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"I do, however," muttered Jen, divining that Dido had taken the usual route back to "The Wigwam.",

Miss Jinny gave a snort of defiance. "Just you wait till this month is over, Patricia Louise Kendall," she said belligerently. "I'll be back in that old rut so tight you won't be able to see where I ran in again. Not go back to housekeeping with mama, indeed! I'll bet that I put up as many extra pickles and jams this year as I ever did, and with the exception of having the library and you people and the Haldens again, I don't see much change ahead of me, I can tell you!",

"But I thought from what you said of the handkerchief dropped in the room--",

Etwald came immediately from Deanminster in company with Arkel, whom this last extraordinary event took entirely by surprise. He questioned Sampson--the young policeman left in charge--he searched the chamber of death, stepped out of the window and across the lawn toward the belt of laurels which divided the lawn from a winding and tortuous lane. This, a tenebrous pathway even in the noonday, slipped eel-like through darkling trees to emerge into the high road a quarter of a mile away. Arkel was so long absent that Jen could only surmise that he had gone into this outward darkness, and on the inspector's return it appeared that the major was right in his conjecture. Furthermore Arkel brought back certain news.

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Of course, anybody that is anybody would be interested in Father Tiber and the old Colosseum, but what made me forget the one slice of dry toast and the apple was the way he seemed to be connecting me up with all those wonderful old antiquities that had never even seen me. Because of me he had felt and written that poem descriptive of old Tiber, and the moonlight had lit up the Colosseum just because I was over here lighting up Hillsboro. Of course, that is not the way he put it all, but there is no place to really copy what he did say down into this imp book and, anyway, that is the sentiment he expressed, boiled down and sugared over.,

Griffin nodded. "Tabby March, you know. The young woman who paints pussies. Used to go here three years ago, before she'd arrived. She was a wild one, I can tell you.",

"Then it's Tom," cried Patricia delightedly. "I wonder if he'll mind being tagged. Shall you tell him his fate soon, Ju, or let him gradually waken to it?",

"I never said a word about his nose," cried Judith, relieved to evade the real topic. "I'd be more polite than to criticize his linny-ments like that."