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

After a minute of silence she shook her head. “What I see I dare not reveal,” she whined. “All black, dark, dark mystery!”

“Oh, stuff!” jeered Mr. Townsend. “Don’t try that dodge on me. Tell what you know.”

Barbara flung down the cards and blew three puffs into the smouldering pot of fire. Ashes and tiny flames shot up from it. She started back, then pointing a finger, she hissed: “Something is moving toward you, curving and coiling and twisting round you. Mercy!” she cried. “It is a green snake, and its fangs have struck into your soul!”

Harry Townsend’s face grew livid. In a moment the look of youth vanished from his face, his lips turned blue, and his eyes narrowed to two fine points.

The Countess Bertouche came forward. “Harry,” she said, “come away. You forget yourself. Don’t listen to such nonsense.”

“Harry!” thought Gladys to herself, angrily. “She certainly presumes on a short acquaintance! Harry, indeed!”

But Barbara had not finished.

“Stay!” she said, holding up a warning finger. “Another messenger appears. It is a beautiful, bright thing, sparkling and darting toward you. Why,” she added, quickly, “it is lighting on your coat. It has flown inside—a beautiful butterfly, born of summer time and flowers. Or”—this time Barbara leaned over and whispered in his ear—“or it may be made of diamonds and come from a jeweler’s shop.”

For an instant, Harry Townsend’s hand flew to his vest pocket. He rose, saying quietly to his companions: “Come away from here. Did you ever see such a stupid old fraud? A snake and a butterfly—a curious fortune indeed!”

CHAPTER XVIII—A WORD TO THE WISE

“Bab,” said the other girls, appearing on her side of the tent, “what a string of nonsense you did put off on poor Harry Townsend. What on earth made you tell him about a butterfly and a snake? I suppose you had butterfly on the brain, since we had just told you of the robbery.”

“That is true,” assented Bab.

“Ruth!” Barbara turned to her quickly. “I am tired of my job. I want to quit this fortune-telling business at once. Let’s desert and go up to Mrs. Cartwright’s room and change our clothes. Do hurry!” she urged, a little impatiently.

“Oh, all right, Bab,” Ruth agreed. She stared at Barbara curiously. What had come over her friend? Harry Townsend always seemed to have such a strange effect upon her.

Barbara was thinking. How could she find the detectives, to tell them of her suspicions, while Harry Townsend still had in his pocket the jewel he had stolen?

“I want to ask you something, Mollie,” Bab announced, as the girls started for the house. “You’ll excuse a family secret, won’t you?” she asked of Grace and Ruth. “Mollie,” Bab whispered, “don’t speak out loud. Do you think you can discover who the two detectives are, and let me know as soon as I come downstairs? Don’t ask questions, please; only, I must know.”

Mollie shut her lips close together. “Yes, I’ll find out for you,” she promised.

Half an hour later, as the guests were being served with supper under the trees, Ruth and Barbara made their appearance.

“We just couldn’t keep away any longer,” they explained to their friends. “Oh, yes, we are feeling perfectly well again.”

Barbara called Mrs. Cartwright aside for a minute. “Is it true,” she asked, “that your diamond butterfly has disappeared?”

Mrs. Cartwright’s face clouded. “Yes,” she replied. “It has gone within the last hour or so. I had it fastened here on my dress with a long pin. If it was stolen by a guest, which I am coming to believe, then it was not such a difficult theft. I have been leaning over, laughing and talking, and any light-fingered—woman—or man—could easily have taken it out of my dress.”

Mrs. Cartwright shivered and turned pale, as she looked at the gay parties of people out on her lawn. “Isn’t it dreadful,” she said, plaintively, “to think that there may be a thief right over there among all my friends! But run along, now, child, and enjoy yourself. You and Ruth were the success of the afternoon. Everyone has asked me where I found my clever gypsies.”

Barbara wandered off alone. Before she had gone more than a few steps, Ralph Ewing joined her. “Please don’t come with me, Ralph,” she begged. “I want to find Mollie.”

“Well, why should that prevent my coming along, too?” Ralph asked. “I’d like to find Mollie myself. She hasn’t paid the slightest attention to me all afternoon.”

“I don’t want to be horrid, Ralph,” Barbara protested, nervously, “but please let me find her by myself.”

“Oh, certainly,” assented Ralph, walking quickly away.

Over by one of the lemonade stands that had been deserted at supper time Bab found Mollie.

“Bab,” she said, pulling her sister to one side, “do you see that tall, blond man, with the little, curly mustache? He is one of the detectives. I can’t find out where the other one is.”

A little later Ralph Ewing, who was still strolling around by himself, felt his face flush, partly with wounded pride, partly with anger. Barbara was not talking to Mollie. She was standing some distance off from the other guests, having an earnest conversation with a man whom Ralph knew to be a stranger in Newport.

Ralph was too proud to linger near them, since Bab had said so plainly she wanted none of his society. If he could have heard what she was saying he would have been even more horrified.

“Yes,” Barbara promised, “if you will come somewhere near us, when we are all together, this evening, I will give you a signal to show you the man I mean. His name is Townsend. He looks very young, is slender and is of medium height. Suppose, when you see us, I bow my head slowly in the direction of the man I mean? If you understand me, you can return my bow. Can you search him before he leaves the grounds?”

“No, miss.” The detective shook his head. “It would be impossible. He hasn’t the jewel on him now. If he’s the man we think he is, he is too smooth for that. He must have a confederate. If we search him here, and find no proof of his guilt, he will know all about us and our suspicions. Can’t you see, then, he would just clear out and leave us here to whistle for our pains?”

“Yes, I see,” said Bab.

“Thank you, miss, for telling us,” the detective continued. “I must say that emerald story sounds like the real thing. You’ve only guessed about the butterfly theft; but I think you’ve guessed right. Now we must go easy. If there is a Raffles, here in Newport, he is out for more plunder. He’ll make another bold attempt, and that will be our chance.”

“Well, I must go on back now to my friends,” murmured Barbara, uneasily. It seemed strange to be taken into confidence by the detective, as though she were in the same line of business. “I suppose you and the other detective can manage, now, to secure the thief. I would rather not have anything more to do with the matter.” Barbara gave a little shiver of repulsion.

“Oh, now, young lady,” protested the detective, “you mustn’t go back on us, just as the game commences. To catch a society thief we must have help from the inside. The best detective in the service can’t get on without it.”

“Where have you been, Bab?” inquired Miss Sallie, anxiously, when Barbara joined her friends a few minutes later. “I was beginning to get uneasy about you. Mrs. Cartwright wants us to come into the house for an informal dance. Do you feel well enough to go? I don’t think you look very well, child.”

