harry Townsend and a woman in a gold-colored brocade enter the conservatory and stop to talk for a few minutes. They had not noticed Barbara nor did she feel it was quite proper to interrupt them, as she did not know the strange woman who was with them.

Governor Post bowed in military fashion to the ladies.

“Now,” he said, “I’ll go, and leave the young man to do the entertaining. We old fellows must make ourselves useful when our ornamental days are over. Mr. Townsend will look after you here, and I shall find a waiter and have him bring you something to eat.”

Barbara saw Harry Townsend talking in his most impressive manner to the two women.

“It is curious,” Bab thought, to herself, “what a society man Harry Townsend is. Gladys says he is only twenty-two. I wonder where he comes from. Nobody seems to know. Oh, yes; Gladys said he was educated in Paris. She met him on shipboard.”

The little girl from her green bower was an interested watcher. It was fascinating to be able to see all that was going on, without being seen. Bab sat as quiet as a mouse, taking no part in the conversation.

Mrs. Post was a handsome woman of about fifty, who looked rather stern to the girls; but Hugh assured them that she was “dead easy,” once you got on the right side of her. Her husband was a prominent lawyer in Washington, and their winters were usually spent in the capital.

Mrs. Post’s gown was nearly covered by a long, light-colored chiffon wrap, with a high collar lined with a curious ornamental embroidery.

“Harry,” she said, turning to the young man with her, “it is warm in here with these tropical plants; will you be kind enough to remove my wrap?”

The conservatory was dimly lighted. Barbara sat in the shadow. Between her and the party she was watching was a central row of flowers and evergreens, dividing the long room into two aisles.

She saw Harry rise and lean over Mrs. Post, who only half rose from her chair. Deftly and with wonderful ease and swiftness, Townsend undid the clasp at her throat; but, for a moment, the embroidery from the collar seemed to have caught in her hair.

Barbara’s eyes grew wide and staring with surprise. As the coat slipped back from Mrs. Post’s shoulders, she saw a string like a tiny green serpent glide with magic smoothness and swiftness from her throat, and drop into the shrubbery back of her, or—into Harry Townsend’s hand?

What should she do? Announce that she had seen her string of emeralds disappear? Mrs. Post was talking and laughing gayly with her friend in the gold-colored dress. Harry was smiling quietly by them. Barbara rubbed her eyes. Surely she was mistaken. She had been dazzled by the wonderful sights she had seen that night. While she hesitated her opportunity passed.

Governor Post returned, saying to his wife: “Come, my dear, I have found Miss Stuart and a friend. They have a table out in the garden, and want us to join them.”

Mrs. Post again drew her wrap over her shoulders and turned to leave the conservatory. As she rose she saw Barbara.

“You there, my child?” she said in a friendly way. “Why didn’t you speak to me?”

Barbara could only answer her stupidly. “I was waiting for Hugh.”

When Hugh returned he found Barbara looking as pale as though she had just seen a ghost.

“What’s the matter?” he asked at once. “Are you ill?”

But Bab shook her head. “I’ll go find Miss Stuart,” the young man suggested.

“You’ll do no such thing, Hugh!” Barbara had recovered her breath. “There’s nothing much the matter with me—at least, I am not sure whether I ought to tell you.”

“Bab and Hugh! Well, I like this!” Grace’s voice sounded from the doorway, as she and Donald Cartwright came in, followed by Ruth and Ralph. “Here you two have run away by yourselves, when we promised to stick together this evening, in order to keep up each other’s courage. You ought to see Gladys! She’s as angry as can he, and is wandering round with Mollie and the freshman. Harry has been gone somewhere for a long time, and she has no partner for the next dance.”

“Are you sick, Bab?” inquired Ruth. She, too, noticed that Bab was unusually pale. Before she received an answer, Governor and Mrs. Post came into the conservatory, followed by Harry Townsend, Miss Stuart and the woman in yellow.

“You are just the fellow I want to see, Hugh,” said his father, so quietly that no one except those near him could hear. “Your mother has lost her emerald necklace, and she thought she had it on when she was last in here. We don’t want to create any excitement, or to let Mrs. Erwin or the servants know until we have made a thorough search. She very probably dropped it among these flowers. Lock the door out there, will you? Miss Carter, you and Donald, please keep guard at the other door while these young people help me look.”

“I thought——” said Barbara.

“Why, you were in here, child, when we were. You were on the other side of these evergreens,” said Mrs. Post. “What did you say?”

“I thought it might be in these evergreens,” Barbara finished, lamely, getting down on her knees to assist in the search. Dared she speak of what she thought she had seen? Dared she speak with no evidence but her own word? Could she have been in error? First, she would look with the others.

Every palm, every flower, every inch of space was carefully gone over. No sign of the missing emeralds!

“Did anyone enter the conservatory after I left, Miss Thurston?” inquired Mrs. Post coldly. She was worried by the loss of her jewels, which were of great value, as well as annoyed by the excitement she was causing.

