The Mystery of the Fires. Lavell Edith

sophomore at Yale,” replied Mary Louise. “Rather homely, but awfully nice – and piles of fun.”

      “What’s the youth’s name?”

      “There you go! Putting him down in your notebook already! His name’s Clifford. We all call him Cliff.”

      “Naturally. But if he’s your property, Mary Lou, just say the word, and I’ll keep off.”

      Mary Louise laughed.

      “Nobody’s my special property,” she said. “Not even Max Miller,” she added, mentioning her particular boy-friend in their home town of Riverside. “Though he sometimes acts as if he believed I were his! I like Cliff Hunter a lot – everybody does. But we don’t pair off much at Shady Nook, except sometimes to go canoeing. Most of the time we’re just one big family.”

      “Who else are there besides the Hunters?” inquired the other girl. “I mean, what other families with young people?”

      “The Reeds are about the jolliest family at Shady Nook,” answered Mary Louise. “There are five children, and the father and mother are just as much fun as the kids. The two oldest girls – Sue and Mabel – are twins about our age. Seventeen, I believe, to be exact. Then there are two younger boys that Freckles chums up with, and a little girl.”

      “I’m afraid I’ll never be able to keep all those names straight,” sighed Jane.

      “Wait till we get there and you meet them one at a time,” advised the other. “It’s so much easier to remember people after you’ve seen them.”

      This advice sounded sensible, and Jane settled back in her corner to enjoy the remainder of the ride. The time passed quickly; at five o’clock they crossed the railroad junction and turned into the private road that led to Shady Nook.

      The trees were thick on one side of the road, but on the other they could see the lovely Hudson River, gleaming blue in the August sunlight. Jane went into ecstasies over the beauty of the spot.

      “Here we are!” announced Mrs. Gay as she turned off to a dirt driveway and brought the car to a stop at a tin garage. “Our back door!”

      “Why, we’re right in the woods!” cried Jane, still unable to see the Gays’ cottage.

      “Wait till you see the bungalow!” returned Mary Louise. “It’s like a little dream house. You can borrow it for your honeymoon, if you like – provided you don’t get married in the summer time.”

      “Thanks a lot! But I think I’ll wait a few years before I accept your kind offer.”

      In another moment they were all out of the car, following Mrs. Gay around to the front of the cottage, up to the screened porch, from which they had a good view of the river.

      As Mary Louise had said, the bungalow was charming. Built entirely of logs, it combined the picturesqueness of olden times with the conveniences of the modern day. A huge fireplace covered one entire wall of the living room, and the chairs were big and soft and comfortable. A drop-leaf table at one end of the room was sometimes used for meals, because there was no dining room. But the spotless kitchen contained a breakfast nook where the Gays always ate their first meal of each day. Two bedrooms branched off from the living room, with a white bathroom between them.

      “A little bit too civilized for me,” said Freckles, in a most superior manner. “I sleep out back in a tent.”

      “In good weather,” amended Mrs. Gay. “Now, girls, suppose we just unpack one suitcase apiece and get ready for dinner. We’re going over to Flicks’, of course.”

      “I got to have a swim!” announced Freckles.

      “All right, if you’ll be quick about it. And don’t go in all by yourself.”

      The group gathered together again at half-past six and started down the private road to Flicks’ Inn, where they would have their supper. Mary Louise and Jane had both put on light summer dresses and looked as rested and refreshed as if they had been at Shady Nook all summer.

      “And where is our next-door neighbor’s cottage?” inquired Jane, peering through the trees on the road. “Or do the Hunters live on the other side of you?”

      “No, the Reeds live on the other side. Theirs is the last bungalow. The Hunters’ is right in here.” She paused at a path between two big oak trees.

      Jane stepped to her side and looked in among the foliage.

      “I don’t see it,” she said.

      “It’s been burnt down!” cried Freckles, dashing up behind the girls. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you. About a week ago, Larry Reed said. Awful mysterious. In the night.”

      “Burned down!” repeated Mary Louise, rushing in through the trees beside the path. “Honestly?”

      “See for yourself!” replied her brother.

      A few steps more, and they saw for themselves that it was only too true. The blackened trunks, the dry, scarred grass, and the faint smoky odor confirmed his statement. The beautiful cottage was gone forever. Nothing remained but the charred stones of its foundation.

      “Boy, don’t I wish I’d been here!” exclaimed Freckles regretfully. “It must have been some fire. But they say nobody saw it. It was practically out when they discovered it.”

      “Lucky that it was!” said Mrs. Gay. “Suppose ours had caught too!”

      Mary Louise shuddered; such an idea was too dreadful to contemplate.

      “Do you know any of the details, Freckles?” asked his mother, as the party turned back to the road again.

      “No, I don’t. Nobody does. It just happened, at night, while everybody was over at a dance at the Royal Hotel across the river.”

      “Maybe we’ll hear more about it at Flicks’. Come on, let’s hurry.”

      They passed one bungalow on the way to the inn, which Mary Louise pointed out to Jane as belonging to the Partridges – all middle-aged people, she explained – so that her chum was not interested. Nobody over twenty-five was any use to Jane Patterson.

      The inn, a large square frame building, was completely surrounded by porches on which tables were placed where people were already eating their dinners. Of the eight families at Shady Nook, all except one took their lunches and suppers at Flicks’. Besides them, there were at least half a dozen boarders. Roughly, Mary Louise estimated there were about thirty-five people at the inn.

      They all seemed to know the Gays, for everybody was bowing and smiling as the little party opened the screen door of the front porch.

      Mrs. Flick, a fat, good-natured woman of about fifty, came forward to welcome them.

      “My, it’s good to see you all back again!” she exclaimed, with genuine pleasure. “But where is Mr. Gay?”

      “He had to go to California on business,” explained Mrs. Gay. “So we brought Mary Louise’s friend, Jane Patterson, in his place. Mrs. Flick, this is Jane.”

      “Happy to meet you, Miss Jane,” returned the landlady as she led the Gays to their accustomed table. When they were seated, she pulled up a chair beside them to talk for a few minutes with Mrs. Gay.

      “Tell us about the Hunters’ bungalow!” begged Mary Louise immediately.

      “There isn’t much to tell. Nobody knows much… Oh, here’s Hattie to take your order.” And the newcomers had to exchange greetings with the waitress, the daughter of a farmer named Adams who lived a couple of miles from Shady Nook.

      When the order had been given, Mary Louise repeated her question.

      “It happened a week ago – on a Saturday,” explained Mrs. Flick. “Mr. Clifford had four college boys visiting him, and they all went across the river that evening to a dance at the Royal Hotel. Mrs. Hunter went along with ’em. When they came back, the place was burned to the ground.”

      “Didn’t anybody see the flames – or smell