As Jerry had guessed, Constance Stevens’ absence from school was due to the fact that her foster-father had descended upon Gray Gables for a brief visit. He was delighted to see both Marjorie and Jerry. Constance insisted that they should remain to dinner, whereupon the tireless telephone was put into use and the two remained at Gray Gables, there to spend a most agreeable evening. At about eleven o’clock Hal Macy appeared to take them home in the Macy’s smart limousine. Thus, in the pleasure of being with her friends, Marjorie quite forgot the disagreeable incident that had earlier befallen herself and Jerry. Strange to say, CÆsar’s Commentaries, also, faded from recollection, and it was not until they were driving home that the estimable Roman was tardily remembered along with previous good intentions. “It’s unprepared for ours,” was Jerry’s doleful cry, thereby proving that the will to abolish slang was better than the deed.

Due to placing pleasure before duty, Marjorie felt it incumbent upon her to make an early entrance into school the next morning for the purpose of taking a hasty peep at her neglected text books. She was lucky, she told herself, in that the last hour in the morning would give her an opportunity to go over her CÆsar lesson. She, therefore, confined her attention to her English literature, deciding that she could somehow manage to slide through her French without absolute failure. Civil government would also have to take its chance for one recitation.

When at fifteen minutes past eleven she came into the study hall from French class and settled herself to begin the business of Latin, she was for once glad to lay hold on the fat, green volume devoted to the doings of the invincible CÆsar. Opening it, a faint cluck of surprise fell from her lips as she took from it a square, white envelope addressed to herself. It was unsealed and as she drew forth the folded paper which it held she wondered mightily how it had come to be there. She was very sure she had not placed it in the book. Her bewilderment deepened as she read:

“Miss Dean:

“After what occurred the other day in the principal’s office it is surprising that you were not expelled from Sanford High School. It proves you to be a special pet of Miss Archer. Such unfairness is contemptible in a principal. It should be exposed, along with your dishonesty. Sooner or later even that will be found out and you will receive your just deserts. It is a long lane that has no turning.

“The Observer.”

Marjorie emitted a faint sigh of pure amazement as she finished reading this sinister prediction of her ultimate downfall. It was a piece of rank absurdity, evidently penned by someone who had no intimate knowledge of inside facts. Still it filled her with a curious sense of horror. She loathed the very idea of an anonymous letter. Once before since she had first set foot in Sanford High the experience of receiving one of these mysterious communications had been hers. It had pertained to basket ball, however. She had easily guessed its origin and it had troubled her little. This letter was of an entirely different character. It proved that among the girls with whom she daily met and associated there was one, at least, who did not wish her well.

As she reread the spiteful message, her thoughts leaped to Rowena Farnham as the person most open to suspicion. Yet Rowena had made a direct attack upon her. Again there was Mignon. She was wholly capable of such a deed. Strangely enough, Marjorie was seized with the belief that neither girl was responsible for it. She did not know why she believed this to be true. She simply accepted it as such, and cudgelled her brain for another more plausible solution of the mystery.

As she studied it the more she became convinced that the writing was the same as that of the similarly signed letter Miss Archer had received. The stationery, too, was the same. The words, “The Observer,” were the crowning proof which entirely exonerated Rowena. She had certainly not written the first note. Therefore, she had not written the second. Marjorie was in a quandary as to whether or not she should go frankly to the principal and exhibit the letter. She felt that Miss Archer would wish to see it, and at once take the matter up. She could hardly charge Rowena with it, thereby lessening her chances of entering the school. This second note made no mention of Rowena. Its spitefulness was directed entirely toward Marjorie herself. As it pertained wholly to her, she believed that it might be better to keep the affair locked within her own breast. After all, it might amount to nothing. No doubt, Rowena had related her own version of the algebra problem to Mignon. Mignon was noted for her malicious powers of gossip. A garbled account on her part of the matter might have aroused some one of her few allies to this cowardly method of attack. Still this explanation would not cover the writing of the first letter.

Quite at sea regarding its source, Marjorie gave the distasteful missive an impatient little flip that sent it fluttering off her desk to the floor. Reaching down she lifted it, holding it away from her as though it were a noisome weed. She burned to tear it into bits, but an inner prompting stayed her destroying hands. Replacing it in the envelope, she tucked it inside her silk blouse, determining to file it away at home in case she needed it for future reference. She hoped, however, that it would never be needed. Whoever had slipped it into her CÆsar must have done so after she had left her desk on the previous afternoon, following the close of the session. She wished she knew those who had lingered in the study hall after half-past three. This she was not likely to learn. Her own intimate friends had all passed out of the study hall at the ringing of the closing bell. She resolved that she would make casual inquiries elsewhere in the hope of finding a clue.

