At noon Judy gave Dale and Pauline what little information she had over sandwiches and coffee in a near-by restaurant. Joy Holiday, she told them, disappeared twenty years ago; and Emily Grimshaw’s only reason for acting strangely was because she believed Irene to be her ghost.

“If that’s the case,” Dale declared, “we’re simply wasting time questioning her. Irene’s father might know something real.”

Judy agreed. They telegraphed him at once:

The answer came back early that same afternoon:

Relief flooded Judy’s face. She waved the telegram excitedly and was on the point of telling the news to Emily Grimshaw. Then she decided that she had better not—not yet, at any rate. The papers were still missing even if Irene was safe. It would be better to clear her chum of all suspicion as quickly as possible.

Freed of a measure of worry and suspense, Judy’s mind eagerly took up the story of Joy Holiday’s strange disappearance. Now that she felt sure it had nothing to do with Irene she could view the tale dispassionately and take it for what it was worth. Still holding to Dale Meredith’s theory that valuable clues might be found in the poetry, she questioned Emily Grimshaw.

“Why do you call the girl Joy Holiday when her mother’s name was Glenn?”

“That’s only a pen name.” The agent explained. “Not any prettier than Holiday, is it? But when she had her first poems published Sarah was so anxious to please the publishers that she agreed to use a name that was short enough to be printed across the back of that thin little book. Humph! And now the publishers are just as anxious to please her!”

“What happened to her husband?” Judy asked after a pause.

“Dick Holiday? He left her shortly after their baby was born. Said he’d married a wife, not a nursemaid, and she insisted upon giving all of her time to Joy. When the child finally made a few friends among young folks her own age her mother, in a fit of jealous rage, locked her in the tower.”

“What tower?” Judy asked, growing more and more interested.

“It’s a circular tower built onto Sarah’s house. Joy’s room was on the third floor and there’s where her mother locked her up. She wanted Joy all to herself. That’s what I call mothering a girl to death. Though how Joy died is still something of a puzzle to me.”

“Why? What happened to her?”

Emily Grimshaw’s expression changed. The lines in her forehead deepened. “I told you she disappeared, vanished completely, just like you say this friend of yours vanished. Some folks think she jumped from a window. How ever it happened, Jasper Crosby identified a body in the morgue as hers. They had a funeral over it and buried it, but her mother declares to this day it wasn’t Joy. It didn’t look like her. That girl was too beautiful to die and Sarah thinks she floats around bodily, mind you. No doubt you gathered that much from reading the poetry.”

“Oh,” Judy exclaimed. “That....”

“Yes, that. But I doubt it.” She shook her head gravely and regarded Judy with a fixed stare. “Yes, I very much doubt it. Joy Holiday must be dead. Otherwise her spirit wouldn’t be coming back to haunt the earth. But what I’ve done that she should haunt me, the good Lord knows!”

“Published the poetry, perhaps,” Judy suggested wickedly. If Irene’s disappearance hadn’t been such a serious matter she would have laughed at the old lady’s superstitions.

On the way home Judy tried to figure out why Irene had failed to get in touch with her. That Blackberry had chewed up her note as well as the yellow flower petals seemed likely until she talked it over with Pauline.

“A cat chew up paper?” the other girl sniffed. “Why, Judy, only goats do that.”

“I know, but Blackberry is an unusual cat. I thought he might——”

“Well, he wouldn’t,” Pauline interrupted. “You know, yourself, Irene is sometimes thoughtless. She probably didn’t leave any note. She never breathed a word about those relatives either, and I think she must have had some reason for not wanting us to know where she was going.”

Judy nodded, unconvinced. Irene wasn’t that sort. The relatives in Brooklyn might have been a surprise to her also. Judy remembered distinctly Irene’s assertion that she didn’t know a soul in the city. Her father must have revealed some family history in his letter. Oh, why did telegrams need to be so brief?

Vaguely uneasy about the whole affair, Judy showed the telegram to Dale when he called later in the evening. As he read it his face beamed.

“What more do you want?” he cried. “She’s safe! It’s all of Heaven to know that much.”

In a little while everything would be explained. Irene hadn’t intended to worry them. And Dale was right. They should forget everything else and simply be thankful that she was safe.

For a week Judy went about the daily office routine cheered by the hope that Irene would soon come back. After that doubts began to crowd in. Dale had been calling regularly, helping Pauline entertain even if there remained only one guest to pilot through the never-ending wonders of the world’s greatest city. One evening when he called to take them to dinner Judy confided her fears to him.

“I don’t trust that telegram,” she said in a low voice. “If Irene really is safe why hasn’t she written to tell us where she is?”

“I’ve been wondering about that for a week,” Dale replied. “Suppose we send another telegram.”

“And have it answered as briefly as the last one? No,” Judy declared emphatically. “I’m going to find out what has happened if it costs my week’s salary in nickels. Where’s the nearest phone booth?”

Dale pointed out a cigar store at the next corner and escorted her to it. Together she and Pauline assembled quite a pile of coins and Judy dropped her first nickel in the slot. It was a relief to hear a nurse’s voice, finally, at the other end of the wire.

“Farringdon Sanitarium?” she asked. “Is Mr. Lang well enough to come to the phone?”

“Oh, yes indeed,” the voice replied. “Just a moment and I will call him. He is taking a walk around the grounds.”

“He’s taking a walk,” Judy turned and whispered. “Won’t Irene be glad to hear he’s out of his wheeled chair?”

Then Mr. Lang’s voice, wonderfully clear, asked who was calling.

“It’s Judy. I called about Irene.”

“About Irene!” Instantly the voice changed. Judy could tell that her fears were well founded.

“Yes, yes. About Irene. She’s still missing. Who are her relatives in Brooklyn?”

“Why, I—I dunno,” the old man faltered.

“You don’t know! But you said not to worry. She was with relatives....”

“Didn’t I say as she might be?”

“Then you didn’t know where she was?” Judy demanded.

“N-no, not for sure. She’d have a purty hard time findin’ abody from jest the looks of their house. But she does have relatives—if they ain’t dead.”

“Her mother’s relatives?”

“Yes, my poor Annie’s folks. I told her about them in a letter, but I get all muddled up on the names. Can’t seem to remember. It’s queer how anything like that slips a man’s mind. Can’t you help me, Judy?” he begged. “Ain’t there anything you can do?”

“There’s everything. Why, we would have turned New York inside out looking for her if it hadn’t been for that telegram——”

Dale touched her arm. “Go easy, Judy. Her father’s upset, too. Better hang up, and we’ll report it to the police again.”

At the same time Mr. Lang was saying, “I’ll manage it somehow. The nurses ain’t strong enough to keep me here when my little girl is lost.”

Through tear-dimmed eyes, Judy fumbled for the pile of coins, put the few that were left back in her pocketbook and stumbled out of the store with Dale and Pauline.

“All this to go through again,” she moaned, “and after we believed she was safe!”

Then she looked up and saw Dale’s sober face and resolved to be brave herself.

“We’re going to the police station, aren’t we?” she asked. “We’ll tell them it was a mistake—that report that she was with relatives—and perhaps, if we hurry, there will still be time for a police broadcast of Irene’s description over the radio tonight!”

“There must be time,” Dale said between set lips. “And then what?”

“And then,” Judy declared, “we’re going to take paper and pencil and write down every possible thing that could have happened to Irene. After that we’re going to begin with the most plausible and follow up every clue. We’ll call in the police where necessary but we are the ones to do the brain work. We are the ones who care.”