*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52946 ***

Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
      file which includes the original illustrations.
      See 52946-h.htm or 52946-h.zip:
      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52946/52946-h/52946-h.htm)
      or
      (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52946/52946-h.zip)





THREE SIDES OF PARADISE GREEN

by

AUGUSTA HUIELL SEAMAN

Author of "The Girl Next Door,"
"The Sapphire Signet," etc.

Illustrated by C. M. Relyea







[Illustration: Decoration]

New York
The Century Co.


[Illustration: "I'll tell you after we've had our swim," said the Imp]


Copyright, 1918, by
The Century Co.

Published, October, 1918


Printed in U. S. A.




TO

THE REAL HELEN ROBERTA




CONTENTS

CHAPTER                                  PAGE
    I THE JOURNAL IS BEGUN                  3

   II NEW DEVELOPMENTS                     18

  III THE IMP HAS THE BEST OF IT           36

   IV THE MYSTERIOUS "MONSIEUR"            53

    V TWO ACCIDENTS AND A MYSTERY          68

   VI IN MONSIEUR'S ROOM                   87

  VII THE IMP MAKES A DISCOVERY            99

 VIII THE PORTRAIT OF MYSTERY             114

   IX CAROL MAKES A DISCOVERY OF HER OWN  125

    X JOTTINGS FROM THE JOURNAL           138

   XI LOUIS SPRINGS A SURPRISE--AND
       THE CONSEQUENCES THEREOF           151

  XII WHAT THE IMP KNEW                   163

 XIII SUSPICIONS                          175

  XIV A SOLEMN CONCLAVE--AND WHAT
       CAME OF IT                         190

   XV MONSIEUR'S STORY                    202

  XVI AUGUST FOURTH, 1914                 228

 XVII THE IMP MAKES A LAST DISCOVERY      246

XVIII THE END OF THE JOURNAL              265




THREE SIDES OF PARADISE GREEN




CHAPTER I

THE JOURNAL IS BEGUN


November 22, 1913. It's all on account of Miss Cullingford that I'm
beginning this journal. I never would have thought of such a thing by
myself. Neither would Carol. Now we've both begun one, and it's just
because Miss Cullingford is so sweet and lovely, and all the girls at
Bridgeton High School want to please her,--Carol and myself most of all.

Miss Cullingford is our English literature instructor, and we all simply
adore her. She's the sweetest thing! She's little and slight, with
fluffy light hair and dark blue eyes. And she's _such_ an inspiration
about literature and English composition! She makes it seem actually
like a romance. They always seemed terribly dull, those subjects, when
we had Miss Trotter last year. But now we're just crazy about them.

Well, one of the things she said yesterday in composition class was that
every one of us ought to keep a journal, not the kind of diary affair
that some people keep,--all about the weather and the number of jars of
jam they put up, and how Cousin Hannah called that day!--but an
occasional record, only written when we felt like it, of the things that
happen around us and our ideas about people and so on. She said that the
greatest minds of the ages had generally kept such a record, and that
they had proved a big addition to history and literature, too.

Then, right there, I raised my hand and said that it was fine, of
course, for the great minds to do it, especially when they lived in
stirring times and had lots interesting to write about; but what was the
use of just plain, ordinary people, as young as we were, doing it,
especially when there wasn't anything going on that was interesting at
all,--just the same old thing every day?

Miss Cullingford answered that I mustn't make the mistake of thinking
_any_ life uninteresting, no matter how quiet and ordinary it might
appear to be. You can always find something interesting to write about
any kind of life, if you try hard enough. And that was where the
advantage of a journal came in,--it made you look around hard to find
what was worth while, and you always found it. Also, it was a great help
to your style in writing. Then she asked if any of the girls would
promise to keep a journal faithfully for a year. Carol and I promised.

Well, now I'm going to see. No life could possibly be more
_un_interesting than mine, here in quiet little Stafford where nothing
ever happens or ever _has_ happened that I know of, and in a family
that's awfully nice, of course, but as plain and uninteresting and
ordinary as all the rest of the families around here.

Carol doesn't feel the same as I do about it. She's more hopeful.
That's because she has lots of imagination and is always romancing about
people and thinking there's some story back of their lives that we don't
know. I suppose her journal will be awfully different from mine. Well,
anyhow, we've both begun, and now we'll see what happens.

November 23. I had to stop short last night because I suddenly got so
sleepy. Now I'll go on. I do wish we lived in Bridgeton, for things
surely happen once in a while in a big town like that. Or even down in
our own village of Stafford itself, and not way out, a mile off on the
main road, on this silly little triangle called Paradise Green. Even the
trolley doesn't run up this way; that would be _something_! But there's
nothing in the world around here except this little triangle of a green,
formed by the turning off of Cranberry Bog Road from the River Road, and
the short road that connects the two at the head of the green. I'm sure
I don't know why it was ever called Paradise Green. I suppose if I were
Carol, I'd find out. She probably will. She's always hunting up
historical facts.

Even the automobiles don't come along this way. Nearly all of them keep
to the State road over on the other side of the river. There are just
three houses around the Green, one on each side, and not another
dwelling anywhere within half a mile. So we haven't many near neighbors.

Our house stands at the head of the Green. It's a big square house, with
a cupola on top and a veranda around all four sides. Father's father
built it when that style of house was just beginning to be popular, and
everybody thought it very grand. I hate it myself, because it seems so
old-fashioned and dreary compared to those pretty new bungalows they are
putting up in Bridgeton. Mother and Father and the Imp and I live here.
Father does intensive farming,--he is just crazy about it,--and every
one comes to Birdsey's for ideas on the subject.

Dave is my brother. He's seventeen and a half, and a very quiet and
thoughtful sort of person. All the same, he can do his own share of
teasing in a quiet way. He left high school this year because his health
wasn't very good, and is helping Father with the farming. Next year he's
going to study scientific agriculture at one of the big colleges. I'm
secretly awfully fond of Dave, but just at present he pretends to look
down on girls as entirely unnecessary articles in the general scheme of
things, so Carol and I are letting him severely alone.

The Imp is my sister. She's twelve years old and a perfect nuisance.
Carol and I have named her "The Imp" because she acts just like one. She
likes to trot around with us all the time, but we won't have it. It's
impossible to have a child of twelve continually hanging on to girls of
fifteen or sixteen, and Carol and I simply won't stand it. The Imp is
fearfully miffed about this and spends her time thinking up revengeful
things to do to us. She makes our lives perfectly miserable sometimes,
though we wouldn't let her know it for the world.

Carol's house is on the River Road side of the Green. She lives there
with just her mother and her Aunt Agatha. The Fayres are distant
relatives of ours, so Carol and I are really cousins. Their house is one
of the old style, a real New England farmhouse, and they have a glorious
big barn in the back, where we've all played ever since we were babies.
One little room off the haymow Carol and I have fixed up as our private
den and study. We keep our books and our fancywork there, and her mother
gave us an old desk where we do our school work. We always keep the den
locked with a padlock, because the Imp would like to get in and rummage
around. She's as mad as a hatter because she can't. She threatens to
climb in the window sometime, but I don't believe she could possibly. If
she did, she'd probably break her neck.