During the rest of the week she pursued this course with tactful assiduousness, but she could discover nothing worth while. What she did learn, however, was that due to a strenuous appeal to the Board of Education on the part of Mr. Farnham, his daughter had been allowed, on strict promise of future good behavior, to try an entirely new set of examinations. Fortune must have attended her, for on the next Monday she appeared in the study hall as radiantly triumphant as though she had received a great honor, rather than a reluctant admission into the sophomore fold.

“Well, she got there!” hailed Jerry Macy in high disgust, happening to meet Marjorie in the corridor between classes on the morning of Rowena’s retarded arrival. “My father said they had quite a time about it. She got into school by just one vote. He wouldn’t tell me which way he voted, but he said he was glad she wasn’t his daughter.”

“I’m honestly glad for hers and her parents’ sake that she was allowed another trial.” Marjorie spoke with sincere earnestness. “She’s had a severe lesson. She may profit by it and get along without any more trouble.”

“Profit by nothing,” grumbled Jerry. “She can’t change her disposition any more than a cat can grow feathers or an ostrich whiskers. Row-ena, Scrapena, Fightena, Quarrelena she is and will be forever and forever. Let’s not talk about her. She makes me—I mean I feel somewhat languid whenever her name is mentioned.” Jerry delivered her polite emendation with irresistible drollery. “Did you know that there’s to be a junior basket ball try-out next Tuesday after school?”

“No.” Marjorie’s interest was aroused. “Who told you? It certainly hasn’t been announced.”

“Ellen Seymour told me. She’s going to help Miss Davis manage the team this year in Marcia Arnold’s place. I imagine she’ll do most of the managing. I guess Miss Davis had enough of basket ball last year. She told Ellen that it took up too much of her time. She knew, I guess, that the upper class girls wouldn’t relish her interference. Ellen says you must be sure to be at the try-out. She hopes you——” Jerry left off speaking and looked sheepish.

“Well, why don’t you finish? What does Ellen wish me to do?”

“You’ll find out at the try-out. Now don’t ask me any more questions about it.” Jerry’s cheerful grin belied her brusque words.

“You’re a very tantalizing person,” smiled Marjorie. “There goes the second bell. I’ll see you later.” She scudded away, wondering what it was that Jerry had stoutly refused to reveal. Evidently, it must be something of pleasant import, else Jerry would have frowned rather than smiled.

The next day, directly after opening exercises, Miss Merton dryly read out the official call to the try-out. It was received by the junior section with an audible joy which she sternly quenched. Miss Merton was in even less sympathy with “that rough-and-tumble game” than she was with the girls who elected to play it. It was directly due to her that Miss Davis had lost interest in it.

To those intimately interested in making the junior team, the Tuesday afternoon session seemed interminable. Eager eyes frequently consulted the moon-faced study-hall clock, as its hands traveled imperturbably toward the hour of reprieve. Would half-past three never come? At ten minutes past three Muriel Harding’s impatience vented itself in the writing of a heart-felt complaint to Marjorie. She wrote:

“This afternoon is one hundred years long. Darling Miss Merton wishes it was two hundred. The very idea that we are going to the try-out gives her pain. She hates herself, but she hates basket ball worse. If I should invite her to the try-out she would gobble me up. So I shall not risk my precious self. You may do the inviting.”

This uncomplimentary tribute to Miss Merton was whisked successfully down the section and into Marjorie’s hands. As note-passing was obnoxious to the crabbed teacher, Muriel had neither addressed nor signed it. She had craftily whispered her instructions to the girl ahead of her, who had obligingly repeated them to the next and so on down the row. Unfortunately, Miss Merton’s eyes had spied it on its journey. She instantly left her desk to pounce upon it at the moment it was delivered into Marjorie’s keeping.

“You may give me that note, Miss Dean,” she thundered, extending a thin, rigid hand.

“Pardon me, Miss Merton, but this note is for me.” Her fingers closing about it, Marjorie lifted resolute, brown eyes to the disagreeable face above her.

“Give it to me instantly. You are an impertinent young woman.” Miss Merton glared down as though quite ready to take Marjorie by the shoulders and shake her.

Back in her own seat, Muriel Harding was divided between admiration for Marjorie and fear that she would yield to Miss Merton’s demand. Despite lack of signature, the latter would have little trouble in identifying the writer were she given a chance to read the note. Muriel saw trouble looming darkly on her horizon.

“I am sorry you think me impertinent. I do not mean to be.” The soft voice rang with quiet decision. “But I cannot give you this note.” Marjorie calmly put the note in her blouse, and, folding her hands, awaited the storm.

“You will stay here to-night until you give it to me,” decreed Miss Merton grimly. Beaten for the time, she stalked back to her desk, quite aware that she could hardly have imposed a more crushing penalty. True, her effort to obtain the note had been fruitless, but one thing was patent: Marjorie Dean would not be present at the junior basket ball try-out.