CHAPTER VIII
CYNTHIA HAS AN IDEA
"It's no use, Cynthia. We've come to the end of our rope!" Joyce satback on her heels (she had been rummaging through a box of old trash inthe kitchen of the Boarded-up House) and wiped her grimy hands on thedust-cloth. Cynthia, perched gingerly on the edge of a rickety chair,nodded a vigorous assent.
"_I_ gave it up long ago. It seemed so hopeless! But you _would_continue to hunt, so I've trotted around after you and said nothing."
More than three weeks had elapsed since the finding of the old newspaperand the definite settling of the date. Filled with new hope over thisfind, the girls had continued to search diligently through the neglectedold mansion, strong in the belief that they would eventually discover,if not the missing key, at least a trail of clues that would lead to theunraveling of the mystery. The mystery, however, refused to beunraveled. They made no further discoveries, and to-day even Joyceexpressed herself as completely discouraged.
"There's just one thing that seems to me thoroughly foolish," Cynthiacontinued. "It's your still insisting that we keep from mentioning theBoarded-up House to outsiders. Good gracious! do you think they're allgoing to suspect that we're inside here every other day, just becauseyou happen to speak of the place? If you do, it's your guilty consciencetroubling you!" Cynthia had never spoken quite so sharply before. Joycelooked up, a little hurt.
"Why, Cynthia, what's the matter with you? One would think I'd beendoing something _wrong_, the way you speak!"
"Oh, I didn't mean it that way," explained Cynthia, contritely. "But youdon't know how this remembering _not_ to speak of it has got on mynerves! I catch myself a dozen times a day just going to make someinnocent remark about the B. U. H., generally at the table, and then Istutter and blush, and they all ask what's the matter, and I don't knowwhat in the world to answer! Now I have an idea. Perhaps it isn't worthanything; mine generally aren't! But it's this: why wouldn't it be agood scheme to get the older folks to talk about this house, withoutletting them know you have any special interest in it--just start thesubject, somehow? I notice folks are liable to talk quite a long whileon most any subject that's started. And they might have something to saythat would interest us, and we _might_ get some new clues. And I don'tsee any reason why they should connect us with it, specially."
Joyce considered the subject in thoughtful silence.
"I believe you're right," she said at last. "It is silly to continuekeeping so 'mum' about it, and we might get some good new points.Anyhow, in the detective stories Sherlock Holmes didn't keep everythingso quiet, but talked to lots of outside people, and got ideas that way,too. Why didn't I think of it before! Good old Cynthia! You had theright notion that time. Come, let's go home now. I'm tired and sick ofthis dusty grubbing, and we're not going to do any more of it!"
* * * * *
Next morning, Joyce came flying over to Cynthia's house half an hourbefore it was time to start for high school. She seemed rather excited.
"Come on! Do hurry, Cyn! I've something important to tell you."
"But it isn't time to start yet," objected Cynthia, "and I'm only halfthrough breakfast. Tell me here!" Joyce gave her a warning glance beforeturning away.
"Oh, later will do," she remarked casually, and strolled into thesitting-room to chat with Mrs. Sprague. This was sufficient to hastenCynthia, who usually loved to linger cozily over her morning meal. Shehad her hat and coat on and her books under her arm inside of sevenminutes, and the two girls hurried away together. They were no soonerdown the steps than Joyce began:
"Last night an idea came to me, just through some remark that Fatherhappened to make. It's queer we never thought of it before. There's areal-estate agent over the other side of the town--Mr. Wade--and heought to know everything about all the property here. That's hisbusiness. Let's go to his office and ask him about the old house. Hedoesn't know us, and won't suspect anything. We'll go this afternoon,right after school!"
"But there's a meeting of the Sigma Sigma Society this afternoon,"Cynthia remonstrated, "and they're going to give that little play. I'mcrazy to see it!"
"I don't care!" cried Joyce, recklessly. "What's the meeting of an oldliterary society compared to an important thing like this?"
"But we could do it just as well to-morrow."
"I can't wait till to-morrow, Cynthia Sprague!" And that settled thematter. They started on their expedition that very afternoon.
