When the Girl Scouts finished their ice-cream, they sat for a few minutes in the little drug store at Rikers, waiting for Ruth to return from her errand.

“She certainly is a devoted daughter,” remarked Alice, as she directed, with a spluttering, over-worked pen, a souvenir postal to her mother. “I never would think of sending a telegram!”

“Ruth’s an only child,” explained Lily; “and it makes a difference, I can tell you.”

“But you didn’t send your parents a telegram, Lil!” put in Marjorie.

“No—they’re away, somewhere. But I do write often.”

Tired of waiting for Ruth, the girls started toward the inn, and met her almost at the steps. They were glad of the opportunity to go to bed early that they might make a good start in the morning.

“And today’s Thursday,” remarked Miss Phillips, as they left the inn before seven o’clock the following morning. “I think we ought to make it by Saturday night. I sent a postal announcing our arrival for then, anyhow.”

“And to whom did you announce it?” asked Ruth, hoping to catch her captain unawares and cause her to give away the secret. But Miss Phillips only smiled knowingly.

“This is the earliest start we have made yet,” she said; “but then we had no breakfast to cook, or tents to take down.”

The girls paddled steadily all day. At last they came in sight of the big mill which Miss Phillips had designated as their camping spot. Ruth, however, was less interested in that than in the farm near by; for, sure enough, it was there, only instead of being opposite the mill, it was on the same side of the stream, a little farther down.

She had never confided to the other scouts the rumors that Michael had repeated about the woman who lived there. Indeed, she scarcely believed them herself, for she knew that gossiping people usually build stories about lonely, isolated lives. Nor had she any desire to frighten the girls; on the contrary she wanted to get Marjorie—and Frieda, if possible—to visit the farm. She resolutely kept all her information to herself. Only Harold Mason shared her knowledge.

Once she was sure of the farm, her next problem was how to get Marjorie there on some ordinary pretext. But she did not have to think hard; the difficulty practically solved itself. Before their very eyes, as they passed by, loomed a whole orchard of magnificent peaches—just about ripe! To the scouts, who had eaten little except dried fruit since they had left home, the display was most alluring. And Ruth lost no opportunity in mentioning them at every chance, in order to make the girls’ mouths water all the more.

Accordingly, the next morning, soon after breakfast, she remarked,

“I’ve simply got to have some of those peaches! Captain, couldn’t Marj and I paddle back to that farm-house and buy some for the rest of the trip? Our supplies aren’t very heavy now, are they?”

Miss Phillips considered; it was Friday. Even if the weather continued favorable and conditions good, they could not reach their destination before Saturday night. So there were two days left to the journey; and girls can eat a lot in two days. It was true, too, as Ruth said, that their baggage was light. So, for all these reasons Miss Phillips gave her consent to Ruth’s proposal, cautioning her, however, not to buy too many.

“I’ll give you a dollar out of the fund,” she said; “and you may buy as much as you can for that.”

Ruth and Marjorie jumped up in great glee, and made haste to go and load their canoe. The others lingered a little.

“We better go in Will-o’-the-Wisp,” said Ruth. “Doris, will you go with Lilian in Water-Witch?”

“Anything to get some of those peaches!” “Don’t wait for us to come back here!” called Ruth; “we’ll paddle on, and meet you later. We can’t get lost; if we’re too speedy for you,” she added laughingly, “we’ll meet you at the next camp site—up by the bend!”

“Well, don’t eat all the peaches!” called Ethel, as they started off.

But Ruth was not yet satisfied; she had no intention of going to the farm herself. She knew she must, in some way, contrive to substitute Frieda for herself. Before they reached the bank, she stopped short.

“Hang it all!” she exclaimed, apparently annoyed. “I’ve got a nail in my shoe.”

“Shall I go get the hammer?” suggested Marjorie.

“No—I’d better go, for if I can’t get it out, I’ll have to get the sneakers out of our bag. But say, this means delay. Could you go for the peaches by yourself?”

“All right; certainly.”

“No, you better not, either,” decided Ruth, pretending to be very solicitous about Marjorie’s welfare; “you’d better get another girl. Ho—Frieda!”

