  “What did he say?” demanded both Jane and Freckles the moment David McCall was out of hearing distance. Mary Louise leaned forward and lowered her voice. “He said Cliff Hunter set the place on fire himself—to get the insurance. Now that his father is dead, the bungalow belongs to him.” “How awful!” exclaimed Jane. “Do you believe that, Mary Lou?” “No, I don’t—knowing Cliff as I do. Do you, Mother?” “Certainly not,” replied Mrs. Gay emphatically. “It’s just David’s jealousy. He’s poor himself, and he has a sort of grudge against all rich people.” “Maybe,” admitted Mary Louise. “David never did like Cliff, all the summers they’ve both been coming up here to Shady Nook.” “I wish I could meet this young Hunter,” lamented Jane. “I’m keen to get a look at him.” “Maybe he isn’t here any more,” remarked Mary Louise. “Since the bungalow is gone, where would he stay?” “The Hunters are living over at the Royal Hotel, I think,” Freckles informed them. “Seems to me that’s what Larry Reed said.” “Then Cliff will be over to see you,” observed Mrs. Gay confidently. Her supposition proved correct: no sooner had the Gays returned to their own bungalow after supper than a motorboat chugged its way across the river and anchored at their dock. A moment later Clifford Hunter stepped out. As Mary Louise had said, he was not a good-looking young man. His height was only medium, and he was so thin that even expensive tailoring could not make his clothes look well. But his big nose and his sandy complexion were offset by a pleasant smile and attractive gray eyes, which somehow made you feel as if you had known Cliff Hunter all your life. “Hello, Mary Lou!” he called as he came towards the porch. “Heard you were here!” He whistled a gay tune as he ascended the steps, and smiled. “Not so homely after all,” Jane thought as she looked into his pleasant face. And his white flannels and dark blue coat were certainly becoming. They evidently did not wear sweaters at the Royal Hotel. “Hurry up!” returned Mary Louise. “We’re dying to hear the news!” “Yes, of course.” He shook hands with Mary Louise and her mother and was introduced to Jane. “Sit down, Clifford,” urged Mrs. Gay. The young man fumbled in his pocket and produced a pack of cards. “In a minute, thank you, Mrs. Gay,” he replied. “But first—take a card, Mary Lou. I know some bully new tricks.” Mary Louise burst out laughing. “Haven’t you gotten over that fad yet, Cliff?” she asked. He regarded her reprovingly. “Don’t talk so lightly about my profession!” he said. “I’m going to be a magician. Now—I’ll explain the trick. You can look at the pack——” “Oh, but we want to hear about the fire,” interrupted Mary Louise. “Take a card!” was his only reply. There was nothing to do but humor him. Jane was delighted: she loved card tricks and listened eagerly. But Mary Louise was more interested in the burning of the bungalow. At last, however, Clifford sat down beside Jane on the couch-hammock and began to talk. “You saw the ruins?” he inquired. “Yes. But nobody over at Flicks’ seemed to know how it happened.” “Most amazing thing you ever heard of! It was last Saturday night. I had four fellows from the fraternity here for the week-end, and about nine o’clock we all piled into the boat and went over to the Royal Hotel to dance. There happened to be a bunch of girls staying there that we knew, so we were sure of a swell time. The whole gang from Shady Nook went across too—the Reed family, the Partridges, the Robinsons—practically everybody except the Flicks. So you see Shady Nook was deserted. “We danced till around twelve o’clock and had something to eat. Then the fellows suggested we all get into the launch and go for a ride. Mother was game: she went along too, and so did a couple of the girls. By the time we took them back to the hotel and came home, it must have been two o’clock.” “Hadn’t you seen any flames?” interrupted Jane. “From the river, I mean?” “Not a flicker! But we had been motoring in the other direction, and you know the hotel isn’t right across from our bungalow, so we shouldn’t have been likely to notice when we were dancing. What wind there was blew the other way.” “Even when you reached your own dock, didn’t you smell smoke?” demanded Mary Louise. “Yes, we did then. But the flames were all out. The bungalow was gone—but the trees hadn’t caught fire.” “That was queer,” remarked Mrs. Gay. “Unless somebody put out the fire.” “Nobody did, as far as we know,” replied Clifford. “But it was out