INVESTIGATION
The official bulletin board was located near the head of the stairs which led down to the dining room in Horton Hall. Space in front of it was at a premium after meals; for everybody was anxious to keep in touch with campus news. On the day following the fire, an even larger group of students than usual crowded into the shallow ell where the board hung.
“Look, Pat!” cried Anne, pointing to the top notice.
The following students are requested to meet the Dean in her office at two o’clock:
Patricia Randall
Frances Quinne
Katharine Weldon
Patricia read the notice slowly. Although she knew an investigation would surely be made, nevertheless her heart sank to her very shoes when she saw her fears realized quite so soon. Turning away abruptly, she pushed out of the crowd and started for the door.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Anne, who followed and caught up with her on the street.
“Nothing,” replied Patricia quickly; “or—that investigation.”
“But why get all ‘het up’ over that? Simply tell what you know.”
“But that’s just it; I don’t know.”
“Know what?” questioned Anne, linking her arm through that of her friend, and pressing close to her side. “Tell me all about it; you’ll feel better.”
“I’m not sure that I should,” began Patricia doubtfully.
“Oh, shucks! What’s a friend for? I’ll guess then. You know more about the fire than you told Dolly?” hazarded Anne, watching Patricia intently. “You don’t need to admit it; I can tell just by looking at you. We’ll walk over to the park so no one will interrupt us, and then you can unburden your mind. I’ll bet you didn’t sleep a wink last night. You look like nobody’s business.”
Up and down the deserted paths of the little park they paced briskly, for the wind was cold, while Patricia told her story.
“If I were you,” said Anne, when Patricia had finished, “I wouldn’t advance any information; just answer the Dean’s questions. If she doesn’t ask you whether you had any suspicions who the man was, you’ll be all right. In any case, don’t worry about it.”
In spite of the comfort derived from confiding in Anne, the morning seemed endless to Patricia, who alternately longed for and dreaded the arrival of two o’clock. Promptly on the stroke of the hour, the three girls from Arnold Hall were admitted to Dean Walters’ sunny, spacious office. Hardly were they seated in the chairs given them by Miss Jolly, the Dean’s secretary, when Mrs. Vincent walked in.
“The Dean will be in in a few minutes,” murmured Miss Jolly, placing another chair for the latest arrival. As she spoke, the door to an inner room opened, and a dignified, grey-haired woman crossed the room briskly to seat herself behind a large flat-topped desk, facing her callers.
“It is most distasteful to me,” began the Dean without preamble, “to be obliged to question you regarding last night’s catastrophe. Arson is a serious matter, and you will do much harm if you try to shield anyone, or by withholding any detail which might help discover the culprit. So I ask that you be perfectly frank with me, and regard what is said in here as strictly confidential. Mrs. Vincent, I’ll hear first whatever you can tell me.”
Nervously the chaperon of Arnold Hall told the events of her evening, passing rapidly over the fact that she had left Patricia practically alone in the house, and dwelling at some length on her own indisposition. The Dean’s face betrayed no indication of her thoughts, nor did she make any comment when Mrs. Vincent had finished her story.
Little chills began to run up and down Patricia’s spine as she awaited her turn next; but Dean Walters turned slightly in her chair in order to face Frances more directly, and began to question her rapidly as to her whereabouts the previous evening; in what condition she had left her room; whether she or Katharine ever smoked there; if her or her room mate’s clothing and belongings were insured, and so on. Patricia shivered still more as she realized that the Dean intended to question them rather than to listen to their stories. Frances was so frightened that she stumbled and stuttered through her replies, and finally burst into nervous tears.
“There is no reason for you to be so disturbed, Miss Quinne,” said the Dean calmly; “I do not accuse or suspect any one of you; but I must obtain all the information I possibly can, not only in order to apprehend the culprit, if possible, but to satisfy the insurance inspectors. Miss Weldon, can you add anything to the facts your room mate has just given me?”
“No, Dean Walters,” replied Katharine promptly, “except that early in the evening as we were dressing for dinner, our lights kept jumping, going out and then coming on again, you know.”
“Did you try the bulbs to see if they were screwed in tight?”
“No, we didn’t, because it was late and we were in a great hurry.”
“Have the lights ever acted that way before?” inquired the Dean thoughtfully, resting her chin in her hand, and fixing her keen blue eyes on the girl’s face.
“A couple of times within the last week.”
“Why did you not report them?” The question came a bit sharply.
“Just carelessness, I suppose,” admitted Katharine frankly. “We never bother about things until they are entirely out of commission. You see we’re always just getting back from somewhere, or going out to something; so we really don’t have much time.” Katharine grinned in a friendly manner at the stern woman behind the desk; nothing could disturb or subdue Katharine. Dean Walters made a few notes on a small pad, then turned to Patricia.
“Tell me exactly where you were last night, and every detail of your evening.”
Slowly and coherently Patricia furnished the desired information, and then paused, hoping with all her heart that she would not be questioned further. False hope.
“You say you were in your room for a short time before the fire broke out. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary then?”
Patricia flushed up to the roots of her hair, opened her lips, and then closed them again.
“I see that you did,” commented the Dean quickly. “Let me have all the facts, please.”
Reluctantly Patricia told about the man she had seen, and his odd actions.
“Describe him,” ordered Dean Walters, making notes rapidly.
“I—I didn’t see his face,” began Patricia.
“Do as well as you can, then, with his general appearance, clothing, etc.”
As Patricia proceeded, hesitatingly, with the description, Frances gave a little gasp which, though immediately suppressed, did not escape the quick ear of the attentive woman.
“Had you then, or have you now, any ideas as to the identity of that man?” inquired the Dean.
“I’d—really—rather not