Carol is fifteen years old, and I'm sixteen. Her name is really
Caroline, but she hates it and wants to be called "Carol" instead. She
says it's so much prettier. And mine is even worse--_Susan_! Could
anything be more dreadful? I've insisted on being called "Susette,"
which at least is a prettier French form. But no one except Carol will
ever call me that. Every one calls me either "Susie" or "Sue," that is,
all but the Imp. She, of course, knowing how much I detest it, will say
nothing but "So-o-san" on all occasions. Carol she addresses by the
horrible nickname of "Cad." Why are some children so irritating, I
wonder? The infuriating part is that the Imp's own name is really
lovely--Helen Roberta--and she knows it, little torment that she is!

Well, I haven't yet told about the third house on the Green, so now I
come to that. It's the one on the Cranberry Bog Road side. It's by far
the most interesting of the three,--a long, rambling colonial farmhouse,
built, they say, way back in seventeen hundred and something. It has the
most fascinating additions in all directions from the main part, and
queer little back stairways and old slave quarters, and I don't know
what else. But the people who live in it are the interesting part.

To begin with, there's Louis. His whole name is Louis Charles Durant. He
is seventeen and goes to high school in Bridgeton with us. We have known
him all our lives, and he's the nicest, jolliest boy we know. But the
people he lives with I've never understood at all, and if there were any
romance or mystery about any one around here, it would be about them.

Come to think of it, they _are_ mysterious. Carol has always said so,
but I never thought much about it. And that only goes to show that Miss
Cullingford is right. Keeping a journal does certainly make you go about
with your eyes open wider and gives you an interest in things you never
thought worth while before. I never thought or cared a bit about Louis's
folks before, and now I see they're full of possibilities.

November 24. Fell asleep again last night while I was writing. I guess
it's because there's nothing very exciting to write about. However, I'll
go on from where I left off about Louis's folks. First, there's the old
man. Louis's father and mother have been dead a number of years. I never
remember seeing either of them. So he lives with this old man, who, they
say, is his guardian. His name is John Meadows, or at least that is what
he is always called around here. But Louis says that he is French, and
that his real name is Jean Mettot. He is very old; he must be eighty at
least. And he is very feeble now, too. He sits all day long in a great
armchair by the parlor window. He never reads anything but the papers
and some great, heavy volumes of French history, but he spends a great
deal of time thinking and dreaming, while he looks way off over the
meadows toward the river.

Then there's his daughter, Miss Meadows. She's about forty or fifty
years old, I should think. Louis says her name is Yvonne. Certainly,
that's a fascinating French name. She's very dark and handsome and quick
in her ways, but she's very, very quiet and silent. I never had a _real_
conversation with her in my life, though I've talked to her a great
many times. I do all the talking, and she nods or smiles or says "Yes"
and "No," and that is absolutely all. I feel as if I'd never really
_know_ her, if I talked to her a hundred years. They have one servant, a
big French peasant from Normandy, who cooks the meals and takes care of
the garden and house.

All this doesn't sound very strange, however. And there _is_ something
very mysterious about them,--at least, so Carol has always said. I never
paid much attention to the thing before, or noticed it. The curious part
of it all is the way they treat Louis. He isn't any real relative, so he
says. His parents and their parents have just been dear friends from a
long way back. It's plain that they think the world of him, too, just as
much as if he were a relative. But there's something more. They are
continually watching him with anxious eyes. They guard him as if he
weren't able to take care of himself any more than a baby. They don't
let him have half the liberty and fun that ordinary boys have. Lots of
mothers and fathers, who love their children to distraction, aren't half
as fussy and concerned about them as these two people are about a boy
who isn't even a relative. It makes Louis awfully annoyed, for he hates
like anything to be coddled. Once he fell out of an apple-tree and broke
a rib, and they nearly went wild. He had a fever that night and lay in a
sort of stupor. But when he was coming out of it he heard them talking
awfully queerly about him and wringing their hands and whispering that
"he would never, never forgive us if Monsieur Louis were to die."

Who "he" was, or why his Aunt Yvonne and his Uncle Jean (as he calls
them) should allude to him as "Monsieur Louis," was something Louis
couldn't understand. And somehow, when he was better, he didn't like to
ask.

They have taught him French, and with them he always has to speak that
language. But he doesn't like it, because he says he's an American
citizen and would rather talk "United States" than anything else. He's
awfully patriotic and proud of this country, and he can't understand why
this should bother Mr. and Miss Meadows. But it somehow does. He's sure
of it, for they won't let him talk about it, and are always telling him
that his great grandfather was born in France and that he should be very
proud of it.

Then there's another thing, too, that seems to worry them a lot. Louis
is crazy about mechanical engineering. He declares he's going to study
that exclusively, when he's through high school, and become an expert in
it. This nearly drives them wild. They want him to be a "statesman," as
they call it, and study law and history and diplomacy and all that sort
of thing.

"You can serve your country best that way," they are always telling him.

Once he said to them:

"The United States has plenty of that sort already. _I_ want to go in
for something special." And he says they never answered a word, but
just looked queerly at each other and walked off.

Another time he found that the lock on their kitchen door wouldn't work,
so he unscrewed it and took it out. He was fixing it when along came his
Aunt Yvonne. When she saw what he was doing she burst into tears and
rushed away, muttering, "The ancient blood! It will ruin
everything!"--or something in French like that.

All these things do not happen frequently, of course, but when something
like it does occur, it puzzles Louis dreadfully. He always talks it over
with us when we come home together from Bridgeton High School on the
trolley, so that's why I happen to know about it.

Well, now I've begun this journal by telling all about ourselves and our
homes and everything else I can think of. But as I read it over, it
doesn't sound one bit exciting or likely to become "an interesting
contribution to history," as Miss Cullingford would say. I wonder what
she'd think about it. I'm glad I didn't promise to _show_ her my
journal, for I'm not very proud of this sample. I'm crazy to see what
Carol has written. We're going to compare our journals to-morrow.

One thing is certain, though. I'm not going to write another word till
I've something more interesting to talk about, even if I have to wait
six months!




CHAPTER II

NEW DEVELOPMENTS


December 1, 1913. I haven't written a thing in this journal for over a
week, for a number of reasons. In the first place, I'd made up my mind
not to write till I had something worth writing about. In the second
place, we've been having some exams at school that took a lot of work to
prepare for. Third, Thanksgiving holidays came along, and we were all
pretty busy and had a lot of engagements. Altogether, I haven't had a
minute till now--_and_ something has happened that's rather interesting
to write about.

Carol is ever so much better at this journal business than I am. She
writes nearly every other day. But then, she doesn't mind writing about
all the little ordinary occurrences,--the things she does about the
housework and her studies and so on. But I simply can't do it. If I
can't tell about something a little out of the ordinary, I won't write
at all. And as nothing besides the usual ever happens in either one of
our two households (or at school or in the village!), I find myself
turning more and more to Louis and his affairs for interest.

It's strange (I've heard other people speak of the same thing, too) that
when you once get to thinking about a certain thing, all sorts of other
ideas and events connected with it will suddenly begin to appear. I
never gave a thought to Louis and his affairs before I began this
journal. He has always lived here, and we've always known him and never
thought there was anything strange about his folks. But now so many
queer little things have happened and so many strange ideas have come to
us (Carol and myself, I mean) about that house across the Green that it
seems as if there _must_ be some mystery right near our commonplace
lives after all.