all right. And the bungalow gone, all but the foundation stones!” “What in the world did you do?” asked Jane. “Went over to the Partridges’—they’re the people who live next to us on the other side,” he explained to Jane. “Fortunately they were still up, but they hadn’t noticed the smoke for the trees; they had been at the dance themselves till about one o’clock. Well, they gave Mother their one extra bedroom, and we fellows slept in the living room. That was O.K., but it was pretty ghastly, losing everything at once. Especially the clothes and things that belonged to our guests. If it was going to happen, I don’t see why it couldn’t have burned down when we didn’t have any company.” “Yes, that must have been embarrassing,” agreed Mary Louise. She was thinking of David McCall’s accusation—that Clifford set the bungalow on fire himself to get the insurance—and it seemed absurd to her. He certainly would have chosen a more convenient time. “What did you do the next day?” she inquired. “Mother and I went to our New York apartment, and the fellows went home. I put in a claim for the insurance, and after we had bought new summer outfits, we came back here and took a suite at the Royal. We expect to stay there all summer.” “Why not Flicks’?” was Mary Louise’s next question. “Everybody goes there.” “That’s just why we didn’t. They’re so overcrowded, and Mother likes plenty of room. We sure get that at the Royal. The hotel’s practically empty; I don’t see how poor Frazier can pay his taxes.” “He charges too much,” said Mary Louise. “If he’d be content to make a small profit, the way Mr. Flick does, he’d probably fill his hotel.” “Well, it’s an expensive place to keep up. Mother feels sorry for him, so she’s entertaining a lot to bring him some business.” “I don’t feel sorry for him! I don’t like him. Remember that time we wanted to give an entertainment for the Red Cross and he tried to charge us fifty dollars for using his dining room? So we held it outdoors instead!” Clifford nodded. “Yes. But he says he’s poor.” “So poor he can’t pay his waitresses a living wage! Hattie Adams—you remember, Jane, the girl who waited on our table at Flicks’?—said he tried to pay her two dollars a week and excused himself by telling her she’d make a lot on tips! She gets ten at Flicks’!” “A man like that deserves to fail,” agreed Jane. “To get back to the subject of the fire,” said Mary Louise, in her usual practical way whenever there was a mystery to be solved, “what is your idea of the way it started, Cliff?” “I believe it was just an accident,” replied the young man. “Maybe it was some tramp or those kids. You know the Smith boys and a few others. Not the Reeds, for they were at the Royal. But they’re all full of mischief. Maybe they were smoking corn silk in our garage.” “Oh, I hope not!” exclaimed Mrs. Gay, for her son played a great deal with the Smith boys. “Tell Freckles to snoop around a bit and keep his eyes and ears open,” suggested Clifford. “Maybe he’ll learn something. He’ll enjoy being a detective.” Mary Louise smiled; the young man did not know that she had proved herself a very good detective earlier in the summer. “What does your mother think?” she inquired. Clifford frowned. “Mother’s suspicious. She believes there’s been dirty work. Actually thinks the place was set on fire—on purpose! By Ditmar.” “Ditmar! Who is he? I never heard of him.” “Probably not. But you soon will. He’s a young architect who used to plan a lot of houses for my father before he died. You know the two new bungalows that were put up here this year—beyond Flicks’?” “I heard there were two. But we haven’t seen them yet.” “Well, Ditmar drew plans for them both. And he and his young wife live in one of them.” “I see. But why would your mother suspect Mr. Ditmar of setting fire to her cottage?” asked Jane. “That’s easy,” replied Mary Louise. “So Ditmar would get the job of designing a new one! But that seems dreadful. Is this man the criminal type, Cliff?” The latter shrugged his shoulders. “How can anybody tell who is the criminal type nowadays, when every day we read in the newspapers about senators and bankers stooping to all sorts of despicable tricks?” “True,” agreed Jane. “And is your mother going to rebuild?” “It wouldn’t be Mother—it would be I who would do it,” explained Clifford. “Because Dad left the place to me, and all this land up here at Shady Nook that hasn’t been sold yet. But I don’t expect to do anything for a while. Mother’s comfortable at the