It was a bleak, raw day, and they found Mr. Wade huddled over a red-hotstove in his little office. He stared at them in some surprise as theyentered.
"Pardon me," began Joyce, always the spokesman, "but I'd like to ask aquestion or two about the old boarded-up house on Orchard Avenue." Nowthe agent was apparently not in the best of spirits that day. Businesshad been very dull, he had two children at home sick with measles, andhe himself was in the first stage of a cold.
"I don't know anything about it!" he mumbled crossly. "It ain't in themarket--never was!"
"Oh, we don't want to _buy_ it or _rent_ it!" explained Joyce, politely."We only wanted to know if you knew the owners, where they live and whattheir names are."
"No, I don't!" he reiterated. "Tried to find out once. It's some estate.Business all transacted through lawyers in New York, and they won'topen their heads about it. Plain as told me it was none of my affairs!"
"Then perhaps you could tell us--" Joyce was persisting, when the agentsuddenly interrupted, turning on her suspiciously:
"Say, what do you want to know all this for? What's the old place toyou, anyhow?"
"Oh, nothing--nothing at all!" protested Joyce, alarmed lest theirprecious secret was about to be discovered. "We only asked out ofcuriosity. Good day, sir!" And the two girls fled precipitately from theoffice.
"I was going to ask him the name of the lawyers," Joyce explained asthey hurried away. "But it wouldn't do any good, I guess, if we knew. Wecouldn't go and question _them_, for it's plain from what the agent saidthat they don't want to talk about it. My, but that man was cranky,wasn't he!"
"I think he was sick," said Cynthia. "He looked it. Well, I suppose wewill have to give it all up! We've tried just about everything."Suddenly she stopped and stood perfectly still, staring blankly atnothing.
"Come on!" urged Joyce. "Whatever is the matter with you, standing herelike that?"
"I was just thinking--seems to me I remember something about the firstday we got into the B. U. H. Didn't you tell me that you knew the housewas left furnished, that somebody had told your father so?"
"Why, _of course_!" cried Joyce, excited at once. "I certainly did, andwhat a stupid I am not to have thought of it since!" And she herselfstopped short and stood thinking.
"Well, what is it?" demanded Cynthia, impatiently. "Who's stopping andstaring now?"
"The trouble is," said Joyce, slowly, "that the whole thing's not veryclear in my mind. It was several years ago that I heard Father mentionit. Somebody was visiting us when we first moved here, and asked him atthe table about the old house next door. And Father said, I think, thathe didn't know anything much about it only that it was a queer oldplace, and once he had met an elderly lady who happened to mention tohim that she knew the house was left furnished, just as it was, and shedidn't think the owners would ever live in it again. I don't know why Ihappened to remember this. It must have made quite an impression on me,because I was a good deal younger and didn't generally listen much towhat they were saying at table."
"Well," announced Cynthia, still standing where she had stopped, andspeaking with great positiveness, "there's only one thing to do now, andthat is, find out who the old lady is and hunt her up!"
"I suppose I can find out her name from Father--if he remembers it--butwhat then? I can't go and scrape up an acquaintance with a perfectlystrange person, and she _may_ live in Timbuctoo!" objected Joyce.
"It's the only thing left, the 'last resort' as they say in stories,"said Cynthia. "But, of course, you can do
as you like. You'reengineering this business!"
"Well, I will," conceded Joyce, not very hopefully, however. "I'll leadFather round to talking of her this evening, if I can, and see whatcomes of it."
Joyce was as good as her word. That evening when she and her father wereseated cozily in the library, she studying, her father smoking andreading his paper, while her mother was temporarily out of the room, shebegan diplomatically:
"Do you know any real elderly people, Father?"]
"Do you know any real elderly people, Father?" He looked up with aquizzical expression.
"Well, a few. Most people do, don't they? What do you inquire for,Duckie? Thinking of founding an old people's home?" he asked teasingly.
"Oh, no! But who are they, Father? Do you mind telling me?"
"Mercy, Joyce! I can't think just now of all of them!" He was deep in apreelection article in his paper, and wanted to return to it.