Harry Townsend and Gladys came up at this minute. Harry had promised to take Miss Stuart indoors to watch the dancing. There was a curious, restless look in the man’s eyes, but his manners were as charming as ever.

This was Barbara’s chance. She lagged behind the others, and bowed her head slowly in the direction of Miss Sallie’s escort. A strange, blond man, with a curly light mustache, standing some distance off, returned her bow.

All evening Ralph did not come near Barbara. He devoted himself to Grace, who was wise enough to guess that Bab and Ralph must have had a quarrel. But Barbara did not understand. Not having realized that Ralph had felt snubbed when she dismissed him a little while before, she supposed he had grown tired of her.

To tell the truth, Barbara was dull. All the merry, sparkling fun had gone out of her for this one evening. Whether she danced, or talked or rested quietly, she saw Harry Townsend’s face as it had looked at her for a single minute in the gypsy tent. “I am not a coward,” thought Barbara, “but I shall have to be careful if he discovers I was the gypsy who told his fortune this afternoon.”

Barbara was right.

Harry Townsend knew there was just one person in Newport who suspected him of being a thief; this person must be put out of the way. The fine Raffles preferred not to use violence, but at any cost he must win.

Harry Townsend had not recognized Bab in the gypsy tent, which served, for the time, to avert his suspicions from her. He believed she had only arrived, when he met her with Miss Stuart late in the evening. Then who was the gypsy? Either Barbara had seen her, some time in the afternoon, and told her the story of the necklace, or there was some one else who believed he had had a part in the robberies. He must find out.

“Gladys,” Harry Townsend said, “don’t let us dance all evening. I have not had any kind of chance to talk to you alone. Come out on the veranda with me, won’t you?”

Gladys and Harry seated themselves on the front porch, whence they could look through an open window at the dancers.

“Do you know Mrs. Cartwright very intimately, Gladys?” inquired Mr. Townsend.

“Oh, no,” returned Gladys, pettishly. If Harry Townsend had brought her out on the veranda to talk about Mrs. Cartwright, then she might as well have stayed indoors. “Why do you ask?”

Harry Townsend frowned, then put his hands before his eyes. Gladys was so silly. She had served to introduce him to her friends at Newport. Now, if he could only make her useful in other ways!

“Are you angry?” Gladys asked after a moment, “What is it that you want to know about Mrs. Cartwright?”

“Oh, I don’t want to know anything about Mrs. Cartwright at all, Gladys. I am sorry I spoke of it, if the subject offends you. But I did feel a little curious to know where she got hold of the gypsies she had in the tent this afternoon. I thought you would be interested.”

“I am interested, Harry,” declared Gladys. She was only a spoiled child, and could not help showing it. “But I am not a favorite of Mrs. Cartwright’s. It’s my delightful cousins that she adores—Mollie and Bab. I can ask one of them to inquire.”

“Oh, no,” drawled Harry, “it is not of enough importance for that.”

For the next half hour Harry devoted himself to the whims of Gladys. He could see Barbara through the window, looking pale and tired. This gave all the more reason for believing that she had not recovered from the shock of her experience on the cliffs.

The cleverest man will sometimes make a false move. Harry Townsend was tired of Gladys, weary of her whims and foolishness. Besides, she had served his purpose; he was almost through with her.

“Shall we take a walk, Gladys?” he asked.

As they walked down the path toward the cliff, this up-to-date Raffles, whose fingers were more agile than a magician’s, pressed Gladys’s hand for a moment. At the same instant, he slipped her jeweled bracelet into his pocket. “I don’t want the bauble,” he said to himself, “but she might as well be punished for not doing what I ask her.”

At the same moment a blond man stepped out from among the bushes and asked Harry for a light for his cigarette.

Miss Stuart and her girls were saying good-night to Mrs. Cartwright. Hugh Post and Ralph were to escort them home. As Barbara came down the steps with her wraps on, some one touched her on the arm.

“Miss,” the detective whispered, “I know the man you pointed out to me; but I have got to see you again. Tell me how we can manage it.”

“Oh,” said Barbara, hopelessly, “I don’t know. Miss Sallie will be so angry!”

“You can’t quit us now,” the detective urged. “Why not come out in the morning, before any of your folks are up.”

“Yes,” agreed Barbara, quickly. She didn’t have time to refuse. Miss Sallie was coming toward her, and looked in surprise at Barbara’s strange companion. “Come on, child,” she said, “it is time you and Ruth were both in bed.”

“Down the street, two turnings to the right,” Barbara heard a voice behind her whisper, as she turned away.

Gladys was crying, as she made her way to Miss Stuart for comfort. “Miss Stuart,” she said, “I have lost my pearl bracelet. Mother told me it was too handsome for me to wear. Now she’ll be angry with me. I didn’t think it mattered if I wore it this one time. It was large, I suppose, and it slipped off my hand somewhere.”

“Never mind, Gladys,” advised Harry Townsend, coming up to her. “If it is stolen, the thief is sure to be caught.”

“Why do you stare at us so, Barbara?” demanded Gladys, angrily. “I am sure you look all eyes.”

“I beg your pardon,” murmured Barbara.

CHAPTER XIX—“EYEOLOGY”

All night long Bab tossed and tumbled in her bed. Should she keep her appointment with the detective? About daylight she fell asleep and wakened with her mind fully made up. Whatever the danger, she was in for it now. A clever thief was abroad in Newport; circumstances had led to her discovering him; well, she would do what she could to bring him to bay.

At six o’clock Barbara slipped quietly out of bed, without awaking Mollie, and stole noiselessly through the deserted halls of Mrs. Ewing’s great house. Not even the servants were about.

At the appointed place she found waiting for her two detectives instead of one.

“We’re wise to the thief,” said the larger, blond man, to whom Barbara had talked yesterday. “I never had my eyes off of him last night, after you pointed him out to me. I saw him slip a bracelet from a young lady’s arm out in the garden, just as coolly as you’d shake hands with a person. But it was no time to make a row then. I never let him know that I saw him. The fellow would have had a thousand excuses to make. I could see he was on pretty intimate terms with the young lady.”

“The truth is, miss,” interrupted the other detective, whom Bab saw for the first time this morning, “we think you have given us the clue to a pretty clever customer. We’ve been looking for him before. He’s known to the service as ‘The Boy Raffles.’ We tried to catch him two years ago when he played this same game at Saratoga. But he got off to Europe without our ever finding the goods on him. So you see, this time we’ve got to nail him. My partner and I,” the wiry little dark man pointed to the big blond one, “have been talking matters over and we believe this here ‘Raffles’ has got what we detectives call a ‘confed’ with him—some one who receives the stolen goods. So that’s why we want to ask your help. Have you any idea of anyone who could be playing the game along with him? We think he is giving the jewels to some one to keep in hiding for him. The gems have not been sent out of town, and we have made a thorough search of Mrs. Erwin’s house, where Townsend is staying. There is nothing there.”