“Nobody came in,” Bab said, “only Hugh.”

“I am exceedingly sorry,” the governor said at last, “but Mrs. Erwin will have to be notified. The jewels were either lost or stolen, and must be found. If the servants find the necklace a liberal reward will induce them to return it.”

The older people left the conservatory.

Just as the younger ones turned to leave, Barbara, whose strange expression had not escaped the sharp eyes of Ruth, laid her hand on Hugh’s arm.

“Ask Harry Townsend to stay here a minute with us, won’t you please, Hugh?” said Barbara hoarsely.

“Say, Townsend,” Hugh called, “come back a moment. I want to speak to you. Or, rather, Miss Thurston does.”

“Mr. Townsend,” said Barbara, her face pale as death, “did you not see Mrs. Post’s necklace when you took off her wrap in here?”

“No,” said Harry quietly. “Did you?”

“Ask him, Hugh,” said Barbara, desperately, “to show you what he has in his pockets!”

“Oh, say, Barbara!” Hugh answered. “I can’t do that. It’s a little too much.”

But Ralph stepped forward. “We don’t know what Miss Thurston means, but she most certainly doesn’t mean to insult Mr. Townsend unnecessarily. Why, then, should he mind turning out his pockets? Here Hugh,” Ralph turned, “search me first. Then Mr. Townsend won’t object to the selfsame process.”

Hugh’s face was crimson, but he looked through Ralph’s pockets in a gingerly fashion.

When he finished Harry Townsend turned quietly to Barbara. “I don’t know why you wish to insult me,” he said to her, “but I am perfectly willing to have Mr. Post search me. You were the only person in the conservatory after the jewels were lost!”

Hugh started his search.

Barbara leaned sick and faint against her chair, expecting every moment to see Hugh draw the jewels forth. She kept her eyes averted while Harry turned his pockets wrong side out and finally opened his vest.

“Barbara,” said Hugh, coldly, and Bab turned around. “We owe Mr. Townsend an apology. He is certainly no thief!”

The jewels were nowhere to be found.

CHAPTER XIV—BARBARA’S SECRET

“I am so sorry you feel so badly, Barbara, dear,” said Ruth, “but, of course, it was a wretched mistake for you to have made. Let’s try to forget that horrid scene. Some servant will pick up the necklace in the morning, and return it to Mrs. Post. Hugh and I have decided that it will be wise for those of us who were in the conservatory just at the last not to speak of what happened. You will forgive us, Mollie, dear, won’t you, if we don’t tell even you?”

“No, I won’t!” cried Mollie, stamping her little slippered foot. “Bab can’t have secrets that make her cry—not from her own sister. And I don’t see, anyway, what Bab has to do with Mrs. Post having lost her emerald necklace. If you think the loss is a secret, you’re wrong, because everybody in the ballroom was whispering it about half an hour afterwards. I heard of it from a perfect stranger!”

“Mollie,” said Ruth quietly, “will you please do me a favor? Don’t ask Barbara to tell you what happened that has worried her. It was nothing but an unfortunate mistake, and will all blow over in the morning.”

“Very well, Ruth,” agreed Mollie. “I won’t ask. But I am not a baby, and I am very sure it would be better if I were told.”

Thus poor Bab had no one in whom to confide, and had to bear her ugly secret all alone.

Ruth kissed her good night, saying: “Cheer up, silly girl, and sleep late as you can in the morning. You know, it’s to be the last day of our tennis practice, and you are going to beat me tomorrow!”

Ruth tiptoed over to Mollie, who was undressing in silence. “Mistress Mollie,” she said, “forgive me; do, please, like a dear. Talking about horrid things only makes them horrider!”

Ruth, in the depths of her heart, thought that Barbara had been most unwise in her hinted accusation of Harry Townsend. For Bab’s sake she thought it best for everyone to forget what had happened. It was a fault in Ruth’s nature that she loved only pleasant things, and would often give up, even when she knew she was right, in order not to make trouble.

The next morning a Barbara of heavy eyes and white cheeks joined the players on the tennis court.

Plainly Harry had confided what had happened to Gladys, for she did not speak to Bab as she came up to her, but tossed her head and bit her lips. Gladys said nothing, however, for Harry had made her promise she would not breathe what he had told her.

As for Mr. Townsend, he treated Barbara with cold politeness. But Barbara was beginning to have her eyes opened. “If I am right about him,” she thought to herself, “then I shall have to be very careful. I believe he is more clever than any of us dream!”

It was Hugh whose manner was most constrained. He could not forgive the scene of the night before, in which he had been forced to take an unwilling part. Not until Ruth called him over to her, and gave him a lecture, did he beg Bab’s pardon, and ask that they all forget the experience of the night before.