Before I tell what happened, however, I must remark that the Imp has
been particularly exasperating lately. She got wind somehow or other
(at first we _couldn't_ think how) that Carol and I are keeping
journals. Later I discovered that it was because Carol had carelessly
left hers on the desk in our den, and had forgotten to padlock the door.
Carol is so thoughtless at times, because she gets to going about with
"her head in the clouds," as her Aunt Agatha says, and doesn't remember
half the things she ought to do. It's generally when she's thinking up
some verses. Carol _does_ compose very pretty verses. Miss Cullingford
has praised them highly. But she's always awfully absent-minded when
she's thinking about them.

Well, the way we learned that the Imp had discovered our journals was by
a large sheet of paper pinned to Carol's barn-door. This was written on
it:


     November 29. How these precious autumn days fly by! Each one is
     like a polished jewel. I made my bed and dusted my room at eight A.
     M. Then I composed a sweet little poem on "Feeding the Pigs." After
     that I slept in the hammock on the porch till lunchtime. The days
     are all too short for these many duties!


Of course we were furious. Carol confessed to me that she had left her
journal open on the desk in the den, and the last entry was awfully like
what that little wretch had written, only Carol had spoken of composing
a poem on "Feeding the Pigeons." She _had_ slept on the porch all
morning, because it was a lovely mild day and I was away with Mother at
a luncheon in Bridgeton. But she hadn't mentioned this in her journal.

It is perfectly useless to argue with the Imp, or to scold or reason
with her. She can go you one better every single time. We concluded that
the best thing to do was ignore the incident entirely. So we left the
paper hanging on the barn-door till the wind blew it away. A course of
action like that makes the Imp madder than if you got purple in the face
with fury. I've advised Carol not to leave her journal in the den any
more, but to keep it in her room, and she says she will.

All this, however, isn't telling what happened to Louis. He told us
about it this afternoon while we were resting on our veranda after a
hot session of pitching the basketball about. After a while we just had
to sit down and get our breath, and the Imp strolled off by herself
somewhere. It was then that Louis told us the strange thing that
happened yesterday.

It seems that his Aunt Yvonne has gone to New York on a visit for a few
days, and he has been alone with his Uncle John and the servant.
Yesterday afternoon, about five o'clock, a boy rode up from the village
on a bicycle with a telegram for his uncle. The old gentleman opened it,
but couldn't read it because he had mislaid his glasses. So he got Louis
to read it to him. Louis says the thing was a cablegram from some place
in France--he can't remember the name--and that it was the queerest
message. It ran like this:


     Time almost ripe. Have you the necessary papers? Sail next month.


When his uncle heard this he became terribly excited and began to walk
up and down the room very fast. But when Louis asked him what it all
meant, all he would say was:

"It is not for you to inquire or for me to explain just yet, Monsieur!"
Louis says his uncle often calls him "monsieur," and he can't understand
why. He thinks it's generally when the old gentleman forgets himself or
is excited. But it makes Louis feel very queer.

After that his uncle wouldn't say anything more, but Louis says he began
to rummage around through all his letters and papers, and looked through
all his books and in all the closets, evidently hunting for something he
couldn't find. And the more he hunted, the more nervous and excitable he
grew. Every once in a while he would exclaim, "Ah, why is not that
Yvonne here?" By bedtime he was pretty well worked up, for it was
evident that he couldn't find what he was searching for. Louis tried and
tried to get him to explain and let him help in the hunt. But the old
gentleman would only mutter, "No, no! That cannot be!" Louis says he
doesn't think his uncle slept all night, because he heard him rummaging
about in all sorts of places till nearly morning. To-day he seems
terribly used up. He just sits in his chair by the window, staring out
and watching for his daughter to come. Louis says he had to go down to
the village at eight o'clock last night with a telegram, telling his
Aunt Yvonne to come home at once.

How mysterious it all sounds! Louis declares he can't imagine what it
means, and it makes him very uneasy, because he is almost certain that
it is something concerning himself. He says he sometimes thinks his
uncle is planning to send him to France before he gets much older, to
complete his studies there and to become a French citizen, and he
doesn't want to go.

My idea was that perhaps he had some relatives there and that they
wanted him to come back. But Louis says his uncle has often told him
that he hasn't any relatives living. And if he had, he says there's no
reason why there should be all this secrecy about it. But he can't
understand who the people are with whom his uncle is corresponding.

Carol's opinion was that perhaps Louis was a descendant of some titled
person,--a count or a marquis or something like that,--and that these
people are trying to bring him back to his legal title and estates.
Louis simply hooted at that. He says that his great grandfather was a
plain "monsieur" when he came over here long ago; that he never had been
anything else and didn't want to be. So that Carol's idea was all
nonsense. Carol is always romancing like that, and generally getting
laughed at. Just at this point the Imp came suddenly around the corner
of the veranda and demanded:

"What are you talking about? I warrant dollars to doughnuts it's about
Louis."

That child has a perfectly uncanny way of lighting on just the thing you
don't care to have her know about. She's a veritable mind-reader. None
of us cared at that particular moment to explain what we were
discussing, so no one said a word. Meanwhile the Imp eyed us with a
grin. And before any one could think of something to say that would
change the subject, she exploded this bomb in our midst:

"Louis' Aunt Yvonne has come home. She's having a fit!"

Louis just scooted for his own house as fast as he could. We asked her
how she knew Miss Meadows was having a fit, and she said:

"Because I saw her drive up and get out of the hack and run up the
steps. I had climbed a tree in their side yard to look into an oriole's
nest, and I heard her open the door and call out a lot of things in
French to old Mr. Meadows."

The Imp is terribly quick about picking up languages, and she has teased
Louis into teaching her quite a little French, which he declared to us
she picked up with lightning speed. It makes Carol and me furious
sometimes to feel that she has this advantage over us, for we haven't
come to French yet in high school, and are so busy digging out our Latin
that we haven't either time or interest to learn another language on the
side. Well, it humiliated me to pieces to have to ask her what Miss
Yvonne said, but I swallowed my pride and did so. All the little wretch
answered, as she walked away, was:

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

[Illustration: "Wouldn't you like to know?" she replied, exasperatingly]

We didn't see anything more of Louis to-day, and Carol and I are just
burning up with curiosity. I could shake the Imp till her teeth
chattered!


There was a cosy group gathered about the open fire in the Birdseys'
big, comfortable, and not too tidy living-room. At a large center table,
drawn close to the blaze, sat Carol and Sue, scribbling away for dear
life in two large, fat note-books and covering the table with many trial
sheets of mathematical figuring. They were exact opposites in
appearance. Sue was tall and slim to the point of angularity. She had
dark eyes, and her dark hair was coiled heavily about her head. Carol
was short and plump, with dreamy blue eyes and wavy auburn hair that
still hung in a thick braid.