“Could the young lady I saw him in the garden with last night be a partner of his?” asked the blond detective.

“Oh, my goodness, no!” cried Barbara, in horror. “She is my cousin, Gladys Le Baron.”

“Now, that’s just it, miss. You can see we need some one like you, who’s on the inside, to keep us off the wrong track. Can you suggest anyone else?”

Barbara was silent. Then she shook her head. “I don’t know of anyone now,” she said. “You’ll have to give me time to think and watch.”

“All right, miss, and thank you. You can write a note to this address if you have anything to communicate.” One of the men handed her a card with the number of a Newport boarding house on it. “My name is Burton,” said the big man, “and my assistant is Rowley. We both came up from the New York office, and we’re at your service, miss.”

On the way home Barbara tried to make up her mind whether she ought to tell Miss Sallie what she was doing.

“I don’t think it best to tell her now,” she concluded. “She would only be worried and frightened to death. What is the good? Miss Sallie would be sure to think that girls did not hunt for jewel thieves in her day. And she’d probably think they ought not to hunt for them in my day,” Barbara confessed to herself, honestly. “I’ll just wait a while, and see how things develop. Now I am in this detective business, I might as well confess to myself that it is very interesting.”

Barbara walked slowly. “I wish Ruth would find out how things are going,” she thought to herself. “She is so shrewd and she already guesses I have something on my mind. But Ruth was so positive I was wrong about Harry Townsend, at Mrs. Erwin’s ball, that she would probably think I was wrong again. So the female detective will pursue her lonely way for a little while longer—and then, I just must tell some one,” Bab ended.

Miss Sallie and the girls were coming down-stairs to breakfast, when Bab entered at the front door. Miss Stuart was plainly displeased with Barbara’s explanation. “I couldn’t sleep very well, Miss Sallie,” said Barbara, “and I went out for a walk.” “That is partly true,” she reflected, “but half truths are not far from story-telling.”

“Well, I must ask you, Bab,” said Miss Sallie, in firm tones, “not to leave the house again in the morning, unless some one is with you. I was most uneasy.”

“Didn’t Mollie give you the note I left on the bureau to explain where I had gone?” inquired Bab.

“Mollie did not see the note until we were almost ready to come downstairs. Naturally, we did not understand your absence.”

“I am so sorry, Miss Sallie,” cried Bab. “I never will do it again.”

Barbara was beginning to understand Miss Sallie better since Ruth’s accident. She knew that her cold exterior hid a very warm heart.

As for Miss Sallie, she finally smiled on Bab and gave her a forgiving kiss. “I could forgive Bab anything,” she thought to herself, “after her wonderful heroism in saving Ruth. I suppose I have to expect a girl of so much spirit to do erratic things sometimes.”

Ralph kept his eyes lowered when he said good morning and hardly spoke during breakfast.

“Ralph is out of sorts,” his mother complained, “but, man-like, he won’t tell what is the matter with him.”

“Perhaps you are tired from the party last night, Ralph?” suggested Mollie. Then Ralph laughed a mirthless laugh. “No, I am not tired, Mollie,” he replied.

Yet all through breakfast he did not once speak to Bab.

“Remember,” said Grace, “that our crowd and just a few other people are invited over to Mrs. Cartwright’s to-night. She is going to have a porch party, and we are to play the famous game ‘eyeology’ that she was talking of to Gladys the other day. Do you know what she means?”

Nobody at the table had ever heard of it.

“I begged Donald to tell me,” Grace added, “but he declares he is as much in the dark about it as the rest of us, and Mrs. Cartwright simply says, ‘wait and see!’”

“I suppose,” said Miss Sallie, “that you children never intend to rest again. I should think that Mrs. Cartwright would be perfectly used up from so much entertaining.”

“O Aunt Sallie,” pleaded Grace, “we shall rest well enough when we are back in sleepy old Kingsbridge. There is too much doing in Newport. And, you know, we’ve only about a week longer to stay. What a wonderful time we have had!”

“Let’s see what we have ahead of us,” pondered Mollie. “The only especially big things we know about are the tennis tourney and the ball after it. Then Miss Ruth Stuart and Mr. Hugh Post are to win a silver cup, in order to spread more luster upon the reputation of the automobile girls at Newport. Bab helped pull Ruth out of an abyss! The two girls held up a burglar! Ruth is a famous tennis champion! Only you and I are no good, Grace. What can we do for our country?” finished Mollie.

“Nothing at all, dear!” laughed Miss Sallie, and the rest of the party. “Much as I admire these two clever lassies, I am very glad to have my other two girls of a more peaceful and quiet variety, or my hair would certainly turn whiter than it is now, if that were possible.” Miss Stuart touched her snow-white hair, which was very handsome with her delicate skin and bright color.

“Now I insist,” she said, “that you girls have a quiet day if you are going out again this evening.”

“May I have a row on the bay with Ralph?” asked Barbara. “Have you forgotten, Ralph, that you invited me several days ago?”

“I am sorry, Barbara,” Ralph answered, quietly, “but I had forgotten it. If you will excuse me, I have something else on hand for today that I must attend to. Perhaps you will go with me some other time,” he proposed, without any enthusiasm.

“All right, Ralph,” Bab nodded. “Of course, I do not mind. We did not have a real engagement, anyway.” “He won’t let me make up with him,” Bab thought. “I wonder why he is so angry?”

At five o’clock Barbara came down on the veranda, dressed for the evening. She spied Ralph walking alone down the garden path, which was arched with trellises of crimson and pink rambler roses. There were several seats along the walk, and it had formed a favorite retreat for the girls ever since they had arrived at Mrs. Ewing’s home.

Perhaps another girl than Barbara would not have tried again to make friends with Ralph, after his refusal to take her boating in the morning; but Bab was so open-hearted and sincere that she could not bear a misunderstanding. She was fond of Ralph, he had been kind to her, and his manner toward her had changed so suddenly that she felt she must have done something to wound him. Bab did offend people, sometimes, with her quick speeches and thoughtlessness, but she was always ready to say she was wrong and to make amends.

“Ralph!” she called. “Ralph!” The boy was obliged to stop and turn round, as Barbara was hurrying after him.

“I want to talk to you, please,” she said, coaxingly. “You are not too angry with me to let me speak to you, are you?”

“I have not said I was angry with you, Miss Thurston,” replied Ralph.