“Come on!” he called, cheerily, to the group of tennis players. “It’s do or die to-day—the last test day for us. It will show us who is to represent our crowd at the tournament. The girl and the fellow who can beat all the rest of us stand a good chance of winning the silver cup. Mrs. Cartwright says she has been closely following the game of the star players and she thinks we have them beaten to a finish. Come on, Ruth, let’s show ’em that we’re out for blood!”

Swish! Barbara’s ball flew over the net and curved toward the ground at Hugh’s left. Not too swiftly for that young gentleman; while Ruth’s heart gave a jump of apprehension, Hugh made a left-hand swing with his racquet and sent the ball whizzing back.

“Fifteen!” Ralph called out, in a bored tone. He had failed in his return.

The battle raged all morning.

Grace and Donald Cartwright, Gladys and Mr. Townsend were soon out of the running. When they had finished they sank gratefully on the ground, to watch the others play.

The field was thus left to Barbara and Ralph, to Ruth and Hugh. The sets stood even, and two more games would decide.

A small crowd of visitors stood around the court. Mrs. Cartwright, having finished her own game, came over to look on. Miss Sallie was trying to be impartial, but she was really deeply interested in Ruth’s success. Mrs. Erwin, Mrs. Post, the governor, all their friends, were lined up to behold the battle.

A subdued discussion of the lost emeralds had been going on at the Casino all morning. After a thorough search of every inch of Mrs. Erwin’s house and grounds, there was still no sign of the jewels; but Governor Post and Mrs. Erwin had made every effort to have the scandal of the necklace hushed up. They had seen the Newport detectives, and had telegraphed to New York for two experts to be sent down to handle the case. In the meantime they had been advised not to talk.

Now the only upright person, who could have given them any information had, for just a little while, forgotten all about it. Whatever Barbara did she did with her whole heart. Today she played tennis.

“Ralph,” Hugh called, “remember, now, it’s two straight games to finish the way we stand!”

There was no more conversation. Even the watchers held their breath. The referee sat on the ground, rapidly calling out the score—“forty—thirty—deuce!”

“Is this game to go on forever?” Miss Sallie inquired, plaintively. “My girls will be wholly worn out.”

“Advantage in!” shouted the referee.

Ralph sprang forward for his ball; his foot slipped. Barbara, who had been expecting him to return it, was not ready.

“Game!”

Ruth and Hugh shook hands with each other. But Hugh called over: “Say, Ralph, was this game all right? You turned your ankle, didn’t you?”

“Surely I did,” said Ralph. “I was an idiot, but it is your game just the same. I’ll make it up next time, Barbara—see if I don’t!”

“My dear Ruth,” said Miss Sallie, “I cannot permit it. You will be exhausted.”

“Here, Barbara,” said Mollie, “do try to get your breath, and let me fix up your hair.”

“No prinking!” Ralph called out. “This is business, ladies!”

The good old Casino courts never saw a finer tennis battle. Ralph and Bab played as though they had forgotten their talk in the woods that day when they had tea at Mrs. Duffy’s. Ruth and Hugh were foeman worthy of their best steel.

The game stood forty-all, and it was Bab’s serve. Bab’s serves were what made her tennis remarkable. They were as swift and straight and true as a boy’s.

Hugh stood ready waiting. Barbara caught a look in Ruth’s face, on the other side of the net. Her big blue eyes, frank and clear as a baby’s, were glowing with interest, with hope, with ambition! Like a flash the thought of all Ruth had done for them came into Bab’s mind. Did it weaken the force of her drive? Or was it because her mind was distracted? The ball fell just inside the net on her own side.

“Try again, partner mine!” shouted Ralph, “show ’em what you’re made of!”

This time Barbara was plainly nervous. She felt that nearly all the friends around them wanted Ruth to win. They would be delighted, of course, with her success and kind to her, but open-hearted and open-handed Ruth was the favorite with them all; at least, Bab thought so.

With returning courage, Bab hit her last ball a hard blow. It rose high in the air! Hugh sprang on his tiptoes to receive it and gave a mighty shout. The ball had fallen outside the line.

Ralph and Barbara were the first to congratulate the victors. Barbara cleared the net with a bound, forgetting both her age and her audience.

“There, Ruth, you and Hugh are the best players that ever happened!” Barbara spoke with a glowing face. Then she turned to Ralph: “I lost the game for you,” she said. “I am so sorry.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t, my lady,” said Ralph. “I lost the game before this one, so we’re even.”

An admiring circle had formed around Ruth and Hugh.

“Your father will be delighted, I know, child,” said Miss Sallie.

“I haven’t won the cup yet, Auntie,” protested Ruth.

“But you must, child,” said Mrs. Cartwright, smiling. “I am betting on you and Hugh in the tournament, and you mustn’t make me lose my box of candy.”

“Barbara,” said Ralph, shyly, as they walked off toward home a little later, “I don’t like to ask you, but did you mean to miss those last serves?”

Barbara shook her head. “No,” she said, “I don’t think I meant to. I don’t know. But they were the best players, weren’t they, Ralph?”

“Certainly,” Ralph answered.