On the davenport, curled up like a kitten in one corner, sat the Imp,
or "Bobs," as she was generally called,--her chin propped in her hands,
a book balanced against her knees. In sharp contrast to the other two
girls was her tiny body and dark, straight hair, and the big blue eyes
that could at one moment gaze with liquid, angelic candor, and at the
next snap with impish mischief. There was mischief in them at the
moment, as she stared reflectively at the two girls bent over the table.
Unaware of her gaze, they scribbled on, comparing notes at intervals.

"Do you get the answer 4ab(ab+2bm) ½ to your third problem?" presently
inquired Sue, without looking up.

"No, I don't!" moaned Carol in depressed tones, pushing aside her work
and running her fingers through her hair. "I don't get anything at all."

"Well, don't worry. Let's see what's wrong. Hand over your work and I'll
compare it with mine," said her companion soothingly. She dragged
Carol's note-book toward her and compared it with her own.

"Oh, I see what you've done!" she exclaimed in a moment. "In the first
equation you didn't put down--"

At this instant the Imp, whose eyes had been smoldering with suppressed
mischief, yawned loudly, stretched herself, and remarked with apparent
irrelevance:

"It's a long day when you don't go to school, isn't it?"

Both girls sat up with a jerk and surveyed her sternly.

"Do you mean to say that you haven't been to school to-day?" they
demanded in a breath, and Sue added, "I'd like to know why not."

"I had a bad headache this morning, Susan," explained the Imp sweetly.
"Mother let me stay home. I was all right by two o'clock, though. Louis
and I had a game of basketball before it began to rain."

Her companions glanced at each other with a meaning expression, none of
which was lost on the Imp. With a grin of satisfaction, she proceeded:

"His aunt called him in just before we finished, and he didn't come out
again."

With a visible effort, Sue inquired:

"Did he say why he wasn't at school to-day? We thought it rather queer
when he didn't come, but perhaps, after the strange thing that happened
yesterday--"

This was precisely the trap into which the Imp had planned that they
should fall.

"I didn't ask him," she remarked, with exasperating calm.

"No doubt you didn't," retorted Carol heatedly, "but perhaps he told you
without being asked."

"Perhaps he did," returned the Imp, "and perhaps he told me a lot more.
However, I must say bye-bye for the present. I've got to go and study my
lessons somewhere where I won't be disturbed!"

She scrambled down and sailed out of the room, waving airily to them
from the doorway.

"Isn't she simply maddening!" exclaimed Sue. "The idea of saying she had
to go and study! I never knew her to study a thing in my life. She
seems to know her lessons by instinct."

"But what _do_ you suppose Louis told her?" mused Carol.

"Not much, or I miss my guess," returned Sue. "She's only trying to
tease us. But it is strange that he stayed home to-day. Something
serious must be the matter. He hasn't missed a day this term before."

"But if it was serious," argued Carol, "why should he be out playing
with the Imp?"

At this moment the door opened and a tall, slender boy of seventeen or
eighteen strolled in, his hands in his overcoat pockets, his cheeks and
overcoat still wet with the driving rain.

"Hello, girls!" he remarked, warming his hands by the blaze of the open
fire.

"Hello, Dave!" they replied. "Where did you come from?"

"Been over to Louis's. Queer thing about it, too," he commented,
dropping down on the vacant davenport.

"What?" they gasped in breathless chorus.

He looked at them inquiringly.

"Why all the astonishment on _your_ part?" he demanded. "What do you
know about it, anyway?"

"Oh, a lot of queer things seem to be happening to Louis lately,"
explained Carol. "But go on! Tell us all about it."

"Well, Father didn't need me to-night, so I thought I'd stroll over to
Louis's and see if he wanted a little session with that higher
mathematics course that he and I are working at together on our own
hook. I rang at the front door several times, but didn't get any
response. Then I tried the back door, with no better luck. There was a
light in the parlor, too, but, on glancing in the window, I saw that no
one was there. Mr. Meadows had evidently gone to bed. I had just started
out to the barn, thinking that Louis might be in his work-room there,
when I noticed a light in one of the cellar windows. I then felt sure
that Louis was down there, clearing up or getting vegetables for his
aunt, so I went over and peeped in, thinking to give him a surprise. It
was _I_ who got the surprise, though!"

"What did you see?" demanded Sue in an awestricken whisper.

"Funniest sight ever! There Miss Yvonne was standing with a lamp in her
hand, and Louis, with a pickaxe and shovel, had pried out one of the
stones in the foundation near the big chimney and was poking around in
the hole he'd made, while Miss Yvonne stared into it, those big black
eyes of hers as round as saucers. While I was still looking, she shook
her head, motioned Louis to put the stone back, and pointed to another a
little farther along. I began to feel as if I'd lit on something that
wasn't any business of mine, so instead of knocking on the window as I'd
intended, I just got up and came away. Guess they must be hunting for
buried treasure or something. Never knew they suspected the presence of
any in their old ranch. Louis didn't look as if he were particularly
enjoying the job, however."

"Well, that's about all," he ended, suddenly remembering what, in the
excitement of the little adventure, he had momentarily forgotten,--his
superior pose toward all girls and toward his sister in particular. Then
he vanished swiftly out of the room, lest they be moved to ask him any
further questions and lest he be tempted to answer.

After he had gone, Sue and Carol stared at each other in a maze of
excited conjecture.

"What do you make of it?" sighed Carol.

"I don't make anything of it," declared Sue. "It sounds too mysterious
for words. But I know this much. They weren't hunting for buried
treasure. It's for papers of some kind. I'm sure of it. But what can
they be about, and why should they be in the cellar?"

But Carol was off on another tack.

"At last we'll have something worth while to write about in our
journals," she remarked. "Don't you ever think again, Susette Birdsey,
that nothing exciting happens in our lives! I can fill up three or four
pages about it."

Her companion assented absently.

"Do you realize," she suddenly exclaimed, "that here's where we got way
ahead of the Imp? Serves her right for playing us such a mean trick and
going out of the room. I call it a piece of downright luck!"




CHAPTER III

THE IMP HAS THE BEST OF IT


December 31. This is New Year's Eve and it's nearly twelve o'clock.
Carol and I promised each other that we'd sit up and see the old year
out, and write in our journals. Carol is finishing a lovely poem she's
been writing, called, "On New Year's Eve." It begins:


     The silent snow is falling light,
       On New Year's Eve, on New Year's Eve,--


That's all I can remember of it. The only trouble is that there isn't
any snow falling to-night. There's a regular thaw on, and it's
dreadfully warm and mushy.

There's something awfully solemn about New Year's Eve. It makes you feel
sorry for all the mean things you've done, and you form all sorts of
good resolutions for the future. At least, I do, and so does Carol. But
I have my doubts about the Imp. I don't believe she is sorry for a
single thing she's ever done. She doesn't act so, anyway.

And speaking of her, I've made it my principal resolution for the new
year to be more patient with her. I suppose every one has to have some
great trial in life, and the Imp is certainly the chief one for Carol
and me. Lately she has been more than usually infuriating. Every
afternoon during the past month she has inquired of us, "Have you
written in your journals to-day, my dears? If not, run and do so at
once."

When she first began to say that, I made the mistake of asking her how
she knew I was keeping a journal. She retorted:

"Oh, that's easy. I found out that Cad was, so of course I knew you were
up to the same trick. You're as like each other as two penny hat-pins."