“Now, Ralph!” Barbara put her hand lightly on his sleeve. “You know you don’t call me Miss Thurston. We decided weeks ago it was silly for us to call each other Miss and Mister when we were such intimate friends. I want you to do me a favor. Will you take me over to Mrs. Cartwright’s to-night? Donald and his guest, ‘the freshman,’ are coming for Grace and Mollie. Ruth, of course, is going over with Hugh, and I could go with them, but I want to talk to you. I can’t say what I have to say to you now, because already the girls are calling me. Please say you will take me.”

Barbara’s eyes were so pretty and pleading that Ralph felt his anger already melting. Yet Ralph’s feeling toward Barbara was not only anger. It was a much more serious thing, a growing sense of distrust. But he answered: “Of course, Bab, I shall be delighted to take you.”

Barbara and Ralph let the rest of their friends start ahead of them. They wanted to have their walk alone.

Miss Sallie had pleaded fatigue, and remained at home. “Besides, children,” she explained, “I am much too old to take any further interest in games, ‘eyeology,’ or any other ‘ology.’”

Ralph and Barbara walked in silence down the street for several minutes. Then Bab spoke. “Tell me, Ralph, what is the matter? If you were angry with a man you would tell him what the trouble was, if he asked you. It is not fair not to be open with me because I am a girl. If you think you are being more polite to me by not telling me why you are angry, then I don’t agree with you. I think you are acting a whole lot worse.”

Ralph continued to go on in moody silence.

“All right, then, Ralph,” said Barbara; “I can’t ask you any more questions, or beg your pardon, when I don’t know what I have done to offend you. Only I am sorry.”

“Oh, it isn’t that you have offended me, Bab,” Ralph burst out. “Do you suppose I would act like such a bear if you had just thrown me down, or some little thing like that, when we have been such jolly good friends before? I didn’t like your sending me off yesterday, when you went to look for Mollie, because—because——”

“Go on, Ralph,” insisted Barbara.

“Very well, then, Bab; I was angry and hurt because, if you did join Mollie, you couldn’t have stayed with her a minute. I saw you, just afterwards, holding a long conversation with a strange man.”

“Well, Ralph,” argued Bab, “was that such a dreadful offense? I am sure I should not have been angry with you, if you had talked to any number of strange women.” Bab’s eyes were twinkling. She had made up her mind that she wanted a confidant. Here was Ralph, the best one she could have.

“That’s not all,” Ralph continued, “I did not mean to be an eavesdropper, but I was standing just behind you and I could not help overhearing that strange man make an appointment to meet you this morning. Say, Bab,” Ralph turned toward her, all his anger gone, “don’t do things like meeting that man this morning without telling. It’s not nice, and I’ve thought you the nicest, most straightforward girl I ever knew. If there is anything between you and that fellow, why should it be a secret? A girl can’t afford to have secrets, except with other girls.”

“But I want to have a secret with you, Ralph,” rejoined Barbara. “Now listen, while I tell you everything. I have never talked to you about the scene in the conservatory, the night of Mrs. Erwin’s ball, though I did appreciate what you did to help me out when I made that strange request of Harry Townsend. I was not crazy. I saw Harry Townsend steal Mrs. Post’s emerald necklace. Ralph,” Barbara’s voice was now so low that he had to bend over to hear her, “Harry Townsend is not what the people here think him. He is a professional thief, and a dangerous one.”

“Whew!” whistled Ralph. “What did you say?”

Then Barbara told him the story of the three thefts, from the beginning, and her own part in discovering them. “The detectives are on the lookout now, Ralph,” she added, “but they want me to keep a watch from the inside.”

“Well, you are a clever one, Bab!” declared Ralph. “Look here, I am glad you told me this. I appreciate it a whole lot, and I will not mention it to anyone until you tell me I may. But, remember one thing. I shall be on the watch, too, and it’s Miss Barbara Thurston I’ll be watching. That Townsend is a dangerous rogue. I’ve known there was something crooked about him from the first. Oh, it’s easy to say that, now, after what you have told me. I am not pretending I knew his special game. Only I knew he was not our sort. He is a whole lot older than he pretends to be, for one thing.”

“Ralph,” sighed Barbara, “do you think there is any way I could warn Gladys against Harry Townsend?”

Ralph shook his head. “Not any way that I know of. She would just snub you hard, if you tried. Even if you dared to tell her the truth she would go right off and tell that Townsend fellow. She’s been pretty hateful to you, Bab. I don’t see why you should care.”

“Oh, but I do care,” retorted Bab. “She has been horrid and stuck up, but she hasn’t done Mollie and me any real harm, and she is my cousin. Her father is my mother’s brother. Uncle Ralph has never been very fond of us, nor has he come to see us very much, but he looks after mother’s money. I don’t suppose,” wound up Barbara, thoughtfully, “he would do us any wrong. I shouldn’t like Gladys to get into trouble.”

“What has kept you children so long?” asked Grace, as Ralph and Barbara appeared on Mrs. Cartwright’s veranda. Then she squeezed Bab’s hand and whispered, so no one else could hear, “Made it up, Bab?” Barbara nodded, “yes.”

Mrs. Cartwright was heard speaking. “Sit down, everyone, over there where Jones has placed the chairs for us. Professor Cartwright,” she bowed to show she meant herself, “will now explain to his pupils, or his guests, the principles of the science of ‘eyeology.’ Human character is expressed in the human eye—our love, our hate, our ambitions, everything. But can we read the characters of people about us as we look into their eyes? No! Why not? Because the rest of the face confuses our attention. Instead of the steadfast beacon of the eye, we see the nose, the mouth, the hair, all the other features, and so we fail to understand the story the eye would tell us if it were alone. To-night I intend to instruct you in the proper understanding of ‘eyeology.’”

Mrs. Cartwright changed to her usual manner of speaking. “Don’t you think it would be amusing to make a test? Here Ruth,” laughed the hostess, “be my first pupil. Go into the drawing-room and wait there until I send for you. I want to find out how many of your friends you will know, when you see only their eyes.”

CHAPTER XX—RUTH WAKES UP!

“Now, mademoiselle,” said Mrs. Cartwright, still speaking in the voice of a professor, “behold before you an opportunity to prove your skill in the remarkable science of ‘eyeology.’ I have a piece of paper and a pencil in my hand. As you gaze into each pair of eyes, you are to reveal that person’s identity. I will write the names down as you tell them to me. When you have gone through the whole list, the curtain shall be lifted. Then we shall discover how many of your friends you know by the character of their eyes. After Ruth has finished, anyone else who wishes may try his or her skill.”