Frieda appeared in a second, accepted the explanation, and took Ruth’s place. The latter returned to the group of scouts, now ready to depart, and made elaborate pretense at fixing an imaginary nail in her shoe. The operation, however, seemed to be quickly performed; in less than five minutes the scouts had pushed off, with now only four instead of five canoes in the party.

Meanwhile, Marjorie and Frieda made for the opposite direction. Arriving at their destination before the remainder of the party had even started, they tied their canoe securely to a tree-trunk, and walked towards the farm-house.

“I hope whoever lives there doesn’t bite our heads off,” observed Marjorie.

Looking all around, they saw no one in sight, and proceeded towards the front door.

“Don’t go to the front door, Marj!” said Frieda, stopping suddenly. “Country people always use their kitchens most of all. Let’s go there!”

Accordingly, they passed around to the rear of the house. Peering through the screen door of the kitchen, they beheld an attractive interior—neat and clean and well kept. At the far corner, beside the stove, they distinguished the stout figure of a woman bending over a pan. Marjorie knocked timidly.

“Come in!” called the woman, cheerily. Then, turning around, she opened her eyes wide in amazement at the sight of the two young girls.

“How do you do?” said Marjorie pleasantly, as she and Frieda entered the big room. “We belong to the girls who camped last night a little way up the stream, and we want to know whether you will sell us a dollar’s worth of peaches. They looked delicious.”

The woman smiled with pleasure. A workman loves to hear praise of his achievements, and the peach orchard was this lonely woman’s one happiness and pride. For the moment, she forgot the part she was to play in her sheer delight at the compliment.

“Yes, I growed them all myself. Been livin’ here nigh on to thirty year—” she was about to say, “by myself” but caught herself in time, and added, “me and my husband. And if I do say it myself, it’s a fine crop of peaches I’ve got. I never have no trouble sellin’ them.”

“And do you do all the work yourself?” questioned Frieda. “Doesn’t your husband help you?”

The woman shook her head. “No, he runs the car into Besley and other towns and sells ’em, but I do all the growin’. He never seemed to have no luck. But set down a minnit, and I’ll give you some doughnuts and fresh milk.”

“Thanks,” said Marjorie, gratefully. “But I almost think we oughtn’t to be so far behind the others——”

“But it will take a while to pick the peaches,” interrupted the other; “and you might as well be restin’ and a refreshin’ yourselves. Set down!”

The girls laughed good naturedly, and seated themselves upon a long wooden box which was evidently used for kindling. Just as they were handed their refreshments, an old man shuffled into the room.

“Jim, these girls wants some peaches,” said the woman. “Will you go out and pick them a basket?”

“A dollar’s worth,” explained Marjorie, biting into her doughnut.

The man nodded his head slowly, and then turned around and carefully closed the wooden door and bolted it.

“First of all,” he drawled, “will you answer me one question. Be either of yez by any chance Margie Wilkison?”

Marjorie dropped her doughnut into her lap in amazement. How could this man possibly know her name? But she never thought for a moment of attempting to conceal her identity. So she answered unhesitatingly.

“Yes, my name is Marjorie Wilkinson. Why?”

The old man squinted one eye, and, glorying in the completeness of his disguise, looked into her face.

“You know why as good as I do, young leddy! They’s no use pretendin’!”

At these words both girls sprang up instantly. There was something queer about the old creature—something uncanny! Both girls shuddered involuntarily, and with a common purpose started for the door, leaving their half-finished doughnuts on the table.

But the man held up his hand. He had no intention of allowing them to escape thus easily.

“Maybe you think we don’t know all about who you are!” he said mockingly.

Marjorie looked helplessly at the woman.

“Is he crazy?” she asked.

“No, indeed,” replied the other. “He really knows what he’s talking about. And you do too, only you won’t own up to it!”

“Frieda!” said Marjorie, in a terrified voice. “We must get out of here immediately.”

“Not so fast! Not so fast!” said the old man. “All the doors happen to be locked. But in case you think I mean to harm you, I’ll explain, though I know you’re only pretendin’ like you don’t know.