All I could think of to answer was:

"Well, I don't see that it is any one's affair but our own, if we _are_
keeping them."

To this she returned:

"Who said it was?"

"You did," I retorted, "and I'll be obliged to you not to take it upon
yourself to remind us about writing in them."

All she replied to this was:

"Louis's folks got another cablegram this morning. You'd better put that
in."

Then she walked off and wouldn't say another word. That's just exactly
like her. She's bound to light on the very thing you'd rather she didn't
know about. And she always seems to have inside information about
something you'd give your head to know about and never seem to get hold
of. How she knew about the cablegram, I can't think, unless she saw the
messenger-boy come up with it and questioned him afterward.

We've never said a word to Louis about the queer thing Dave told us he
saw on that rainy night nearly a month ago. At first I wanted to, but
Carol said that it would look as if we had been spying on them, and, in
thinking it over, I agreed with her. Another thing, I felt sure that if
he wanted us to know, or thought we ought to know, he'd tell us himself
and explain what it was all about. But he never has, so either he thinks
we oughtn't to know, or his folks have warned him not to speak of it.
I'm quite certain it must be the latter, because several times he has
almost been on the point of speaking of something and suddenly stopped
short, as if he remembered he oughtn't to. Dave, of course, has been as
mum as an oyster ever since. He's a dear fellow in lots of ways, but he
does act too absurdly at present about us girls. You would think we
hadn't any more sense than babies in a nursery, the way he treats
us,--not exactly unkind, but just sort of condescending and superior.
Mother says he'll grow out of it soon. He and Louis are still great
chums, but they don't see as much of each other since Dave left high
school.

Nothing further that's strange seems to have happened over at the house
across the Green, except for one little thing. A few days before
Christmas I went over to return to Miss Yvonne a package of spice that
Mother had had to borrow in a hurry, and I found the place in the
greatest upset. Miss Yvonne seemed to be giving the whole establishment
a thorough housecleaning, which is rather strange, for she gave it the
usual autumn cleaning only this last October. I can't for the life of me
see why she wanted to do it all over again so soon. I spoke to Louis
about it next day, and he said she was having some papering and painting
done, too.

They were all upset during the Christmas season, and had to eat their
Christmas dinner in the kitchen. Louis says it was a miserable holiday
for him, all except our party in the evening. I can't imagine why Miss
Yvonne should do such a curious thing. And Louis says she's having one
big room that they've never used fixed up in great style,--fresh,
handsome wall-paper and new furniture and a brass bed, and everything to
match.

"Do you think she expects any visitors?" I said.

"Why, no!" he answered, looking awfully surprised. "She hasn't said
anything about it to me."

Then I asked him if he knew they had received a cablegram two weeks
before, and he was astonished and said that he didn't, and asked how I
knew. I told him what the Imp had said, and as soon as he heard this, he
answered:

"It's more of that beastly mystery, Sue, and I suppose I oughtn't to
talk about it, because I've promised them I wouldn't. I hate it! _I hate
it!_"

I never saw Louis so worked up before. But he wouldn't go on talking
about it any more,--because of his promise, I suppose,--so there matters
rest for the present.


New Year's Day, January 1, 1914. I just stopped a while ago to listen to
the village church-bells ring twelve o'clock. I turned out the light and
opened the window and leaned out. It all sounded very solemn, but it
would have been much more impressive if there had been a lovely white
fall of snow, with full moonlight glistening on it. Instead of that, it
was raining and everything smelled damp and drippy. I like things to
seem appropriate, but somehow they never seem to be,--at least, not the
way you read about them in books.

While I was looking out, I happened to glance over at Louis's house and
saw such a queer thing. Way up in one of the little attic-windows there
was a light. After a moment I made out that it was from an oil-lamp that
some one was carrying about, for it didn't remain steady long at a time.
I hated to be spying on our neighbors, but I couldn't have taken my eyes
away from that sight if I'd been offered a thousand dollars. It was
_too_ uncanny. In another moment I discovered that it was Miss Yvonne
moving slowly about in front of the immense chimney that is opposite the
window, feeling carefully of every brick and picking at them with her
fingers, as if to learn if any were loose. It seemed the strangest thing
to be doing at midnight on New Year's Eve, but all of a sudden it dawned
on me that she must be trying to discover if any brick was loose
_because_--something might be hidden behind it!

I got so excited about it that I could hardly stand still. But the next
minute the light disappeared, and I realized that she had given up the
search and gone downstairs. Whether she found what she was looking for
or not, I don't know. Probably she didn't, or she would have stayed
longer.

After that I shut my window, lit my light, and now am finishing this. I
wonder if Carol saw what I did? She was going to look out of her window
at midnight, too. But she couldn't have seen it, I'm sure, because her
house is on the other side of Louis's, and that attic-window wouldn't
have been visible to her. My, won't I have something exciting to tell
her to-morrow!

Mother has just opened her door and called out "Happy New Year!" to me.
She told me to put out my light and go to bed, or I'd fall asleep at
Anita Brown's party to-morrow night--no, I mean _to-night_. I guess I'll
have to end this for the present, but I don't believe I'll be able to
sleep. Life is certainly growing more and more exciting, with your
neighbors receiving mysterious cablegrams from abroad and digging in the
cellar and hunting about in the attic at midnight and all the other
curious doings. I hope it doesn't seem like prying into their affairs to
have discovered all these things. Each time it was quite by accident.
But Mother and Father have always taught us how horrid it was to be
curious about your neighbors. Well, as long as I don't deliberately pry
or talk about it to any one except Carol, I'm sure no harm will be done.

As this is my first entry in my journal for 1914, I'll wish everybody a
"Happy New Year" and hope this will be a glorious _good_ year for every
one in the world.


Sue Birdsey lay on the davenport by the fire. She was covered by an
afghan and her face was propped up on a hot-water-bag. On the table near
her was a huge packet of absorbent cotton and several bottles of
medicine. Near her hand lay a book, unheeded. Unheeded, also, was the
brilliant mid-January sun streaming in at the west windows. Of what use
are books and sunlight, indeed, in the face of a raging toothache! On
the opposite side of the hearth sat Carol, disconsolately urging a
renewal of some one of the medicines.

"It's no earthly use!" moaned Sue. "I've tried it a dozen times. Wait
till the Imp gets back with that stuff your Aunt Agatha recommended.
I'll try that, and if it doesn't stop it, I'll walk straight down to the
dentist and have it out."

"I believe it's going to ulcerate," remarked Carol, like the "Job's
Comforter" she was always inclined to be.

Sue's only reply was to hurl a sofa-cushion at her and subside again on
the hot-water-bag. No further remarks were exchanged. The sun sank in a
few moments and the room grew dark. Carol turned on the light and
muttered something about how long the Imp was. After a few more gloomy
moments, punctuated by groans from Sue, the door was flung open and the
Imp rushed in, bringing a blast of chilly air with her.

"Here it is!" she cried. "I had to wait an awful while for him to get it
ready. You fix her up, Cad."

While Carol administered the remedy according to directions, the Imp
straightened out the rumpled afghan and refilled the hot-water-bag. She
could be singularly helpful in case of sickness or an emergency, and
seemed actually to delight in being of use,--a change of demeanor that
never failed to astonish the other two girls. So accustomed were they to
regard the Imp as their sworn enemy that this angelic demeanor quite
disarmed them.