Royal, and I don’t mind. Though I do like the people at Shady Nook a lot better.” “Oh, well, you can come over as much as you like,” said Mary Louise. “Which is just what I intend to do! And that reminds me, one of the things I came to talk to you about: a swell shindig for Monday night!” “Oh, what?” gasped Jane in delight. “A party down on the island. Everybody goes in some kind of boat—naturally—all dressed up. I mean, the boats are to be all dressed up, you understand. With a prize for the best decorated of each kind. Then we’ll have a feed and play games.” “That’s great!” cried Jane enthusiastically. “What’ll we go in, Mary Lou? The canoe?” “I thought maybe you girls would come in my motorboat——” “And lose the chance of winning a prize?” interrupted Mary Louise. “Thanks just the same, Cliff, but I’ve got an idea already.” David McCall was coming up the porch steps just in time to hear the refusal, and he grinned broadly. This was just as it should be, he thought, looking possessively at Mary Louise. Tall and dark and handsome, David McCall was indeed a contrast to Clifford Hunter in appearance. But Jane had already decided that she did not like him. Nobody twenty-two years old had any right to be so serious, even if he had been supporting himself for five years! Mary Louise was a trifle embarrassed as she greeted him, wondering how he and Cliff would get along together. But Cliff spoke to him cordially. “Hello, Dave,” he said. “Sit down. I’ve got a brand-new trick. You take a card——” Jane giggled. How could anybody help liking a boy like Cliff? “Don’t let’s waste our time on card tricks,” was David’s reply. “The light’s fading. We ought to be out on the river. Or in it, if you prefer,” he added, addressing Mary Louise. Clifford, disappointed, put his cards away. “You can show me all your tricks tomorrow,” whispered Jane sympathetically. “I love them!” “It’s a date!” exclaimed Cliff eagerly. Mary Louise stood up, to conceal her nervousness at the sharp way in which David had spoken. “O.K.,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere. Where?” “In my motorboat?” suggested Cliff. Everybody agreed, and the arrangement proved satisfactory, for the boat was large enough for Jane and Cliff to be together at the wheel, and David and Mary Louise off in another corner. Silky sat upright in the middle of the boat, as if he believed he were the chaperon and it was his sacred duty to keep his eye on everybody. The evening passed pleasantly, for the stars were out, and the breeze over the river delightfully cool, and the boat itself in perfect condition. Even David forgot his grudge against rich young Hunter and under the magic spell of the night joined happily in the singing. Mary Louise, however, insisted that they come home early, for though they hardly realized it, both girls were tired from their long trip. “It’s been a glorious day!” exclaimed Jane, after the boys had gone home, and the girls were preparing for bed. “I’m crazy about Shady Nook.” “I think it’s pretty nice myself,” returned the other, with a yawn. “If only poor Cliff’s bungalow hadn’t burned down.” “Tell me,” urged Jane, “which boy you really like best—Cliff Hunter or David McCall or Max Miller?” Mary Louise laughed. “I don’t know. Max, I guess. Now you answer a question for me: Who do you think set the Hunters’ bungalow on fire—Cliff himself, or that Mr. Ditmar, the architect, or the kids?” “There you go!” cried Jane. “Being a detective instead of a normal girl on her vacation. Who cares, anyhow? It doesn’t hurt anybody but the insurance company, and I guess they can afford it.” “Oh, but I’d like terribly to know!” “Well, don’t let’s waste our wonderful month being detectives,” pleaded Jane. “But it may be important,” Mary Louise pointed out. “If it was done intentionally, there will probably be more fires. Don’t forget—our cottage is next door to Hunters’!” Jane opened her eyes wide in alarm. “I never thought of that,” she admitted. “I’ve got to think of it,” said Mary Louise. “Daddy is trusting me to look after things, and I can’t fall down on my job. Nothing like that must happen.” “What can you possibly do about it?” “Investigate, of course.” “How?” “I’ll begin by talking to Freckles tomorrow and see whether he’s found out anything from the boys. Then I’ll make it a point to meet Mr. Ditmar—and follow up every clue I can get hold of.” “You would!” yawned Jane as she crept sleepily into her cot. |
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