CHAPTER XV—RUTH IN DANGER

“Thank you,” Ruth answered; “but tell your mother that none of us can accept.”

“O Ruth!” exclaimed Hugh. “I am fearfully disappointed, and mother I know will be angry.”

“I am afraid I don’t care, Hugh,” was Ruth’s reply. “I don’t like your mother’s inviting any of us, if she had to leave Bab out.”

As Hugh turned to leave the front porch, where he had found Ruth alone, she called after him: “Wait a minute, please. I don’t know what to tell Aunt Sallie. Your mother will be sure to speak to her of her invitation, and Auntie will think I should have let her refuse for herself. Oh, I know!”

Ruth’s face cleared. “I will go tell Aunt Sallie that she and Grace and Mollie are asked. I’ll stay with my dear Bab,” she finished a little defiantly. “If I am also left out of the party, no one will think anything of it.”

“Oh, I say, Ruth,” Hugh urged, “please come.”

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head decidedly.

“I expect you’re right,” Hugh replied.

Miss Sallie, Mollie and Grace accepted Mrs. Post’s invitation with pleasure. As Mrs. Post’s yacht was small, they did not think it strange that the other two girls were left out.

How angry Mollie would have been, had she guessed the truth. Not a step would she have gone. As it was, she begged Barbara to go in her place.

But Bab was too clever. She understood what had happened, and was glad to be left out of the party. She put her arm around Ruth’s waist, whispering coaxingly: “Do go along with the others, old story-teller. You know you were asked.”

Ruth shook her head decidedly. “Not on your life,” she slangily retorted. Fortunately, Miss Sallie did not hear her.

“What shall we do this afternoon, Bab?” inquired Ruth after luncheon. “Suppose you and I go for a long walk?”

“Don’t think I am a lazy good-for-nothing, Ruth,” Barbara begged, “but I have a little headache, and I must write to mother. Mollie and I have been neglecting her shamefully of late. I haven’t even written her about the wonderful ball.”

“Are you going to tell her what happened, Bab?” Ruth inquired.

“I suppose so,” sighed Bab. She was half inclined to discuss the unfortunate affair with Ruth, but changed her mind.

“Well, Bab,” Ruth declared, “I shall go for the walk ‘all by my lonesomes.’ I’ll be back in time for dinner. The others are to dine on the yacht, so we need not look for them until bedtime. I think I’ll take the cliff walk, for the sea is so splendid to-day.”

Left alone, Barbara got out her writing materials and sat down by the window, but she did not begin to write.

“I wonder,” she asked herself, “why we have been mixed up in burglaries ever since Ruth began talking about our trip to Newport? First, our poor little twenty-dollar gold-pieces disappear; then we have that dreadful robber at New Haven. Now Mrs. Post’s emerald necklace is stolen! It could not all have been Mr. Townsend!” Barbara sat with her hands clenched.

“If it is true,” she went on, “and I saw the necklace disappear with my own eyes, then we have another Raffles to deal with. Mr. Raffles, the second! I believe I am the only person that suspects him. Well, Mr. Harry Townsend!” Barbara’s red lips tightened, “you are successful now, but we shall see whose wits are better, yours or mine!”

Barbara’s face turned a deep crimson. “I understood. He wanted to suggest I was the thief. Only he didn’t dare to accuse me openly the other night. I won’t tell mother,” Barbara at last decided. “I’ll just watch—and wait!”

Barbara wrote her mother a long, happy letter, without a hint of the troubles she began to feel closing in on her. Then she straightened her own and Mollie’s bureau drawers and arranged their clothes in the two closets. Still Ruth did not come.

Twice Barbara went into her room. It was half past five—six—Mrs. Ewing’s early dinner was served at half after six.

“Mrs. Ewing,” Barbara said, knocking timidly at her door. “Have you seen anything of Ruth? She has been gone such a long time that I am worried about her.”

But Mrs. Ewing knew nothing of her.

“I believe I’ll go to meet her,” said Barbara, “and hurry her along. She must be on her way home.” Ralph was on the yacht with Hugh, or Barbara would have asked him to accompany her.

For the first half mile along the cliff walk Barbara strolled slowly, expecting every moment to see Ruth hurrying along. As the walk dipped down into hollows and rose again in the high places, it was difficult to see any distance ahead.

The walk was entirely deserted, and Bab’s heart commenced to beat faster as the darkness began to gather.

“I suppose,” thought Barbara, “Ruth has gone somewhere to make a visit, and has stayed late without thinking. She’s probably at home, now, waiting for me, so I’ll get the scolding from Mrs. Ewing for being late to dinner. I believe I’ll go on back home.” Barbara actually turned and started in the opposite direction.

Something within her seemed to call: “Bab! Bab!” The voice was so urgent she was frightened. “Ruth needs you,” it seemed to say.

Bab began calling aloud, “Ruth! Ruth!” Her voice sounded high and shrill in her own ears; but only the echo answered her, and the noise of the waves pounding against the shore. She could see the distant lights in the houses along the way, but Barbara dared not stop to ask for help while that inner voice urged her on.