Five minutes after the remedy had been applied Sue sat up with a jerk.

"Hurrah! The pain's all gone. It went like magic. I feel like a new
creature. No more of this for me!" She rose from the couch, pushing away
the signs of her temporary invalidism. "Imp, you certainly are a trump.
Come, Carol, let's get at our work for to-morrow."

Ten minutes later they were busy at the long table, and the Imp again
settled on the couch, apparently deep in a book. It was Sue who looked
up after a while, to find her eyeing them with the pleased, quiet,
provoking smile whose meaning they had come to know so well. The desire
to investigate its cause proved, as usual, irresistible.

"What are you grinning at, Bobs?" Sue demanded. "You look as pleased as
Punch. Anything happened?" It was well always to placate her by
appearing agreeable.

"Oh, nothing special!" she replied, in a manner that made them perfectly
certain there was something very special. "I happened to notice a while
ago that an automobile drove up to Louis's gate, and that Miss Yvonne
got out and began to give the chauffeur a regular tongue-lashing in
French, because he'd driven up from the station over the joltiest road,
instead of taking the smooth one. He doesn't understand French, so he
didn't in the least get what she was driving at. It made me laugh."

"But what under the sun was Miss Yvonne coming up from the station in
an automobile for?" Carol exclaimed. "She hasn't been away. She hasn't
even been to Bridgeton, for I've seen her around early this afternoon.
She always walks up from the village. You must be crazy."

"She walked down to the village about four o'clock," the Imp informed
them. "I saw her start off. And I guess she had good reason to come back
in an auto." The Imp went on reading after this, just as if she hadn't
any idea that she was driving them wild.

"Well, what _was_ the reason?" inquired Sue, trying to look only mildly
interested. "Was she ill, or did she have a lot of bundles to carry, or
was she in a great hurry?"

"I'll tell you the reason," answered the Imp, "if you'll give me that
nice, fat, new blank-book you bought the other day. It's worth it, too."

"I'll do nothing of the sort!" Sue cried indignantly. "I have a special
use for that book,"--as a matter of fact, she was going to re-copy her
journal in it--"and I'll find out some other way."

"You won't find out anything before to-morrow afternoon, probably," the
Imp returned, "for Louis isn't going to school. He told me so."

Sue made up her mind that she wasn't going to give in to her, but Carol
broke up that intention.

"Oh, give it to her!" she whispered. "I've another just as good that you
can have. And I'm wild to hear what's up across the Green."

Sue handed the blank-book across to the Imp, and said, as witheringly as
she could:

"Here, take it, if you want it as badly as that! Of course you know
you're taking a mean advantage of us, but that's nothing to you. Fire
away!"

"I thought you couldn't wait till to-morrow," the Imp retorted. "Well,
here goes. Miss Yvonne rode up in an auto because--she had some one with
her."

"Who _was_ it?" cried Carol impatiently. "Don't dole out your
information in little drops. Tell us the rest."

"I didn't ask the person's name," said the Imp, in that maddeningly
polite way she sometimes assumed. "It didn't seem any affair of mine."

"Naturally," Sue answered, as calmly as she could. "We'd only be much
obliged to know whether it was a man, woman, girl, boy, or baby. Please
remember you've got the book and that you haven't paid for it yet."

"I always pay my debts," she answered, trying not to giggle, "and I only
agreed to tell you the reason why Miss Yvonne came up in the auto. I've
done that. But since you're so hard up for information, I'll hand out a
little more small change--just because I'm sorry for you. It was a man,
a very old man, all wrapped up in a big fur coat."

"Did Louis know he was coming?" Carol demanded.

"Oh, no! Louis didn't know," answered the Imp, "but I did; for I heard
Miss Yvonne telling old Mr. Meadows yesterday, when they were out by
the barn, that all was ready for 'Monsieur's' arrival to-morrow."

"You're a mean little thing to be always eavesdropping about," cried
Sue, "and meaner yet never to tell us a word of what you hear."

"You're quite mistaken if you think I eavesdrop, as you call it,"
retorted the Imp indignantly. "I was in plain sight all the time
yesterday, patching up that snow-fort of Louis's, and they both saw me.
Only Miss Yvonne spoke in French, and I guess she doesn't know that I
understand it. As for not telling you two anything, I'd like to know why
I should. You never tell anything to me, that is, if you can possibly
help it." This was entirely true, as they were bound to confess.

The Imp took up her book and marched huffily to the door. But before she
left the room she turned and called back:

"It's a thankless job trying to be nice to you two. You're absolutely
ungrateful. And I'll tell you right now, I know one piece of
information, besides all this, that you'd give your eye-teeth to
hear,--but you won't. It's about who this mysterious 'monsieur' _is_!"

With that she went out, slamming the door behind her.




CHAPTER IV

THE MYSTERIOUS "MONSIEUR"


There had been a heavy fall of snow during the night. It lay on trees
and hedges in great, powdery clumps, and drifted over the Green in huge,
wind-swept hillocks. But the sky that afternoon was blue and cloudless,
and the click of snow-shovels rang out on the still air. In front of the
Birdseys' gate Carol and Sue were frantically shoveling a footway, not
because they had to, but for the sheer joy of exercise in the
invigorating air.

"It's queer we haven't seen anything of Louis since that visitor came,"
commented Carol. "He's missing a lot of time at school, and I'm sure he
hates that."

"Yes, it's three days since 'Monsieur,' as the Imp calls him, came. We
haven't seen anything of _him_, either," added Sue. "Do you suppose
he's going to stay shut up and invisible all the time? Who do you
suppose he is, anyway, and doesn't it make you furious to think that the
Imp knows, or says she does, and that we don't?"

"There's Louis now," was Carol's only reply. "He's just come out to
shovel his walk," and she waved her own shovel to him in greeting.

In another moment Louis had strolled over to join them. He was of medium
height, a slenderly-built fellow, with short-cropped, wavy, chestnut
hair and fine brown eyes. He also possessed a smile that was peculiarly
winning.

"Hello, you strangers! I thought you'd be out this afternoon. Isn't it
ripping weather?" he greeted them. "Where's Dave?"

"He's gone to Bridgeton with Father," answered Sue, "but where have
_you_ been all this time? Not sick, I hope?"

The boy's face clouded and he dug his shovel viciously into a snowbank.

"No, not sick, but dilly-dallying around the house, helping to wait on
that old gentleman. They don't seem to care how much time I lose."

It was the first time the girls had ever heard him speak so bitterly.

"We heard that you had a visitor," said Carol, striving hard to seem
only politely interested.

"Oh, we have a visitor, all right, but I'm blest if I know why he's
taken up his abode with us, nor even who he is, for that matter."

At this rather astonishing statement both girls looked somewhat
startled.

"I know it sounds queer to say it," went on the boy, "and I'm not sure
they'd thank me for saying it, either, but it's the honest truth, and
I've got to say it to some one, or I'll explode with indignation."

"But what do you call him, if you don't know who he is?" queried Sue.

