Bright Arrows (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

gave him a frightened glance, and he could see that her lip was trembling.

      "But how would you know that?" she asked, trying to appear casual. "Where is he? I want to see him at once!"

      Mike paused beside a big red police car and opened the door.

      "Get in," he said coldly. "I will take you to him."

      Lavira turned toward the car and suddenly caught her breath, stepped back a pace, and looked the bright red car over.

      "But I can't get into that car," she said haughtily.

      "Why not?" asked Mike sharply.

      "But a bright red car like that! It looks like a police car!"

      "It is a police car. Get in!"

      "But I can't ride in a car like that! I never was in a police car in my life! I couldn't endure to ride in that. I would be ashamed all the rest of my life. I couldn't get over it."

      "People have been ashamed all their lives for less than that," said the policeman grimly. "Get in!"

      "Oh, no, no, no!" said Lavira. "I simply couldn't do that! Tell me where you think my son is, and I'll get a taxi and go there, but I can't go in a police car!"

      "Sorry," said Mike, "if you want to go to your son, you'll have to go with me in this car. This is my car, and I'm taking you. Get in!"

      There was that in Mike's voice that made the woman know she must obey. Slowly she turned and got in, forcibly assisted by Mike's big insistent hand.

      "But, but, where am I going? I can't do a thing like this without knowing where I am going."

      "You're going to the police station, madam," said Mike. "Your son is there. You wanted to see him. That's where he is."

      "Oh!" she gasped. "But what is he doing there?"

      "He's being questioned for breaking into the Thurstons' house last night and ransacking Mr. Thurston's desk drawers."

      "Oh, he didn't do that," pleaded the mother. "I know he didn't. He wouldn't do a thing like that. Besides, he wasn't here last night. He was to come in on the afternoon train and meet me here. We had planned to come right on and take care of Eden. We knew she would be so lonesome!"

      But McGregor rode on in silence, not even noticing by so much as the lift of an eyelash the flow of words by his side and the freely flowing tears, which he told himself grimly were only crocodile tears. For McGregor knew his crooks and didn't often make a mistake.

      It was so that Lavira was ushered into police headquarters where she was greeted by the sight of her misguided son sitting in one corner of the room, in close confab with two stern-looking policemen. He sat there in front of his inquisitors filled with assurance, his one long wavy lock of hair hanging jauntily over his handsome, dejected face, like a banner, to which he occasionally gave a careless toss, but his mouth was grim and sullen as he tried to explain to the police how it came about that his fingerprints were on the window that had been jimmied open in the Thurston house, and what he was looking for in the Thurston desk drawers; also how it was that he came to have several old canceled checks in his pocket that bore Mr. Thurston's signature, and what he had been planning to do with them. His excuse for the latter, that he wanted the checks for souvenirs of his beloved uncle, did not seem to go down with the police, as they knew well by now that Mr. Thurston was neither his uncle, nor beloved.

      Meanwhile, back at the Thurston house, Eden lay in her own quiet room, getting a much-needed rest. All that day she was watched over by her faithful servants, careful that nothing should disturb her.

      And then the next morning, all too early for the careful plans to guard her, it was the telephone by her bed that roused her from her long refreshing sleep.

      CHAPTER III

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      "Hello, beautiful! How are you?" breezed a voice out of the past. "How are you fixed for the day? Ready to run off for a few hours and have a jolly time? I'm here on leave for the day, and I want to make the most of it, if it's okay with you."

      Eden was silent for a minute or two, blinking at the instrument in startled bewilderment, unable for an instant to identify the voice, it seemed so much more mature than when she last heard it. Then it came to her. He would be older of course than when he went away to war two years ago, or was it more?

      "Oh!" she exclaimed in amazement. "Why, it's Caspar Carvel, isn't it? But I thought you were away in the Philippines somewhere, or even in Japan. How grand to know you're home. How did you get here without letting us know? And where have you been all this time?"

      "Oh, here and there," said the laughing voice.

      "But you never wrote to us but once!" reproached Eden.

      "Well, I know, I never was much of a correspondent, you know. Besides, they kept us awfully busy in the army. I just didn't have time. But anyhow, I'm here now, and I have to leave to-night. I'm due up in New York to do some broadcasting, and I can't tell when I can get back, so I thought I'd call you up. How about it? Can you give me the day, and perhaps part of the evening if we can find some good show or a nice dump for dinner and a dance? Will you go? You know it's a long time since we went gadding together, old girl, and I don't want to waste any time. Hurry up and say yes. I haven't got another nickel handy and I want to get this settled. I'll come for you in three quarters of an hour. And make it snappy. Can you be ready in that time? Wear something pretty smart. I may want to introduce you to a coupla the fellows if we happen to meet them. This all okay?"

      Eden caught her breath. Could this really be Caspar Carvel? He didn't sound the least like her old friend and playmate. The handsome boy who had been her playmate in high school, and who had been almost daily running in and out of their house. She hesitated, and the voice on the other end of the wire grew impatient:

      "I say! Are you there, Eden! Didn't you hear me? I'm in an awful rush, and I haven't got another nickel handy."

      "But–are you really Caspar Carvel? Somehow your voice sounds so different! I didn't recognize it at first. You seem so grown up!" There was a little sad reproach in her tone.

      "Well, good night! One does grow up, you know. And I guess there's no place to accomplish that quicker than in the army. Do you mind?"

      There was a sharp challenge in his tone now.

      Eden still hesitated.

      "Why, no, of course not," she said, trying to speak naturally. "It's quite to be expected of course. But somehow you startled me. I wasn't expecting you."

      "Well, are you coming with me? Get a hustle on. I only have this day, and I want to make the most of it."

      "Why, Caspar, I want to see you, of course, but I couldn't go with you. Nor do all those things you suggested."

      "What? You mean go dancing? You mean your dad would object to that? But surely he doesn't attempt to lord it over you the way he used to. You're of age, aren't you? Or almost. I should think you had a right to do what you want to now. But anyway, if you think he would kick up a row, we could steal away to some place he wouldn't know about. Would he really make a fuss now? It's time you made a stand against such petty domineering. If you're afraid of him, I'll tell him what I think of him. Just wait till I get out there."

      Eden's voice was choked with sudden tears.

      "My father is not here, Caspar."

      "Well then, what's the matter? He needn't know where you went. Where is he? Will he be away all evening?"

      Eden took a deep breath and choked back the tears.

      "Caspar, my father died four days ago. His funeral was day before yesterday." There was a deep sorrow in the girl's voice, and Caspar's lively tone suddenly hushed.

      "Oh!" he said, aghast. "Oh, you don't mean it! You see, I didn't