“My dear Mrs. Cartwright,” said Ruth, laughing and peering in front of her, “I tell you, right now, that I shall not guess a single name correctly. To tell the truth, I never saw any of these eyes before. It’s horrid to have them all staring and blinking at me. I am frightened at them all! Besides, I can’t see. May I have a candle and hold it up in front of each person as I pass along?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Cartwright; “only kindly keep at a safe distance. We don’t want to burn up any of our ghosts.”

Ruth started down the line. She had the privilege of staring as long and as hard as she liked into each pair of eyes.

The company was strangely silent. They were really interested in the idea, and knew that any talking would spoil the whole experiment.

“I’ve mixed the babies up, Ruth,” said Mrs. Cartwright, “so you needn’t think you can guess anyone by his choice of a next-door neighbor. No social preferences have been allowed in this game.”

Ruth tried the first pair of eyes. She looked at them intently. Then she turned round to Mrs. Cartwright. “I am sure I never saw those eyes before. You have introduced some stranger since I left the porch.”

“There is not a person here whom you do not know well,” Mrs. Cartwright assured her. “Don’t try to slip out of your task.”

Ruth kept staring. The eyes in front of her drooped, and soft, curling lashes for an instant swept over them. A little wistful look lay in the depths of them, when the lids lifted. “Why, it’s Molliekins! How absurd of me not to know her! I was about to guess Ralph!”

Mistress Ruth must have guessed wrongly next time, for there was a burst of laughter, afterwards, that made the white sheets shake.

“Be quiet,” warned Mrs. Cartwright sternly.

So Ruth passed on down the line. There were about twenty people in the game, but Ruth knew all of them very well. Sometimes her guesses were right, sometimes they were wrong. Once or twice she had to confess herself beaten, and “gave up” with a shake of her head at Mrs. Cartwright.

Ruth had nearly finished her task. Only a few more pairs of eyes remained to be investigated.

“Well, I am nearly through,” she said gayly. “If anyone thinks I have had an easy time of it, he has only to take my place and try the next turn. No more mistakes now, for Ruth Stuart! Who is my next victim?” Ruth held her candle above her head and looked up.

Gleaming at her through the darkness lit by the flare from her candle-light was a pair of eyes that were strangely familiar.

Ruth stared at them. They belonged to none of the friends she knew—yet, somewhere, she had seen them before.

Ruth looked and looked. The eyes shifted and narrowed. Ruth still held her candle aloft; but she had forgotten where she was. Where had she seen those eyes before?

“Look straight ahead of you,” said Mrs. Cartwright to the gleaming eyes, “how can Ruth guess when your eyes are closed?” But again the eyes shifted.

“I am going to find out to whom those eyes belong, if I stay here all night,” said Ruth, speaking to herself.

The eyes glinted, narrowed and shone like two fine points of steel.

“Oh!” said Ruth. She staggered a little and the candle shook in her hand. “I thought I knew those eyes, but I don’t. I must be mistaken. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Cartwright,” said Ruth, “but I am tired. I don’t think I can go on. Will some one take my place?”

Ruth’s expression was so peculiar that Mrs. Cartwright came up to her. “You foolish child!” she said, putting her hand on Ruth’s shoulder, “I believe this game is making you nervous. Who is it sitting there with the eyes that Ruth remembers, yet will not reveal to us?” she called.

“Harry Townsend, Harry Townsend!” the people sitting closest to him answered.

“Harry,” said Mrs. Cartwright, “you come and take Ruth’s place. Let’s see if you are a better ‘eyeologist’ than she is.”

Before Harry Townsend had slipped out from under his strange covering, Ruth turned to Mrs. Cartwright. “Excuse me for a minute,” she begged. “My labors as an optician have used me up. I will be back in a little while.”

Barbara crept from under the sheet, and, without speaking to anyone, ran after Ruth, who was on her way upstairs to Mrs. Cartwright’s boudoir.

“Ruth, dear, what on earth has happened to you? Are you sick?” asked Barbara.

“Oh, I am worse than sick, Bab!” muttered Ruth, with a shudder. “Don’t ask me to talk until we get upstairs.”

The girls closed the dressing-room door.

“I must be wrong, Bab, yet I don’t believe I am. I saw to-night the same eyes that glared at us from behind a black mask the time of that horrible burglary at New Haven, when, for a little while, I thought you were killed. I have never said much about it. I wanted to forget and I wanted everyone else to forget it, but those eyes have followed me everywhere since. To-night——”

Bab took Ruth’s hand.

“Oh, Bab,” groaned Ruth, “what does it mean? I saw those eyes again to-night and they were Harry Townsend’s. I wanted to scream right out: ‘Burglar! robber!’ But I could not make a scene. I came upstairs, hardly knowing how I reached here.”

One of the maids knocked at the door. “Do the young ladies wish anything? Mrs. Cartwright sent me up to inquire,” she said.

“Nothing at all. Tell her we are all right, and will be down in a few minutes.”

“Ruth,” said Barbara, “I want to tell you something. If I do, can you pretend that nothing has happened, and be perfectly composed for the rest of the evening? Now don’t say ‘yes’ unless you feel sure.”

Ruth looked straight at Barbara, “Yes; tell me what it is,” she urged. “I am beginning to guess.”

“The eyes you saw to-night were Harry Townsend’s, and he is a burglar and a thief. I did not know he was the robber at New Haven; I have only suspected it. Now I feel sure, and you recognized him to-night. He is a more dangerous character than I had thought, and he must not know that you suspect him.”

“He shall know nothing from me,” said Ruth, coolly. Her color had come back, now that she knew the truth. “It was only the shock that unnerved me. Why haven’t you told me before, Bab?”

“I was afraid you’d ask me that, Ruth, dear, and I want to explain. You see, I have believed Harry Townsend a thief ever since I saw him, with my own eyes, take the necklace from Mrs. Post’s neck at Mrs. Erwin’s ball; but you were positive I was wrong, and asked me not to talk about it. So I didn’t know what to do. I have only watched and waited. To-night I told Ralph what I knew.”

Barbara then explained to Ruth the whole story, and the part the detectives had asked her to play in Townsend’s apprehension. “What shall I do, Ruth?” she ended.

“Come on downstairs, Bab,” said Ruth. “Some one may suspect us if we don’t. Do, Bab. We are going on to play the game, just as you have been playing it by yourself. We will say nothing, but we will do some hard thinking; and, when the time comes, we shall act! To tell you the truth, if you will never betray me to Aunt Sallie, I think playing detective beats nearly any fun I know.”

“Eyeology” was no longer amusing the guests when the two girls came downstairs; indeed, the company had scattered and was talking in separate groups. Ruth and Bab joined Mollie and Grace, who were standing near Mrs. Post and their new acquaintance, the Countess Bertouche.