"Well, he _says_ his name is Monsieur de Vaubert, but I strongly doubt
it. I found his handkerchief lying on a chair yesterday, and it had the
initial F on it. Later I asked Aunt Yvonne what his first name was, and
she said 'Philippe.' So can you figure out where F comes in? I can't."

"All that Aunt and Uncle will tell me about him," he went on, "is that
he is a descendant of an old friend of my father's family in France;
that he has always been much interested in me and has come over here to
visit and make my acquaintance. It sounds all right as far as it goes,
but I'm morally certain that that isn't the whole of it. They treat him
as if he were some sort of high mogul, and he treats them in the most
politely condescending manner you ever saw. But the way he acts toward
me is a caution. In some ways you'd think I was the Grand Lama of Tibet,
and that he was my most humble slave. Then at other times he gets so
dictatorial about my studies and work and the way I spend my time that I
just have to hold on to something to prevent going up in the air. I
confess that I don't know what he's driving at, and I could chew his
head off sometimes, I get so mad. And yet in other ways he's a fine old
chap, and I can't help but admire him. Here he comes now. He said he
would come out a few moments this afternoon."

They all looked across the Green as he spoke, to see the figure of an
elderly gentleman, very much muffled up in a fur coat, slowly pacing
down the walk. He seemed about seventy-five years of age, and he walked
with a visible stoop, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent
slightly forward. His eyes were black and piercing, and his hair and
mustache were almost white. His nose was sharp and eagle-like, and his
whole appearance was very distinguished and foreign. Both Sue and Carol
were decidedly impressed.

"Well," added Louis, "I must go back and be polite, I suppose, and also
shovel my walk. By the way, I'll be over at your house, Sue, to-morrow
evening, if it's convenient, and get some idea from you girls of what
I've been missing at high school all this week. Tell Dave I'll spend an
hour or two with him afterward. So long!"

After he had left them the girls went on with their shoveling, but they
could not, for the life of them, keep from gazing occasionally across at
the mysterious stranger on the other side of the Green. They saw Louis
return and speak to him for several moments, pacing along at his side,
and later he left him to commence a vigorous attack on an unshoveled
path.

Then they saw a curious thing. Monsieur de Vaubert, stopping short in
his pacing, stared almost aghast at Louis. Next, striding up to him and
snatching the shovel from his hand, he spoke loudly and rapidly in
French, as if in remonstrance. They heard Louis expostulating in the
same language and exhibiting every sign of disagreement and dismay. At
length he shrugged his shoulders hopelessly and turned to go into the
house, leaving Monsieur to continue his pacing alone.

"Well!" exclaimed Carol. "What on earth do you make of _that_?"

"It looks very much as if 'Monsieur' didn't approve of Louis's
snow-shoveling," commented Sue, wonderingly. "But why? Do you know, I
believe he thinks Louis is delicate and oughtn't to exert himself. What
a crazy idea! Louis is really as strong as an ox, even if he is slender.
He can throw Dave at wrestling every time, even if he is lighter in
weight. I can imagine how furious it must make Louis to be coddled that
way."

They went on digging industriously. Suddenly Carol whispered to Sue:

"For pity's sake, look at that!"

It was the Imp, who had evidently walked up from the village and was
just passing Louis's house. On beholding the visitor still pacing up and
down the walk in the sunlight, she had called out, "_Bon jour,
Monsieur!_" She had been answered by the most courtly of bows, and "_Bon
jour, petite Mademoiselle Hélène._" Then she passed on, turning the
corner of the Green toward her own house.

The two girls stared at each other, speechless.

"Will you tell me how under the sun she came to know him?" gasped Sue,
indignantly. "And she never has said a single word to us about it!"

"Don't ask me," returned Carol. "Find out from her, if you can. She's
the most exasperating mortal I ever came across."

The Imp came on gaily, waving to them as affably as if she were quite
unaware of the shock she had just given them. They did not acknowledge
her salute,--a mistake they were sorry for later.

"How long is it since you became acquainted with 'Monsieur'?" demanded
Sue, as soon as she had joined them. She did not try to keep annoyance
out of her voice.

"Oh, a whole twenty-four hours has elapsed since the event!" grinned the
Imp, more impishly than usual. "Didn't I tell you?"

"You know perfectly well that you didn't!" cried Sue.

"Well, I'm sorry,--since it seems to worry you so much. Louis introduced
us yesterday afternoon. We met just outside of Louis' gate. Monsieur was
taking the air just before the snow began, and, as it happened, so was
I. You two might have been, also, if you hadn't felt so lazy and hung
about the fire indoors." As usual, she had hit them on the raw. They
might have known it!

"I think he is quite charming," went on the Imp amiably. "We had a long
talk. He praised my French accent, and says that he prefers to call me
'Mademoiselle Hélène,' instead of 'Bobs' or 'Bobbie' or even 'Roberta.'
He asked me a lot of questions about this place and the village and all
that, and finally he told me why he came here."

"He _did_?" gasped the two girls. "What was the reason?" At that moment
they could have hugged her for seeming so communicative.

"I'll tell you," she answered with dangerous sweetness. "He came over to
see Louis!" Their faces fell, but they tried hard not to show their
indignation.

"Of course," agreed Sue, "but _why_ did he come over here to see Louis?
That's the question."

"If I told you _that_, I wouldn't have any interesting secret of my
own," answered the Imp loftily.

Then, feeling her revenge complete, she sped away into the house,
leaving the puzzled and indignant pair behind her.


January 20, 1914. Louis told us the _strangest_ thing to-night. I must
write about it before I go to bed. It makes this mystery about the queer
old gentleman at his house deeper and deeper. He came over (Louis, I
mean) to our house to-night, as he said he would yesterday. But he
seemed perfectly furious about something, and instead of wanting to
study, he said he'd just have to tell us what had happened, or burst.
Fortunately, Carol and I were alone. If the Imp had been around, I just
couldn't have stood having her hear everything that we did. She knows
too much already,--sometimes I think a great deal more than we
do,--about all this, and I'm glad to get ahead of her on something.
Anyhow, this is what Louis told us:

"This morning was the limit," he began. "I thought I'd take a spell at
working on that little motor-boat I'm building in the old feed-room at
the back of the barn. I haven't done much at it lately, because the
weather's been so cold. But to-day was mild, and I thought I could make
a lot of progress. You know I've saved up enough of my pocket-money for
the engine, and I'm going to send for it next month. Well, what must
Monsieur do, but trail out to the barn after me. I couldn't very well
prevent him, so I let him come along, but I didn't explain what I was
doing there till we got into the room.

"And, if you'll believe it, no sooner did he lay eyes on that cedar
hull, and realize that it was my work, than he flew into a towering
passion. He stamped around the room, muttering a lot of things in French
that even I couldn't understand, though I caught the expression, 'The
blood of that mechanic--_always_--_always!_' repeated several times. I
was simply speechless with astonishment, and just stood staring at him
open-mouthed.

"All of a sudden he raised his cane and hit the boat a horrible whack
right on the gunwale. It made a dent that I don't suppose any amount of
tinkering or painting will ever remove. Then I 'saw red,' as they say.
The idea of his presuming to do such a beastly thing! I just rushed at
him, tore the cane from his hand, and threw it straight through the
window. It smashed the glass and sash and everything. And I shouted,
'How dare you! How dare you!' I guess I was really too furious to think
what I was doing. But it had the strangest effect on Monsieur.