Barbara was running, now, along the narrow, difficult path. “O Ruth, dear Ruth!” she cried. “Why don’t you answer me? Are you anywhere, needing me?” She heard a low sound and stopped. Nothing but her own imagination! There were always queer noises along the cliff shore, where the water swirled into little eddies and gurgled out again.

Barbara waited. She heard nothing more, so she plunged on. Suddenly she drew back with a gasp of horror. Part of the cliff walk had disappeared! Where a bridge of stone had spanned a narrow chasm there was a terrible, yawning hole. Jutting out their vicious arms were rocks, rocks, forming a sheer drop of seventy feet to the beach below.

Involuntarily, Barbara had flung herself down on her hands and knees to keep from falling over into the abyss.

“Ruth couldn’t have,” she thought. “No, no!” But hark! Was that again the low moaning sound of the waters? Barbara lay flat on the rocks, stretching her head over the embankment. There, in a cleft between two great rocks, fifteen feet below her, a dark object hung!

“Ruth! Ruth!” Bab called, her voice coming from her throat in a hoarse cry. Again she heard the faint moan. This time she knew the sound. It was Ruth! What could she do? Run for help? Any second, Bab realized, Ruth’s strength might fail, and she would let go her grasp. Barbara could not bear to think of the horrible end.

As far as she could see, Ruth’s feet rested on a narrow ledge of rock, while she clung with her hands to a cliff that jutted out overhead. “Ruth! Ruth!” Barbara called again, but this time her voice was clear and strong. “It is Bab! Do you understand? Hold on a little longer. I am coming.”

Swiftly a prayer came into Barbara’s mind: “Lord, show me the way.” Yet even while she prayed she acted. “Help, help!” Bab called out.

She tore off the long woolen shawl which she had wrapped round her when she came out to seek Ruth. With hands that seemed to gain a superhuman strength Bab tore it into three, four strips. She dared not make the strips narrower for fear they would not hold. Then she took off her skirt of light wool and wrenched it into broad bands. How, Barbara never knew. She felt that the power was given her.

Growing out from a rock between Bab and the moaning figure on the cliff below was a small tree, its roots deeply imbedded in the hard soil. Ruth had evidently reached out to grasp this tree as the cliff bridge gave way beneath her feet; but, missing it, her feet had touched a ledge of rock and she had flung out her arms and clasped the stone above her. How much longer would her failing strength serve her?

Bab again lay down and measured the length of her queer rope. She found that by reaching the tree she could tie the rope to it and it would then be long enough to extend to Ruth. Removing her shoes, Barbara slowly, and with infinite caution, crawled down the jagged rocks, clinging with her hands and toes. Finally she arrived at the tree, and fastened her rope securely around it, only to find it dangled just above Ruth’s head. Yet what was the use? If Ruth for an instant let go the rock to which she clung her feet would slip from the ledge, and Bab’s poor woolen strings could never hold her.

But Barbara understood this. She was face to face with the great moment of her life, and, though she was only a simple country girl, neither her brains nor her strength failed her.

Did she stop at the tree after the rope was tied? No! Still clinging, sliding, her hands bruised and bleeding, Barbara was making her way to where Ruth hung. Bab had said truly that she could climb. Never had a girl a better opportunity to prove her boast! There were moments when she believed she could not go on. Then the thought of Ruth renewed her courage.

Just above Ruth’s head, on the left side of her, was a great boulder with a curved, smooth surface. It was to this rock Bab made her way. She was so close to Ruth now that she could lean over and touch her. “Courage, dear,” she whispered, and she thought she saw Ruth’s pale lips smile. She had not fainted; for this, Barbara was grateful.

When Barbara was a little girl her mother had been ashamed of her tomboy ways; but she had given in, with a gentle sigh, when Bab grew and flourished by playing boys’ games, by learning various boyish arts; among them was the knack of tying a sailor knot.

Edging closer and closer to Ruth she managed to reach out and catch hold of the rope she had fastened to the tree. With one hand on her own rock, with the other she drew the cord about Ruth, fastening it firmly under her arms. The rope was not strong enough to draw Ruth up to safety, but it would steady her should her hands give way.

Somehow, in some way, Barbara must get further help.

Now that her first duty was over, she began to call loudly: “Help, help!” Her shouts roused Ruth, who joined feebly in the cry. No sound answered them. Only the seagulls swept over them, uttering their hoarse call.

Barbara felt her own strength going. She tried to crawl up the slippery rock again, but her power was gone. She, too, felt herself—slipping, slipping! With one wild cry she caught at her rock, and all was still!

CHAPTER XVI—HELP ARRIVES

“Call again, if you can,” Mr. Cartwright yelled. Faintly, a voice seemed to come up out of the earth. “Help, help! Oh, please!”