“Girls,” asked Mrs. Post, “would you like to join the Countess Bertouche and myself Saturday afternoon? We are going to explore old Newport; the old town is well worth seeing. The countess tells me this is her first visit to Newport, so, before she goes back to Paris, I want her to see that we have a little of the dignity that age gives.

“Why,” and Mrs. Post turned smilingly to the little group, “Newport boasts even a haunted house! It is not occupied, and I have the privilege of showing you over it. A story has been written about the old mansion. Here a young woman lived who loved an officer in Rochambeau’s fleet, when the gallant French sailor came over to these shores. But the sailor loved and sailed away, never to return. So the lady pined and died; but her presence still haunts the old house. You can feel her approaching you by a sudden perfume of mignonette. After we see all the sights of the town, we shall go to the old house at about dusk, so that we may have a better chance to discover the ‘spirit lady.’”

Mollie and Grace accepted Mrs. Post’s invitation with enthusiasm. Barbara and Ruth had to decline regretfully.

“You see, Mrs. Post,” Barbara explained, “Ruth and Hugh have to practice their tennis, every hour they can manage, until the tournament on Monday. Ruth has become a little out of practice since her accident, and must work hard at her game for the next few days. Ralph and I have promised to help by furnishing the opposition.”

“You’ll excuse Mollie and me from playing audience, won’t you, Ruth?” asked Grace. “We are going home so soon after the tournament is over that we can’t resist Mrs. Post’s invitation.”

“Barbara,” said Ruth, coming into Bab’s room, just as that young woman was about to step into bed, “can you imagine anyone whom Harry Townsend can be using as a confederate?”

“Sh-sh!” warned Bab. “Here comes Mollie. Don’t say anything. I haven’t the faintest idea.”

CHAPTER XXI—THE CAPTURE OF THE BUTTERFLY

The only act that the detective, Rowley, was able to report to his superior was that Mr. Townsend mailed his own letters. In Mrs. Erwin’s household it was the custom of her guests to place all their mail in a bag, which the butler sent to the postoffice at regular hours; but Mr. Townsend preferred to mail his own letters. This act occasioned no comment. Other guests, writing important business letters, had done the same thing.

“And Townsend has mailed only letters,” continued Rowley in making his report. “Not a single package, even of the smallest size, has gone out through the postoffice. The jewels are still in Newport.”

Mr. Townsend had already begun to discuss with his hostess the possibility of his soon having to leave her charming home. “I have presumed on your hospitality too long,” he said to Mrs. Erwin, several times. “When the famous Casino ball is over I must be getting back to New York.”

To Gladys he explained: “My dear Gladys, my holiday time must end some day. I shall be able to see you often when you go back to Kingsbridge. I am going into a broker’s office as soon as I get back to New York. I have been loafing around in Europe for the last two years, but I have decided that, even if a fellow has money enough to make him fairly comfortable, work is the thing for the true American!”

To-day Harry Townsend walked to the post-office alone. He carried three letters. One of them was to a steamship company engaging passage to Naples for “John Brown.” The steamer was due to sail the following Wednesday. The other two letters had New York addresses. When they arrived at their first destination, they were to be remailed to other addresses. A tall, blond man, who happened to be lounging in the postoffice at the time Mr. Townsend entered it, observed that the young gentleman was anxious to know when the letters would be delivered in the city.

The letters posted, Townsend walked over to the Casino courts, where Bab and Ruth were playing tennis. He had promised Gladys to join her there. He still had some investigations he desired to make. But he walked slowly. Clever fingers must be directed by a clever brain, whether their work be good or evil. No matter how well he knew he could depend on his wonderful fingers to do their share of the work, the “boy Raffles” always thought out carefully the plan of his theft before he tried to execute it.

On Monday night, at the Casino tournament ball, he planned to make his final theft. This accomplished, he could leave Newport feeling he had reaped a rich harvest, even in the summer season, when harvests are not supposed to be gathered.

Harry Townsend, alias half a dozen other names, had seen the jewel he most coveted for his final effort. It was a diamond tiara belonging to one of the richest and most prominent women in Newport. His schemes were carefully laid. He was waiting for Monday night.

At about three o’clock, on this same Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Post and the Countess Bertouche stopped in a small automobile for Grace and Mollie. They had no one with them except the chauffeur.

It took them some time to drive through the old town of Newport. The ladies descended at the old Trinity church, to investigate it, and the girls were much interested in the ancient jail. There, they were told, was once kept a woman prisoner who complained because she had no lock on her door.

Mollie and Grace were not ardent sightseers. It was really the thought of the haunted house that had brought them on their pilgrimage. But Mrs. Post and the countess insisted on poking their way down the Long Wharf, with its rows of sailors’ houses and junk shops. Both girls were dreadfully bored, and secretly longed to be on the tennis courts with Bab and Ruth. Yet the thought of the haunted house buoyed them up.

Mrs. Post was a collector. If you have ever traveled with one, you will understand that it means hours and hours of looking through dirt and trash in order to run across one treasure that a collector regards as “an antique.”

Even when Mrs. Post was through with her search she decided that it was not yet sufficiently late for them to visit the haunted house. “I told the caretaker not to meet us there until a quarter of seven. We shall want only a few minutes to go through the old place; but, of course, we must see it under conditions as romantic as possible.” Mrs. Post then ordered the chauffeur to take them for a drive before driving them to the haunted house.

Mollie and Grace were unusually quiet, so they noticed that the Countess Bertouche had little to say during the afternoon. She seemed tired and nervous. When Mrs. Post asked her questions about her life abroad, after she married, the countess replied in as few words as possible.

At exactly the appointed time the automobile delivered its passengers before the door of the house they sought. It was an old, gray, Revolutionary mansion, three stories high, with a sloping roof and small windows with diamond-latticed panes. It was quite dark when the girls entered the ghostly mansion, following Mrs. Post and the countess, who were led by a one-eyed old caretaker carrying a smoky lamp. There was just enough daylight shining through the windows to see one’s way about, but the corners of the vast old house were full of terrifying shadows.

“Let us not stay too long, Mrs. Post,” urged the countess. “I am not fond of ghosts, and I am tired.” But Mrs. Post was the kind of sight-seer who goes on to the end, no matter who lags behind. She led the party up the winding steps, peering into each room as they went along. The house was kept furnished with a few rickety pieces of old furniture.

When they reached the second floor, the caretaker announced that the middle bedroom was the sleeping apartment of the haunted lady. The little party searched it curiously. There was no sign of the ghostly inhabitant; no perfume of mignonette.

