The agent’s collapse had unnerved Judy more than a little, and it was some time before she settled herself to her work. Dale had left but not before promising to see Irene safely home.

“She probably won’t want to come near the office again,” Judy thought. “Poor Irene! I wonder what made Emily Grimshaw act up and scare her so.”

But this was no time for deductions, Judy knew, when so much work remained to be done—twice as much now. And there was no use sitting in comfort on the sofa, either. Alone, she could group the poems better at her own desk.

She lowered the typewriter until a place was clear above it and then went for the pile of manuscripts. She looked on the table back of the sofa, but they were not there.

“That’s queer,” she thought. “I’m sure we left them right on the corner of that table. I saw Irene when she put Golden Girl back, and it was right on top. But maybe she moved them afterwards.”

Next Judy looked on the sofa and under all three cushions. She felt beneath the arms, then got down on her hands and knees and looked under the sofa on the floor. She even lifted the rug and looked under that.

“What are you doing?” Emily Grimshaw inquired, looking up with a scowl.

“Hunting for something,” Judy answered vaguely. She was not ready to tell her employer that the manuscripts were missing, not after having been told how valuable they were. Perhaps, absent-mindedly she had placed them in one of the drawers of her own desk.

After another ten minutes of Judy’s frantic searching the agent’s patience was exhausted.

“Sit down, young lady, and tell me why you are turning my office upside down in this ridiculous fashion. As if I hadn’t enough worries!”

“I’m sorry, Miss Grimshaw,” Judy replied contritely. “But the poems you gave me—the originals, I mean—they seem to have—disappeared.”

“Disappeared! Stuff and nonsense!” the old lady snorted. “Like all girls, you’ve been careless, and misplaced them.”

“I’ve looked everywhere except in your desk, and they couldn’t be there.”

“They couldn’t, eh? We shall see.”

Soon the agent had her own desk in worse confusion than Judy’s, but no papers could she find. She poured herself another drink from the bottle and regarded Judy with a wild light in her eyes.

“Joy Holiday took them! That’s what happened! I knew that girl was here for a reason.”

After that there was a long silence during which Emily Grimshaw sat moving her lips but making no sound. It was uncanny! Judy longed for five o’clock and freedom from her queer employer.

No one had entered the office; of that Judy felt sure. The sofa was opposite the door. No one could have passed it and taken the pile of papers from the table without being seen. And no one could enter without a key. The door locked from the inside, and Judy never left the catch off except when Emily Grimshaw was there. That had been her employer’s instructions, and she had followed them to the letter.

What, then, could she mean by saying Joy Holiday took the poems? Why had she collapsed the moment Irene looked up at her, and who or what had taken the pile of manuscripts?

Judy shivered. Would it be stretching the truth to say that some strange, invisible force had been at work in the office that day? Irene, timid, lovable little girl that she was, couldn’t possibly frighten a big capable woman like Emily Grimshaw. She must have seen something else!

Without meaning to, Judy glanced over her shoulder. Then a thought came to her that seemed all at once amusing. Dale Meredith had said there weren’t enough mysteries in real life. Wait till she told him this one! A writer of detective stories ought to be interested. He might even have a theory, perhaps from his own novels, that would work out a solution.

Or perhaps Dale knew what had happened to the poetry. He didn’t seem dishonest, but if he refused to show an interest or showed too great an interest.... How was it that people told the guilty party?

These questions ran through Judy’s mind as she sat before her typewriter. Mysteries intrigued her. But no mystery on earth would be worth the solving if it lessened her trust in people she loved.

“There has to be some way to get Irene out of this,” she said to herself. “Whatever Emily Grimshaw saw, she mustn’t be allowed to accuse Irene of taking the poetry.”

Then it occurred to Judy that, ordinarily, she would be under suspicion as well. Instead, Emily Grimshaw suspected someone named Joy Holiday. It sounded like an hallucination.

When closing time came, Judy walked in the direction of Gramercy Park and arrived at Dr. Faulkner’s house just as Pauline was leaving through a side door.

“Where are you going?” Judy asked in surprise. Usually Pauline would not be going out just at dinner time.

“I told Mary I’d not be home,” Pauline replied, “and you had better not be, either. Dale Meredith’s up on the roof garden with Irene, and we would be intruding if we thrust ourselves upon them.”

“Why? What makes you think that?”

“Just what I overheard.”

“Perhaps you didn’t understand,” Judy attempted. “There’s a brand-new mystery for us to solve. I’m sure Dale Meredith wants to hear about it. Something happened in the office today, and Irene was dreadfully upset. He may have been trying to comfort her.”

Pauline laughed bitterly. “A queer way of doing it—calling her a sweet girl, holding her hand and saying something about ‘another roof garden ... peppy orchestra, floor as smooth as wax ... and you to dance with....’ He said more, too, but that was all I heard. You see what a mistake I almost made! Of course he wants Irene to himself. He won’t be interested in your mystery now—only in Irene’s glorious eyes and her bright hair. I guess she knew what she was doing when she wore that party dress.”

“You wouldn’t feel that way if you knew how little pleasure Irene has had in her life,” Judy said. “My brother is the only boy who ever paid any attention to her, and he never took her out alone.”

“That doesn’t excuse her for dolling up on purpose to attract Dale Meredith.”

“Why, she didn’t even know he was going to come into the office! She dressed up only because it pleased her to look pretty. It pleased me, too,” Judy added warmly. “Do you think they have really gone out together, Pauline?”

“I’m sure of it. And she doesn’t deserve it after scheming to meet him. I’ll never quite forgive her, and you’re a little bit to blame, too. It wasn’t just the thing to go off and find yourself a position when you are really my guest.”

“I suppose it wasn’t,” Judy admitted, feeling sorry for Pauline in spite of the attitude she had taken. She couldn’t be blamed too much. It promised to be another one of these eternal triangles. Judy thought of Peter Dobbs and Arthur Farringdon-Pett at home. They both liked her and were still good friends to each other. She thought of Horace and Honey and Irene. One triangle made straight, only to be converted into another and more puzzling one. Why couldn’t Dale Meredith take out both Pauline and Irene, she wondered. She would even be willing to tag along if it would help. But tonight she would tag along with Pauline and sympathize.

They had hot chocolate and sandwiches in a drug store and called it their dinner. After that they walked uptown as far as Central Park and then back again in time to see the last show at a near-by movie.

“No need to hurry,” Judy said. “Irene is sure to be home late if she and Dale Meredith went out to dance.”