Mr. Cartwright caught the direction of the voice, and ran along the cliffs. In a moment he espied the fallen bridge and guessed what had happened; then he and Jones saw the two girls in their perilous position.

Leaning over, he called: “Can you hear me?”

Bab answered, “Yes.”

“Then keep still,” shouted Mr. Cartwright, “and I’ll have you up here in a moment.”

Quickly he knotted the rope around Jones’s waist; then, some yards farther on, he tied it round his own. “Go back,” he said to his butler, “and lie down.” Jones was large and heavy; Mr. Cartwright was a tall man, thin, but strong.

Slowly he lowered himself to the tree where Bab had tied her poor rope, and flung an improvised lasso over to Bab. “Not me,” said Barbara, forgetting her grammar. “Ruth first.”

“Can she climb with the help of the rope?” asked their rescuer.

Ruth had not spoken, but she opened her eyes, gave a shudder and fainted.

Like a flash Bab had thrown the lasso over her shoulders, and Ruth hung swaying in the air! Fortunately her feet were still on the ledge of the rock. Mr. Cartwright caught his rope round the tree, at the same time calling to Jones, “Throw me another coil!” He then clambered down and half carried, half dragged the fainting Ruth to the top of the cliff.

Once above, he dropped his burden, and again flung the lasso over the edge of the rocks to Barbara, who, crawling and being pulled by turns, came up in safety. When she had reached the top, and stood by the side of the fainting Ruth, Bab’s courage deserted her, and she burst into tears.

“Get the young ladies to the house at once,” ordered Mr. Cartwright, far more frightened than he had been while playing rescuer.

How fared the yachting party? They did not have a good day. Hugh was in a bad humor because Ruth had not come; Ralph missed Barbara, and, try as they might to avoid it, the conversation would drift back to the lost emeralds.

“I shall never understand it,” said Mrs. Erwin to Aunt Sallie, in subdued tones. “The detectives say they have made a thorough search of my servants’ quarters, have watched their movements ever since the night of the theft, and they can find none of them of whom they are even suspicious. They do say”—this time Mrs. Erwin dropped her voice to a whisper, for the woman who was with Mrs. Post at the time of the robbery was approaching them—“they say that the burglar was probably—one of the guests!”

This woman, who had worn a gold-colored brocade, was an American, who had married a Frenchman, but her husband was supposed to have been dead several years. She had come to Newport, this season, with letters of introduction, and was already very popular.

“Do you know,” she inquired, “where Miss Le Baron and Mr. Townsend are? No one has seen them recently.”

“Oh,” laughed Mrs. Erwin, “we leave those two young people alone. I believe they have an affair of their own. Have you known Mr. Townsend before this meeting?”

“Oh, no,” replied the woman, in a curious tone; “at least, I have met him once or twice. I can’t say I know him.”

“Ladies,” Governor Post said, coming up to them, “I believe I will cheat you of part of your sail today. There are ugly clouds gathering, and I think it better to put into harbor. We can go ashore, or not, as we feel inclined.”

As the yacht neared the shore, Miss Sallie grew restless. It was the first time since the beginning of their trip that she had been separated from any of her girls. As soon as dinner was over she begged Governor Post to put herself, Grace and Mollie ashore. Immediately the rest of the party agreed to disembark with her.

Ralph and the two girls followed Aunt Sallie home. For once, she hurried on before them, urged by a kind of foreboding.

She found Mrs. Ewing, white and frightened, walking up and down in front of her gate. Mr. Ewing and the maids had left the house, half an hour before, to search for the lost girls.

Thoughtlessly Mrs. Ewing rushed up to Miss Stuart. “Have Ruth and Barbara joined you?” she asked.

“Why, no,” replied the two girls in amazement. Ralph stared in surprise; but Miss Sallie spoke firmly. “Tell me, at once, what has happened.” In the midst of real danger Miss Stuart was a different woman, as Mr. Stuart well knew when he allowed her to chaperon the automobile girls.

Mrs. Ewing had nothing to tell. All she knew was that the girls had gone out for a long walk, and, at eight o’clock, had not come back.

“Come with me, Ralph,” Miss Sallie demanded. Grace and Mollie followed them.

“Don’t be frightened, Mollie,” Grace begged, trying to talk cheerfully, though she was trembling violently. “Rely upon Ruth and Bab to get safely out of a scrape.”

Just as they reached the end of the street that turned into the cliff walk, Miss Sallie espied a servant of the Cartwrights running in their direction. “Stop him!” she commanded Ralph.

“Sure, mum, I am to tell you,” the gardener’s boy said, “the young ladies was not killed.”

“Not killed!” the girls cried, in horror. Ralph took hold of Mollie’s hand.

“That is what I was to say, mum,” said the boy, evidently much excited. “They is not much hurt and will be home soon.”

“Take me to them, at once,” ordered Miss Sallie, asking no further questions. The gardener’s boy led the way.