“Miss, you know better’n I do that you ran away from your pap. And you must know as how he’s anxious to get you back. Though mebbe you’re not acquainted with the fact that he’s offered a thousand dollars’ reward to them as locates you and notifies him accordingly. Therefore, I mean to hold you—and your friend, too, to keep you company—until your pap gets my message and shows up to claim you and give me my reward. My wife jest had one of them new fangled arrangements for runnin’ water put in the house, and it cost us a pretty penny; the money’ll come in right handy. We’ve got a nice bedroom for you upstairs, so you might as well make yourselfs to home. Now is there anything I can do for you?”

By this time Marjorie realized that he was really in earnest, though where he could have heard the strange story appalled her. She stood still, hopeless, in the centre of the room, and two great tears rolled down her cheeks.

“It’s all a ghastly lie!” she cried. “You people are ordinary kidnappers—and that’s the meanest kind of criminal there is!” She flashed a look of intense hatred at them both. “My father knows all about where I am, and he gave me full permission to go with the scouts. If you don’t believe me, why don’t you telephone him?”

“Easy, easy, me gal!” said the old man, with a cynical smile on his face. “It’s possible, of course, that we might have the wrong Margaret Wilkison, but I guess I’ll find that out. A thousand dollars would lift the mortgage from this yere farm!”

“My name is Marjorie, not Margaret!” snapped the girl. “So you see you’re mistaken after all, and you might as well let us go! You’ll never get anything but a jail sentence out of my father!”

“Give me a chance to find that out; then, if I’m mistaken, I give you my word, I’ll let you both go.”

“Well, then go phone now!” challenged Frieda. Though she had said nothing thus far, it was not because she was not greatly incensed. Had there been any hope of escape, she would have leaped at the old man, for she was exceptionally strong. But she realized that it was useless to attempt such a thing.

“Yes, go!” commanded Marjorie; and she gave the man her telephone number. “Just see what my father says!”

“I am going over to Besley now. We ain’t rich enough to have a telephone here. So make yourselfs comfortable, while I’m gone. Reckon I’ll lock the missis in, too, in case you all get too rambunctious for her!”

With these words he unbolted the door and went out, locking it on the outside behind him. Frieda’s mind instantly flew to the windows, but they were completely covered by a heavy wire screening which was fastened to the window frame on the outside.

“I’m sorry, girls,” said the woman, her voice softening with pity, “but he really won’t hurt you. He only wants the money. You don’t know how it feels to be poor all yer life and then see a chance to make a tidy sum, and not put all yer powers into gettin’ it. It’ll only be a matter of a day or two, and then you can join yer party again if you ain’t the one we’re lookin fer. And if you are, think how glad yer pap will be to see you again. Now—want to come upstairs?”

The girls followed the woman half-heartedly up the crooked stair-case to the second floor, all the while watching for chances to escape. But they saw none.

The bedroom into which she led them was neat and clean, and the bed linen spotless. Marjorie silently thanked her for that, and sat down upon the chair beside the window. Here there was no wire screening—only netting, and the sash was wide open. The lovely air from the orchard floated in reminding them what a beautiful day it was outside. Marjorie secretly wished that Ruth were her fellow-sufferer, as originally planned; for somehow she felt that Ruth, with her cleverness, could rise superior to almost any contingency.

“Well, Frieda, I guess we’re in for it!” she remarked as the door was closed, and the retreating footsteps of the woman could be heard going down stairs again. “And I suppose there’s no use getting excited over it. But it certainly is hard luck!”

“Marj!” cried Frieda suddenly, in a doleful tone. “Suppose this makes us too late for the water meet!”

The idea had not occurred to Marjorie. She looked thunderstruck for a moment, but upon consideration, dismissed the thought with her usual optimism.

“It simply couldn’t, Frieda,” she reassured the other. “Today’s only Friday; the old sinner will surely find out today that he’s mistaken and let us go early tomorrow. It’s two days’ trip—we’ll only be a day late; and the meet isn’t till Wednesday. Oh, Frieda—” she jumped up and threw her arms around her companion—“I’d be so disappointed if I don’t have a chance to try for that cup!”

The woman appeared with their luncheon, and the girls found themselves treated like royal guests. They slept in the afternoon, but by five o’clock the old man had not appeared, and Marjorie’s hopes sank.

One day was lost!