  Moselle’s involuntary shout of surprise and alarm brought Dorothy on a run to the front door. She gave one look at Terry and Arden seated in the flivver, surrounded by holly branches, another look at Santa Claus, and then laughingly demanded: “Where do you play the next performance?” “It isn’t any play, Dot!” called Arden. “Terry’s hurt!” “Hurt!” She was serious in a moment. “It’s only a sprained ankle,” said Terry, trying to speak with vigor. “All my own fault.” “No, it’s my fault,” insisted Santa Claus. Moselle, her eyes almost popping from her head, had retired to the back hall, but was still peeking and listening. “This is Christmas and then some,” said Dorothy. “But whatever happened?” Explanations were quickly made, amid contrite apologies from Mr. Henshot for his part in Terry’s accident. She was helped into the house and a doctor summoned. Then, having asked several times if he could be of any further service, aside from carrying in the holly branches, which he did, and having been thanked for what he had done, further help being graciously declined, the little man took himself away. “But first,” he said, with a jolly laugh, “I’ll take off my disguise—all but my whiskers. I need them. And without my red suit there will be no chance for the children of Bayley Corners to recognize me. “If you folks haven’t anything else to do,” he said to Arden and Dorothy when Terry had been put to bed, with Sim (whose headache was better) to sit beside her, “why, we’d be glad to have you over at the Bayley Corners Sunday-school entertainment—me playing the part of Santa Claus after my rehearsals,” he chuckled. “Thank you,” murmured Arden, trying to be cheerful about it. Dr. Ramsdell gave it as his opinion that Terry’s ankle wasn’t as bad as she feared. It was strained, not sprained, and bound to be painful, but a day or two of rest would make it all right, the physician said, and she could get around, though she might want to use a cane for a while. “You can still go ghost-hunting,” said Arden, when they were all gathered in Terry’s room to commiserate with her. “I’m getting sort of fed up with it,” Terry said. “I believe it will all turn out as this ghost of Patience Howe did—in a Santa Claus outfit.” “Well, if we could play Santa Claus to Granny Howe,” suggested Arden, “and find some way to do something so she could get the money for this property that has been taken by the state for Jockey Hollow Park, it would be the best Christmas gift we could give her, I’m sure of that.” “And it would help Dick to his college education and Betty to realize her ambition to become an interior decorator,” added Sim. “But I suppose it is too much to hope for,” sighed Arden. “I imagine we shall have to be content if we can find the troublesome old ghost.” “Or even if Harry Pangborn finds it,” said Terry. “Oh, yes, we saw him in the Hall,” Arden exclaimed. “We forgot to tell you. There are no workmen tearing the place down now and Harry had it to himself.” “I wonder if he heard anything or saw anything,” spoke Dorothy reflectively. The doorbell rang. It gave them a sudden start. “Wouldn’t it be sort of—psychic if this was Harry now,” exclaimed Sim. “You should more properly say, ‘if this were he, my dear young lady,’” corrected Arden, imitating one of their teachers at Cedar Ridge. “School is out!” declared Sim. “Yes, Moselle?” she inquired. “Mr. Pangborn,” Moselle announced with dignity. The girls looked at one another but didn’t dare laugh. The sounds might carry downstairs. “Oh, I wish he might come up here and let me hear what happened!” begged Terry as she saw her three friends rise as if to leave the room. “I don’t see why he can’t,” spoke Dorothy quickly. “You are quite ‘decent,’ as mother’s theatrical friends say when they mean they are dressed enough to have gentlemen friends in their room—with plenty of chaperons,” and she laughed gayly. “Ask him to come up, Moselle!” Sim ordered with sudden decision. Harry was not at all abashed by coming into a girl’s room while she was reclining and with three other pretty girls seated around her. Young Mr. Pangborn was not easily flustered. But he did look surprised. “Well, what happened?” he inquired anxiously as he bowed to each one in turn and went over to Terry in the bed. “Did the bad old ghost get you?” “Almost,” she smiled as he took her hand. “Only it turned out to be a Santa Claus ghost; the real thing, too.” “Tell me,” he begged. They did. Harry laughed. He absent-mindedly took out his cigarette case and then quickly put it back in his pocket, and almost as quickly took it out when Sim said: “You may.” “Well, I’m one up on you,” he said to Terry and Arden. “What do you mean?” Arden asked as he blew out a cloud of smoke. “My ghost got away from me.” “No!” “Really?” “Did you see anything?” This in turn from Arden, Sim, and Terry. Dorothy was getting him an ash tray. “Oh, tell us!” This came in a most proper Greek chorus. “Well,” he began, adjusting himself comfortably in the chair that gave him a view of all the girls, “I began my investigation at the ghost house this morning. Two of you were witnesses to that.” He indicated Terry and Arden. They bowed in answer. “I went all over the old place,” the young millionaire resumed, “from cellar to what was left of the fourth floor. And I found nothing except the old furniture, the beds, a picture of a pretty girl in a green riding habit, and some old chests that were locked so I didn’t open them. I understand they belong to Mrs. Howe.” “Yes,” Arden said. “But didn’t you find any secret passage, anything to explain how Jim Danton disappeared out of that closet and was found in the cellar? Didn’t you discover the remains of the ghost of the old soldier, Nathaniel Greene—didn’t you find any traces of Patience Howe?” breathlessly Arden demanded to know. “Not a trace,” and Harry shook his head. “I tried to find some secret passage out of that closet, but I couldn’t. My only explanation is that Jim got mixed up and really fell down the big ash-chute. No, I really didn’t find a thing.” “But you said,” interposed Terry, “that you heard——” “Yes. That’s inexplainable. As I was tramping around the old place, pulling at loose boards here and there, suddenly, when I was in the room where, you say, a dead woman was seen on the bed, I heard the most unearthly groan, screech, yell, or scream. It was a combination of all four. It gave even me a start, I assure you,” he admitted. “What happened then?” “What did you do?” “Who screamed?” “Didn’t you discover anything?” Dot joined in the questioning this time. It was a big moment, and Harry was making the most of it. What young man wouldn’t have? |
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