style="font-size:15px;"> “Then we can have an automobile,” pronounced René.
Everybody laughed, and the tension was somewhat relieved.
“Look, Jack,” said Desiré, “there are two of the numbers from that slip of paper that was in Father’s box.”
“What’s that?” inquired the judge, whirling around like a top.
Desiré explained while Jack got the paper and they all examined it carefully.
“1755 is the year,” decided the judge, “and 6754 the number of the deed; but—Wait a minute; I have an idea.”
Out into the garden he hurried, followed by the whole family. With the hole as a base, he measured and calculated, while the others watched silently.
“I have it!” he exclaimed at last. “W means west of the house; 15 is the depth of the hole, and 12 the distance from the edge of the lot.”
“The mystery is solved at last!” exulted Desiré.
Several weeks later the ownership of the little cabin was formally handed over to the Wistmores, under the guardianship of Judge Herbine, and their little fortune duly deposited to their credit, ready for the fall when Jack was to go to college, and Desiré to high school.
THE MYSTERY OF ARNOLD HALL, by Helen M. Persons [Part 1]
CHAPTER I
PAT’S CHANCE
“Will you go, Patricia?” called Mrs. Randall from the living room, one cool evening late in August, as the doorbell rang imperatively. “I’m starting a fire in the grate.”
From the dining room across the hall, where she had been putting away the last of the supper dishes, hurried a tall slender girl, whose short wavy yellow hair and big brown eyes were set off to perfection by a green jersey dress. Expecting to see one of the neighbors when the door was opened, she was startled into an involuntary gasp as a messenger thrust forward a special delivery letter, inquiring curtly—“Miss Patricia Randall?”
“Y—es.”
“Sign here.”
Patricia signed his book, closed the door, and walked slowly into the living room staring down at the unexpected missive in her hand.
“What is it, Pat?” inquired her mother, glancing up from the hearth rug where she knelt trying to coax a blaze from a bed of charcoal and paper.
“A special delivery letter—for me.”
“For you?” repeated Mrs. Randall in surprise. “From whom?”
“I don’t know,” replied her daughter, frowning in a puzzled fashion.
“Well, open it and find out. Don’t stand staring at it like that,” urged her mother briskly.
Patricia sank into a low tapestry chair beside the fireplace and tore open the envelope. As she drew out the single sheet it contained, a slip dropped from it onto her lap. Still holding the folded letter she picked up the slip and exclaimed:
“A cashier’s check for a thousand dollars!”
“Pat!” cried Mrs. Randall, reaching for the yellow paper to read it for herself. “Look at the letter, quick, and see who sent it!”
“It’s only a line. ‘For Patricia Randall to spend on a year at Granard College.’ Oh—why—Mums!”
Patricia flung herself on her mother so suddenly that Mrs. Randall lost her balance, and the two fell in a heap on the rug.
“Mary! Patricia!” ejaculated a horrified masculine voice from the doorway. “What in the world—”
“Oh, Dad!” cried the girl, springing up and giving a helping hand to her mother. With scarcely more effort than that of her daughter Mrs. Randall regained her feet, and they stood facing Mr. Randall’s astonished gaze.
“Just look at this!” Patricia thrust the magic papers into his hand. “Isn’t it marvelous?”
Mr. Randall read the brief message, turned the check over and over as if to discover its sender by inspecting it from all sides, and then looked inquiringly at his wife and daughter.
“Is this a joke of some kind?”
“Joke!” retorted Patricia in disgust. “I should say not! A messenger just brought it, special delivery.”
“Strange, very strange,” commented her father, shaking his head. “Do you know anything about it, Mary?” addressing his wife, with a suspicious look.
“I most certainly do not. Do you?”
“You ought to know that I don’t. Where would I get that much money? Didn’t we send Pat here to Brentwood College last year because we couldn’t afford to send her away?”
“Keep your shirt on, Dad!” laughed Patricia. “Keep your shirt on, and say I may go.”
“I—I don’t know what to say,” replied the puzzled man, sinking heavily into his favorite chair, and pulling his pipe out of his pocket.
“Do you suppose,” began Patricia, perching on the arm of her father’s chair, “that Aunt Betsy could have gotten big-hearted and sent it?”
“Pat!” cried her mother derisively. “Of course not. She has all she can do to keep Ted in college.”
“Be rather nice for me, having Ted at Granard,” mused Patricia, recalling her cousin’s beguiling ways and good looks.
“And having Aunt Betsy there to keep an eye on both of you,” added her mother.
“Some eye! She’ll probably never know I’m there,” laughed Patricia. “Darling Ted takes up all of her time and attention.”
“You two women,” remarked Mr. Randall peevishly, “seem to have this affair all settled.”
“Well, you see, darling, we felt quite sure you would let me go,” laughed Patricia, ruffling up his hair. “You’re going to, aren’t you?” bending down to look pleadingly into his eyes. “You know I’ve longed to go out of town to college where I could live in a dorm. Not that I don’t like living at home, but—”
“We understand,” interrupted her mother; “you need not be apologetic.”
“I wish we knew who sent the money, though,” said Patricia, frowning earnestly. “It must be somebody who knows all about us, but I can’t think of a soul who could or would do it.”
“I shall investigate, of course,” began her father, after some thought; “but if nothing can be found out about the donor of this wonderful gift, it seems to me that since the money has been sent to you for a special purpose, and sent in such a manner, the only course open to us is to use it as stipulated, and not make any further effort to discover its sender.”
“Oh,