"But can't you think of just a _few_?" she implored.
"Well, you are the queerest child! There's Grandfather Lambert, and yourGreat-aunt Lucia, and old Mr. Selby, and--oh, I can't think, Joyce!What's all this foolishness anyway?" Joyce saw at once that she wasgetting at nothing very definite along this line and determined on abold move.
"Well, who is the old lady that you spoke of once, who, you said, knewsomething about that queer old boarded-up house next door?"
"Now, why in the world didn't you say so at once, without first makingme go through the whole list of my elderly acquaintances?" he laughed."That was your Great-aunt Lucia."
"_What!_" Joyce almost shouted in her astonishment.
"Why, certainly! What's queer about that? She used to live in New YorkCity, and knew all the best families for miles around. When we firstmoved here, next to that ramshackle old place, I remember her telling meshe'd known the people who used to live there."
"Who were they?" demanded Joyce, eagerly.
"Oh, I don't remember their name! I don't know that she ever mentionedit. She only said she knew them, and they'd gone away rather suddenlyand left their house all furnished and never came back. Now _do_ let mefinish my paper in peace, Duckie dear!"
Joyce said no more, and turned again to her studies; but her brain wasin a whirl, and she could not concentrate her thoughts on her work._Great-aunt Lucia!_--of all people! And here she had been wondering howshe could ever get to know some stranger well enough to put herquestions. But, for that matter, there were difficulties in the way ofquestioning even Great-aunt Lucia. She was a very old lady, a confirmedinvalid, who lived in Poughkeepsie. For many years she had not left herhome, and the family seldom saw her; but her father paid a visit to theold lady once in a while when he was in that vicinity.
Joyce then fell to planning how she could get into communication withthis Great-aunt Lucia. She couldn't _write_ her inquiries,--thatcertainly would never do! If she could only visit her and get her totalk about it! But Joyce had never visited this relative in her life,and never particularly wanted to, and it would appear strange to seemsuddenly so anxious to see the old lady. This, however, was obviouslythe only solution, and she began to wonder how it could be arranged.Very prudently, she waited till her father had finished his pipe andlaid aside his paper. Then she commenced afresh, but casually, as thoughthe idea had just entered her mind:
"Great-aunt Lucia must be a very interesting old lady, Father!"
"She is, she certainly is! I was always very fond of her. My! how shecan talk, and the stories she can tell about old times!" said Mr.Kenway, waxing enthusiastic.
"Oh, I _wish_ I could visit her!" exclaimed Joyce.
"Well, you certainly may, if you really want to. I've always wanted herto see you since you've grown so, and I've proposed a number of timesthat you go with me on the trip. But you've always refused to beseparated from your precious Cynthia, and I couldn't think ofinflicting _two_ youngsters on her." Joyce remembered now, with a gooddeal of self-reproach, how many times she had begged off fromaccompanying her father. It had not seemed very interesting then, and,as he had said, she did not want to leave Cynthia, even for two or threedays. She realized now that she had not only been a little selfish aboutit, but had plainly missed a golden opportunity.
"Oh, Father," she cried in real contrition, "I was mean to refuse you! Ididn't realize that you _wanted_ me to go. I thought you only did it togive me a good time, and, somehow, it didn't seem like a goodtime--then! When are you going again? And won't you take me?"
"I haven't been there in two years," he mused. "I _ought_ to go againsoon. The old lady may not live very long, she's so feeble. Let's see!Suppose we make it the week-end before election. I'll write to herto-morrow that we're all coming, you and Mother and I."
"Oh, but, Father!" exclaimed Joyce. "Couldn't we go sooner? That'snearly a month off!"
"Best I can do, Duckie dear! I simply can't get away before. What's yourhurry anyway? First you won't be hired to go and see her, and then youwant to rush off and do it at once! What a funny little daughter it is!"He kissed her laughingly, as she bade him good night.
But Joyce slept little that night. She was wild for morning to come sothat she could tell Cynthia, and wilder with impatience to think of thelong dragging month ahead before the visit to Great-aunt Lucia, and thesolution of the mystery.