When the party arrived, Mrs. Cartwright, still in her yachting suit, ran out to meet them. Ruth came to the door, walking a little stiffly. Barbara followed her, and straightway begged Mollie not to cry.

“It’s all over, silly little Mollie,” she whispered, “and neither Ruth nor I am hurt. We are just a little scratched, and very dirty, and we want to go to bed.”

“Mr. Cartwright has already had the doctor in to see us, Auntie,” said Ruth. “He is in the drawing room now. We have no broken bones or strains, though my shoulders ache rather badly.”

Mollie and Grace were both crying, just because there was nothing, now, for them to cry about.

Miss Sallie made Ruth sit down again, as her niece was almost too weak to stand. After listening in silence to Ruth’s story, Aunt Sallie held out her hand to Mr. Cartwright. “My brother and I can never thank you, and I shall not attempt it. Ruth means all our world.” Then she turned to Barbara, and gathered her in her arms. “My child,” she said, “you are the bravest girl I ever knew.” Miss Stuart choked, and could say no more.

“Do you remember, Bab,” asked Mollie, when Barbara was safe in her own bed, “how once you said you would one day repay Ruth and Mr. Stuart for their kindness to us? Well, I think, and I know they will think, that you have kept your promise. Yes; I’m going to let her go to sleep, Miss Sallie,” Mollie called back, in answer to Miss Stuart’s remonstrance.

Ruth and Barbara were utterly worn out, and had been put into warm baths and rubbed down with alcohol. “I am not even going to give two such sensible girls doses of aromatic spirits of ammonia,” declared the doctor, who had driven over from Mrs. Cartwright’s with them and had seen the girls safely in bed. “They will be all right in a day or two,” he assured Miss Sallie, “as soon as they get over the nervous shock.”

It took six telegrams to Mr. Stuart and Mrs. Thurston to persuade them the girls were unhurt and able to remain in Newport.

CHAPTER XVII—THE FORTUNE-TELLERS

“Then you are just the girls I am looking for,” said Mrs. Cartwright, clapping her hands. “You know, I asked you, Bab, to play gypsy fortune-teller at my bazaar; now I want to ask Ruth to join you. Everyone thinks you are both laid up from your accident, and no one will suspect who you are. The plans for the bazaar are going splendidly. I think I shall make lots of money for my poor sailors. I shall have it as simple and attractive as I can—a real country fair, with booths and lemonade stands. I am going to give these jaded Newport people a taste of the simple life. Do say you will help me.”

Both girls shook their heads. “We do not know how to tell fortunes,” they protested.

“Oh, it’s only fun,” argued Mrs. Cartwright. “You can make up any foolishness you like as you go along. I’ll show you how to run the cards, as they call it. Has either of you ever seen anyone do it?”

Bab confessed she had watched “Granny Ann.” Suddenly she left her chair, and came hobbling over to Mrs. Cartwright, saying, in Granny Ann’s own high-pitched, whining voice: “Lovely lady, would you know the future, grave or gay, cross my hand with a silver piece and list to what I say.”

Gravely, Mrs. Cartwright extracted a dollar from her silver purse, and made the gypsy sign on Bab’s outstretched hand. Barbara immediately told her such a nonsensical fortune, in a perfectly grave voice, that she and Ruth both screamed with laughter.

“You’ll do, Bab,” said Mrs. Cartwright. “Won’t you join her, Ruth?”

“Well,” said Ruth, “I never desert Mrs. Micawber these days, or, to put it plainly, Miss Bab Thurston. So I’m game.”

“Thursday, then, remember, and this is Tuesday,” said Mrs. Cartwright. “I am the busiest woman in Newport, so I must run away now. You should see my house and lawn. They are full of workmen. The fair is to begin promptly at four, and will last until midnight. We shall have dancing on the lawn, but I want you girls and a few friends to come into the house after supper. When you finish playing fortune-tellers you can slip up to my room and dress. Nobody must guess, when you come down, that you have not just arrived. Now, I positively must be off. Tell Mollie and Grace I am depending on them to act as waitresses. Gladys isn’t willing to help. She wants all her time for Harry Townsend.”

“Ruth,” said Aunt Sallie, the afternoon of the bazaar, “I really cannot permit you to go anywhere, looking as you do, even if you are wearing a disguise. You are too horrible!”

“Come and see Barbara,” Grace called from the next room. “I am sure she must look worse. Why,” she asked, laughing, “do you and Ruth want to disguise yourselves as such dreadful-looking gypsies. You might just as easily have arranged to look like young and charming ones.”

“Oh, no,” said Bab. “We want to look like the real thing, not like stage gypsies.” Barbara had arranged to appear as much like “Granny Ann” as she possibly could. A red and yellow handkerchief was bound around her head almost to her eyebrows, her face was stained to a deep brown, with lines and heavy seams drawn over it; even her hands were made up to look old and weather beaten.

