Saturday night came, and when Dale Meredith called, three visions of loveliness awaited him. Pauline wore peach-colored satin that trailed nearly to the floor. Irene’s new yellow dress with matching slippers of gold was truly appropriate for this occasion, and Judy looked like a sea nymph in a pale shade of green that made people wonder about the color of her eyes.

“It’s going to be a perfect evening,” Irene sighed ecstatically. “Even the moon came out to shine on the roof garden.”

It was all that Dale had described—palms, cut flowers, waiters in long-tailed coats who moved noiselessly between the tables, and a circle of floor for dancing. Colored lights played on the dancers tinting them with rainbows. To her surprise, Dale asked Judy for the first dance.

“Oh, no,” she replied quickly. “Really, I’d rather you danced with the other girls. You see, I can watch the lights while I’m sitting here. When I’m home again I won’t be able to watch lights on a roof garden. And I can always dance.”

Afterwards Judy felt almost sorry she had refused. The orchestra was playing beautifully, magic to any young girl’s feet. Now and then a soloist would sing the number as it was played. Judy listened, at first watching Dale and Irene, then Dale and Pauline as they moved in and out among the crowd of dancers. Finally, not watching anybody, she just sat thinking.

It had been a queer day. Strangely enough, Emily Grimshaw had not once mentioned the missing poetry. She seemed to take it for granted that neither Dale nor Judy were responsible. But she had gone about her work with a harassed expression and a droop to her shoulders that Judy had never noticed before. An opportunity came, and she had asked about Joy Holiday. She had found out something, too, and now as she sat alone at the table she puzzled as how best to tell Dale Meredith. At first she had planned to tell Irene but, on second thought, she had decided that it might be better for Irene not to know some of the things Emily Grimshaw had said.

“You must dance this one,” Dale urged her as the music began again. “Pauline is dancing with a friend of mine who just came in——”

“And I haven’t had a chance to finish this ginger ale,” Irene added.

Dale was curious to hear what she had found out. Judy could tell that as soon as he spoke to her alone.

“Her Majesty’s grouch gone?” he asked.

“A sort of depression has taken its place,” Judy explained as she swung into step. The floor was like glass and shone with their reflections. She could see Irene sitting next to the circle of light, sipping her ginger ale. There was another girl reflected on the floor beside her. Judy pointed it out to Dale—that golden reflection on the polished floor.

Just then the orchestra struck up a new tune. Soon the soloist joined in, singing the latest popular song:

“It sounds as if he meant Irene,” Dale whispered. “She’s a ‘golden girl’ tonight.” He glanced again at her reflection as the orchestra played on:

Irene looked up just as the music stopped. She smiled, and Dale’s eyes smiled back at her.

“Her hair is like the sun,” he said dreamily and half to himself.

“Yes,” Judy replied. “And her dress and slippers are golden. You’d almost think the song was written for her. It must have been written for someone very much like her, and whoever wrote it loved that someone dearly.”

“What was the poet’s name?” Dale asked.

Judy thought a minute. “It was Sarah Glynn—or Glenn. I don’t quite remember. I used to think the song was written by a man until Miss Grimshaw showed me the original manuscript. It’s one of the missing poems, you know.”

“And you didn’t find out a thing about it?”

“Yes, one thing.”

Dale’s face glowed with interest. “You did? What?”

“That Emily Grimshaw believes Irene’s name is Joy Holiday. I can’t convince her otherwise. And she is sure Joy Holiday took the poems. You know it’s ridiculous. Irene isn’t anybody but herself and wouldn’t have any use in the world for the faded old poetry. Besides, she said she didn’t take them, and I believe her.”

“Keep on believing her,” Dale advised as he ushered Judy back to the table. “My own opinion is that your beloved employer has worked a screw loose somewhere in her upper story.”

Judy giggled, partly from excitement. But the thought would be less entertaining when she was catering to the old lady’s whims at the office.

On the way home they discussed the mystery. When questioned, Irene seemed glad to contribute scraps of the missing poetry for the others to puzzle over. It was remarkable how much of it she remembered, and Dale was charmed with the soft tones of her voice as she recited.

When the word “Joy” came up for the fifth time Judy stopped her to exclaim, “That must mean Joy Holiday, the girl Emily Grimshaw thinks took the poetry.”

“Then she must have been ‘Golden Girl,’” Irene said unexpectedly.

Dale turned to her in surprise. “That’s right! We never thought of that. I’m glad to see you so interested in it; I thought at first you weren’t keen on detecting.”

“I’m not,” Irene admitted. “It’s the poetry I like.”

Judy shuddered. “Those creepy poems! I’d rather read a good murder mystery any day. At least there’s always a solution. What do you suppose this poet means when she says ‘Better to crumble in a tower of flame than sit with ghosts...’? Could the ghosts be memories, too?”

“They could be,” Irene said thoughtfully. “It’s queer, but Golden Girl mentions a tower.”

“So it does!” Dale exclaimed, growing excited. “It looks as though there might be some connection. Do you know, girls, we may find the solution to this whole mystery in that poetry!”

“I have some of the typewritten copies. I’ll hunt through them for clues,” Judy promised.