“I don’t see anything unusual about this room,” said the countess, suppressing a sigh, “except that it has the most comfortable chair in the house. I shall sit here and rest while you take the two girls over the other part of the building.”

The three left her. The woman dropped into a chair, and a worn, nervous look crossed her face.

As Mollie ascended the attic stairs behind Grace she called out, “If you will excuse me, Mrs. Post, I shall go down and join the countess.”

An imp of mischief had entered Mollie. Wrapped up in her handkerchief, carefully concealed in her purse bag, was a handful of mignonette, which she had gathered from Mrs. Ewing’s garden only that morning. Mollie meant to impersonate the “spirit lady.” Suddenly she had decided that the countess was the best one upon whom she could try her joke.

Creeping down the stairs as quietly as a mouse, Mollie stole into the back room, adjoining the one where the countess sat. Had she looked in, she would hardly have played her naughty trick. The woman who sat there was a very different person from the gay society lady they had been meeting everywhere in the last few weeks. This woman looked weary and frightened. But Mollie was thinking only of mischief.

Silently she took the mignonette out of her bag and crushed it in her hand. There was a sudden fragrance all about her. Then she slipped her hand slyly through the open doorway and dropped her bunch of mignonette into the room where the countess was sitting. There was no response. The countess had not detected the odor of the flowers and Mollie was deeply disappointed.

Faintly, however, the countess began to be aware of the fragrance of a subtle perfume; but she was thinking too deeply of other things to be conscious of what it was. Besides, the growing darkness was making her nervous.

Mollie gave up in despair. Her effort with the mignonette had plainly proved a failure. The countess refused to be frightened by the suggestion of the ghost.

“Countess!” said Mollie, appearing suddenly in the open doorway. She certainly expected no result from this simple action; but the countess, who thought she was entirely alone, was dreadfully startled. She rose, with a short scream of surprise, and started forward. Her foot catching in a worn old rug, she stumbled. Mollie was by her side in a second, trying to help her to rise.

“I am so sorry to have frightened you!” the child said penitently. “Wait a minute, you have dropped something.” Mollie picked up a square chamois skin bag. In her excitement and embarrassment she caught hold of the wrong end of it. Out of it tumbled a purse, and—Mollie saw it as plainly as could be, though it was nearly dark in the room—Mrs. Cartwright’s diamond butterfly!

“Child!” said the countess, angrily. “See what your nonsense has done! This is the bag that I wear under my dress to carry my money and jewels. It is always securely fastened. I suppose, falling as I did, I must have broken the catch.” She picked up the things quickly and thrust them into her bag. It was so dark in the room she supposed Mollie had not seen them. Then, holding the bag tightly in her hand, she went on downstairs, Mollie after her, and joined Grace and Mrs. Post, who had preceded them to the automobile.

“Well, did anyone see the ghost?” asked Mrs. Post. “You, Mollie, my child, look as if you had seen something.”

“Oh, no,” denied Mollie; “but I am afraid I frightened the countess. I threw some mignonette in the room, trying to make her think I was the ghost, but she didn’t notice it. Then, when I spoke to her to tell her it was time to come downstairs, she was dreadfully startled.”

Mrs. Post ordered the chauffeur to drive home first, as she and the countess had a dinner engagement; the two girls being later taken to Mrs. Ewing’s.

The two women had barely left the car before Mollie put her lips near Grace’s ear and whispered: “Grace Carter, the Countess Bertouche has stolen Mrs. Cartwright’s butterfly! I saw it with my own eyes. She dropped it out of a bag on the floor, when she fell down.”

“Goose!” smiled Grace. “What are you talking about? Don’t you suppose a countess may have a jeweled butterfly of her own?”

“Not like that one,” retorted Mollie, firmly. “I would know it among a thousand. You needn’t believe me, but it’s as true as that my name is Mollie Thurston. I am going to tell Ruth and Bab, as soon as I get home. I know they will believe me.”

“I do believe you, only I am so dumfounded I can’t take it in,” said Grace.

“What on earth is the matter with you, Mollie?” asked Bab of her sister, as soon as they had finished dinner. “You look awfully excited.”

“Bab,” whispered Mollie, “call Ruth and Grace right away. Don’t let anyone else come. Let’s go down to the end of the garden. I have something I must tell you, this minute!”

Grace had already found Ruth, and the two came hurrying along. “No, Ralph,” ordered Grace, “you can’t come. This is strictly a girl’s party.”

“Bab,” began Mollie, “you will believe me, won’t you? I do know what I am talking about. This afternoon I saw the Countess Bertouche with Mrs. Cartwright’s diamond butterfly. She dropped it, right before my eyes, out of the same kind of bag that Miss Sallie uses to keep her jewelry in. What can it mean?”

“Ruth!” gasped Bab. “Bab!” uttered Ruth.

The two girls looked at each other in silence. Then Bab exclaimed: “It took my Mollie to make the discovery, after all!”

“What are you talking about, Barbara Thurston? What discovery have I made?” demanded Mollie.

“Ruth, do you think I had better tell the girls?” asked Bab.

Ruth nodded, and Barbara related the principal facts of the jewel robbery. She also told the girls that she and Ruth suspected that Harry Townsend had been the robber who frightened them at New Haven. “You remember,” Bab continued, “he was a guest at the hotel the same night we were, and left early the next morning. If he had one of the rooms under us, he could have climbed down the fire escape and into his own room before anyone could discover him.”

But Bab kept to herself that she and Ruth were expecting another burglary, and that she, Bab, was to play a part in bringing the thief to bay. Mollie and Grace would both be terribly frightened at the thought, but it was just as well that they knew enough not to be surprised at what was to follow.

Barbara went upstairs and wrote a note to the address in Newport that the detectives had given to her. It told the story just recited by Mollie.

“Ralph,” requested Barbara, sauntering slowly through the hall, “will you mail this at once with your own hands? Little Mollie has done the deed, after all. She has found the woman who receives Harry Townsend’s stolen goods!”

Ralph took the letter with an exclamation of surprise and hurried off to the post.

CHAPTER XXII—THE TENNIS TOURNAMENT

“Oh!” cried Ruth. “Don’t be quite so energetic, Bab. You jabbed that pin right into my neck. I believe I am going to win. I can’t imagine a good soldier going into battle with the idea that he is going to be beaten. Why, an idea like that would take all the fight out of a man, or a girl either, for that matter. No, Hugh and I are going to do everything we possibly can to come out winners. But, if we do, Bab, Hugh and I will think we owe it to you and Ralph. You have been such trumps about keeping us up to the mark with your fine playing.”

“Nonsense, Ruth!” retorted Bab, decidedly. “All Ralph and I ask this afternoon is a chance to do some shouting for the winners. What time is the tourney on for the ‘eighteen-year-olds’?”