“Remember, you have never seen nor heard of these extraordinary fortune-tellers before,” warned Ruth. “And don’t forget, Barbara and Ruth are at home at Mrs. Ewing’s, but they may feel well enough to come to the fair in the evening.” Ruth caught Bab’s arm, and together they made a low curtsey.

“Beautiful ones,” Ruth went on, pointing to Miss Sallie, who was looking handsome in a gown of pale gray crêpe, with a violet hat and sunshade, and to Mollie and Grace, who were dressed like Swiss peasant girls, “your fortunes I would like to tell before you go to the Fair. Easy it is for my wise eyes to perceive that you will be the belles and beauties of the entertainment. Now, farewell!”

The “gypsies” were to drive over early to Mrs. Cartwright’s in a closed carriage. Ralph was to take Miss Sallie, Grace and Mollie in the motor car later on.

“Granny Ann” and “old Meg” slipped inside the gypsy tent before any of the guests had arrived at the bazaar. They had gazed in wonder at Mrs. Cartwright’s beautiful lawn, changed to look like a country fair. It was hung with bunting and flags, and had small tables and chairs under the trees; also a May-pole strung with long streamers of different colored ribbons. Mrs. Cartwright had planned a May-pole dance as one of the chief features of the afternoon, and Mollie and Grace were both to take part.

For the gypsies, life was a serious matter. The tent was divided by a red curtain; on a low wooden table burned a round iron pot filled with charcoal and curious odorous herbs; a pack of dirty cards lay near it. “The cards must be dirty,” argued Ruth, “or no one would believe we were the real thing in gypsies.” Two rough stools stood by the table, and the only daylight shone through the tent flap. On the other side of the curtain, Mrs. Cartwright had been kinder to her gypsies. Here were a wicker couch and big chairs, where they could rest and talk; also a table for refreshments, “for,” laughed Mrs. Cartwright, as she left the tent to welcome her first guests, “I have always heard that gypsies are a particularly hungry race of people.”

Mrs. Cartwright’s fair was a huge success. The most fashionable “set” in Newport were present, entering into the spirit of the occasion with great zest.

Gladys and Harry Townsend were seen everywhere together; but to-day there was often a third person with them, the Countess Bertouche, the woman of the gold-colored brocade, but lately introduced in Newport society.

“I believe Gladys is engaged to Harry Townsend,” whispered Grace to Mollie, when she had observed Harry bending over Miss Le Baron and talking to her in a more devoted manner than usual.

“Well,” retorted pretty Mollie, with a toss of her head, “I am sure I do not envy either one of them.”

All afternoon the gypsy tent had been flooded with visitors. Barbara and Ruth had the time of their lives. No one recognized the two automobile girls in the aged crones who mumbled and told strange fortunes in hoarse tones.

It was growing late, and the gypsy tent was for the time deserted. Ruth was resting on the couch in the back of the tent, while Bab sat near her, talking over their experiences of the afternoon.

Suddenly the tent flap opened, and Grace and Mollie rushed in. Before either of them spoke, they turned and fastened the flap down again securely, so no one could enter without their knowing it.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ruth and Bab at once, for it was plain to see their visitors were greatly excited.

Grace and Mollie started talking together. “Mrs. Cartwright’s diamond butterfly——” then they both stopped. “Are you sure no one can hear? Mollie, you tell,” finished Grace.

“The butterfly has gone, vanished right off Mrs. Cartwright’s frock, this afternoon, while she was talking to her visitors. You know, she changed the ornament she wore in her hair into a brooch. She showed it to me early this afternoon, when I first came, and now—it is gone! I tell you, girls, there’s a thief among these Newport people. I think it, and so does Mrs. Cartwright, and ever so many others. Promise you’ll never tell,” went on Mollie, “but there are two detectives here watching all the guests! I’d like to find the thief myself. I’d know Mrs. Cartwright’s butterfly anywhere.”

There were noises at the tent door.

Barbara heard Gladys’s high, querulous voice, saying, coquettishly: “I don’t want my fortune told, Harry. I would much rather you told it to me any way.” But Mr. Townsend insisted.

“Fly, girls—do, please! They are coming in!” said Barbara. “No; you can’t get out, but you must stay perfectly still behind this curtain, and not breathe a single word.”

It was almost entirely dark in the gypsy tent, the only light coming from the burning pot of fire on the table. Barbara stooped low, when she opened the door to allow Harry, Gladys and the Countess Bertouche to come in.

“It groweth late,” Bab began, croakingly. “Evil may come. No good fortunes fall between dusk and darkness. Beware!”

Gladys shuddered. “Let’s not go in,” she urged.

But Harry Townsend only laughed. “Don’t let the old hag frighten you,” he retorted, lightly. “Here,” he turned to the gypsy and spoke in a voice no one of the girls had ever heard him use, “here, you old swindler, speak out! What kind of fate do you read for me in the stars?”

Barbara picked up the pack of dirty cards, and began to shuffle them slowly. An idea was revolving in her head. Dared she do it? But Barbara was a girl who was not easily daunted.