“Just after lunch; about two o’clock, I believe. Bab, are you nervous about to-night?” Ruth asked. “Do you think there is going to be a scene at the ball? The detectives will be watching Mr. Townsend closely. They suspect that he means to make another big attempt, don’t they?”

“I really don’t know, Ruth,” Barbara answered. “I had a short note from Mr. Burton this morning. I meant to show it to you, but I did not have a chance. It simply said: ‘Thanks. The game is ours. Keep a sharp lookout!’ But I want to forget the whole burglary business to-day. Tennis is the only really important thing. Hurrah for Miss Ruth Stuart, the famous girl champion!” cried Barbara, then suddenly sobered down. The two girls had been in the wildest spirits all day. Indeed, Miss Sallie had sent them into the same room to dress, in order to get rid of them.

“What is the matter, Bab?” said Ruth, turning round to look into her friend’s face.

“I’ve a confession to make to you. In my heart of hearts, way down underneath, I am kind of sneakingly sorry for Harry Townsend. I know he is a rogue and everything that’s wicked. When I think of him in that way I am not sorry for him a bit. Then the thought comes of the man who has been around with us for weeks, playing tennis with us and going to our parties, and I can’t quite take it in.”

“I know just what you mean, Bab,” replied Ruth, reflectively. “Don’t you think it must be the same idea as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? Everyone has a good and a bad side. We can’t help being sorry for the good part of a person, when the evil gets ahead of it. But, then, you and I have never really liked even the good side of Harry Townsend much. So I wonder why we both feel sorry.”

“It’s the woman in us, I suppose,” sighed Bab.

“Ruth, come in here and let me see how you look,” called Miss Sallie. She had sent up to New York for a special tennis costume for Ruth. The suit was a light-weight white serge skirt with an embroidered blouse of handkerchief linen, and the only color was Ruth’s pale blue necktie and the snood on her hair, which was carefully braided and securely fastened to the back of her head.

Gowns were an important part of tournament days; indeed, the New York Horse Show seldom shows more elaborate dressing than does the annual tennis tournament at the Newport Casino.

Mollie and Barbara were the proud owners of two new gowns made by their mother for this special occasion. Bab’s frock was a simple yellow dimity, and she wore a big white hat with a wreath of yellow roses round it.

“You’re a baby blue, Mollie, aren’t you?” asked Grace standing and admiring her little friend. Grace had on a lingerie frock of lavender muslin and lace, and a big hat trimmed in lavender plumes.

“Well,” said Mollie, making her a low bow, “lucky am I to be dressed in blue, if it means I may sit near so lovely a person as you. Fortunately, lavender and blue make a pretty color combination.”

Miss Stuart had a box for the tennis tournament.

When she and the girls entered it, they found it nearly filled with roses. There were no cards except a single one inscribed: “For the Automobile Girls,” for Miss Sallie was as much an automobile girl as any of the others. The girls selected the bunches of flowers that seemed most suited to their costumes. Miss Sallie and Grace immediately decided on the white roses, Mollie chose the pink ones, looking in her pale blue dress and hat like a little Dresden shepherdess.

In some one’s garden a yellow rose bush of the old-fashioned kind must have bloomed for Bab. “Why!” uttered Miss Sallie, holding up Bab’s flowers, from which streamed a long yellow satin bow, “I have not seen these little yellow garden roses since I was a girl. See how they open out their hearts to everyone! Is that like you, Bab? Be careful how you hold them,” teased Miss Sallie; “they have a few thorns underneath, and must be gently handled.”

Ruth half suspected Hugh had been the anonymous giver of the flowers, as soon as she discovered her own bunch. They formed a big ball of pale blue hydrangeas, tied with Ruth’s especial shade of blue ribbon.

“See!” said Ruth, laughing, and holding them up for the other girls to admire. “Hugh was not discouraged by the fact that blue flowers are so hard to find. I wouldn’t have dreamed that hydrangeas could look so lovely, except on the bush.”

Ruth sat in the front of the box, waiting for her name to be called for her tennis match. She was one of the most popular visitors in Newport; nearly everyone who passed her box stopped to wish good luck to her and to Hugh.

“I have seen a good many sights, in my day,” said Miss Sallie, gazing around through her lorgnette, “but never one more beautiful than this.”

The grass of the wide lawns was so perfectly trimmed that it looked like a carpet of moss. Over the green there swept a crowd of laughing, happy people, the women in frocks of every delicate color. Even the sober note that men’s clothes generally make in a gay throng was missing to-day, for the boys, young and old, wore white flannels and light shirts that rivaled the dresses of the girls in the brightness of their hues.

Tier upon tier of seats rose up around the tennis courts; before the first game was called every one was filled.

“Give me my smelling salts, Grace,” said Miss Sallie, when Ruth and Hugh were called out to commence their game. “I shall not look at them until the set is over.”

“O Miss Sallie!” declared Ralph, who had quietly slipped into Ruth’s place next Barbara. “I am ashamed of you for not having more courage. I am certain they will win. We shall have two silver cups in this box in the next hour or so.”

Over the heads of the great crowd Barbara could see the Countess Bertouche. She was standing near Mr. and Mrs. Erwin’s box, in which sat Governor and Mrs. Post, Gladys and Harry Townsend.

For the first time in her acquaintance with them, Barbara saw Harry Townsend leave his seat and walk across the lawn with the countess. Evidently she had made some request of him. Not far off Barbara could also see a tall, blond man, with a curly, light mustache, who followed the pair with his eyes and then moved nonchalantly in their direction.

But Harry Townsend was back with his friends in a minute. He had only taken the countess to her place, so that she need not be alone in the crowd.

Ruth and Hugh were easy winners. They had no such tennis battle as they fought the day they earned the right to represent their crowd over the heads of Ralph and Barbara.

“Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted the crowd.

Ruth and Hugh were standing near each other in front of the judges’ stand, where the prizes were awarded.

With a low bow, Mr. Cartwright presented Ruth with a beautiful silver cup and to Hugh another of the same kind. On the outside of each cup was engraved a design of two racquets crossing each other, with the word “champion” below.

Barbara and Ruth had given up all their interest and thought to the tennis match during the day; but Ruth having won her cup, both girls’ minds turned to the jewel robbery.

Except for the note Bab had received in the morning, she had had no sign nor signal from the two detectives. The Countess Bertouche, apparently as calm and undisturbed as any of the other guests, had been an interested watcher of the tournament.

The girls were late in arriving at the ball. Miss Stuart had insisted on their resting an hour after dinner, and the affair was in full swing when they entered the beautiful Casino ballroom.