"He stopped suddenly, and his face, from being a brick-red with anger,
went perfectly white. He drew himself up in a sort of military way, as
stiff as a poker, and then bowed very low and made a military salute. 'I
beg a thousand pardons, Monsieur. I am deeply sorry!' he said. I asked
him what in the world he meant, anyway, but he only kept repeating that
he was 'deeply humiliated at his fit of temper,' and begged me to think
no more of it. Then I asked him if he didn't approve of my making the
boat, and he said, 'No; that I was cut out for something better than
that laborer's work.'

"That remark made me madder than ever, and I asked him if it was not a
good piece of work, and oughtn't any one to be proud of doing a thing
like that so well. He only replied that I had far other things to be
proud of, but I noticed that he didn't say what. So I just faced him.

"'Look here,' I said. 'Just tell me one thing, like a man, won't you?
What are you here for, anyway? Am I the descendant of some duke or
marquis or that sort of thing, and are you here to try to get me to go
back to France and be one myself?' You see, what Carol said the other
day sort of stuck in my crop, and that boat business rather confirmed
it. I went on to say to him, 'Because if that's so, you needn't bother.
I won't go!'

"He didn't say a word for a minute or two. He just stood staring at me
as if he'd never seen me before. Then he said, very quietly:

"'No, Monsieur. You are quite mistaken. It is something vastly
different, and I cannot explain it now. You must be content to wait.
But, be assured, it will both astonish and delight you when it is
disclosed.' And with that he walked off and took to his bed again, I
guess, for I haven't seen him since. But I've been 'hot under the
collar' ever since at the damage he did to my boat."

"Well, all that is mighty strange," I said, another idea suddenly
dawning on me. "He doesn't seem to want you to do any work. Was that why
he objected to you shoveling snow yesterday?"

"The very thing," replied Louis. "I was astonished when he said to me,
'Where is that Meadows and his servant? Why are you required to do this
menial work?' I tried to explain to him that I liked it and was doing it
for exercise, but he simply couldn't understand. He kept exclaiming, 'It
is not fitting!' till I got so disgusted that I gave it up. If this sort
of thing keeps up, I'll run away to sea or do something desperate. I
declare I will!"

"Are you glad, Louis, that you're not a duke or a marquis or anything
like that?" I asked. "I should think you'd have thought it fine."

"I'd simply detest it, Sue," he answered. "I don't want to be anything
but an American citizen--_ever!_ But if this mystery business doesn't
clear up soon, I'll be a raving lunatic."


Well, I'm disappointed myself to have Carol's nice theory all knocked to
pieces, for it would have been so romantic and unusual. But if it isn't
that, what on earth _can_ it be?

And _how_ much does that wretched little Imp know?




CHAPTER V

TWO ACCIDENTS AND A MYSTERY


February 17. I'm writing this under a good deal of difficulty, for my
left hand is in a sling and this blank-book slips around dreadfully. The
truth is that I had quite an accident the other day, and have been laid
up ever since. It was the day after I last wrote in my journal. We'd had
a heavy fall of snow overnight, followed by a hard frost. The coasting
on Eastward Hill was gorgeous, and we spent the whole of the next
afternoon there. Just at the last the Imp suggested that we try the
slide down the north slope of the hill. It's ever so much steeper than
the one we usually take, and is considered rather dangerous.

Louis said we'd better not, but the Imp begged so hard that we agreed to
try it just once. So Louis took Carol on his bobsled, and the Imp and I
had the other. She was steering, because she's awfully good at that.
They went first, and we followed. Everything went finely at the start.
It's the most exciting thing going down that steep slide, and I was just
enjoying it when suddenly something went wrong. I'm not sure yet just
what it was, but the Imp says there must have been a buried branch or
something under one of our runners.

Anyhow, the first I knew I was lying with my head in a snowbank and my
left arm doubled under me in the queerest manner. The Imp had been
landed in the bank, too, but she wasn't a bit hurt and was up in a
jiffy, dragging me out. First I thought I was all right, but when I
stood up my left arm began to hurt me so that I thought I'd die with the
pain of it. They put me on one of the sleds and hustled me home in a
hurry, and Louis went for the doctor.

He said it was only a sprain, but that I must stay in the house for a
while and take good care of it. So here I've been ever since. The Imp
has been an angel. That sounds funny, but I mean it! She nearly died of
remorse at having been the cause of my accident, and she can't do enough
for me. She waits on me hand and foot, and hasn't teased or been a bit
exasperating once. To show how angelic she can be, I must write what she
told me yesterday. She came in from a walk to the village, where she'd
been to get me some grapefruit, and announced:

"What do you think? I walked back most of the way with Monsieur. His
things have come."

"What things?" I asked, astonished, for I knew that his trunks came the
day after he arrived.

"Oh, didn't you know? A few things he brought with him. Two or three
pictures and a big lot of books."

"But what did he bring over things like that for?" I demanded. "If he's
only here for a visit, it's rather queer for him to be carting books and
pictures about with him. I shouldn't think he'd be staying long enough
to make it worth while."

"I think he's going to stay quite a long while," the Imp replied.
"Perhaps it will be a year or more, judging from what he says."

"How do you know all this?" I asked. It aroused all the old, jealous
feeling again to think that she knew so much more about it than I did.

"Why, this way. You see, we were walking up together, and we'd got about
as far as Louis's gate when we both noticed a cart, with those things
piled on it, standing there. Miss Yvonne was talking to the driver.
Monsieur suddenly said, 'Ah, my things have come! That is well!' Then he
turned to me and said, 'They are my most precious possessions. I never
travel far without them.' I said it was too bad that they'd been delayed
so long getting here from the steamer. For you know he's been here
nearly a month. Then he said, 'They were not delayed, Mademoiselle
Hélène. I did not send for them at once because--I was not sure I should
stay. Now I feel that my stay may be long.'

"Wasn't that queer?" added the Imp. "Why do you suppose he first
thought he mightn't stay long, and then decided that he would?"

"Perhaps he likes it here better than he thought he would," I suggested.

"Nothing of the sort!" answered the Imp. "He hates it. He told me the
climate was abominable. He didn't see how any one could exist in it."

"Then it must be because he likes the Meadows' and Louis so much," I
decided.

"I don't think that has anything to do with it," replied the Imp. "I'm
certain it's something else. He's staying on because things haven't gone
the way he'd planned. If they had, he'd have gone right home. I've
figured that much out about him."

We didn't have any more time for talk just then, for Mother came in to
say that dinner was ready. But I've been thinking and thinking ever
since about what the Imp told me. She was never so communicative with me
before. It's worth while to have a damaged arm, but I wonder how long it
will last. I wish Carol were over here right now, so that I could tell
her. But she has a cold, and I haven't seen her for two days.

It has seemed rather curious to me, right along, that we young folks
were the only ones who seemed interested in Louis's affair and the new
visitor. I wondered why. But something that was said at table last night
made me realize that we are, after all, the only ones who know much of
the _inside_ of that affair. For instance, Mother said to Father:

"Who is that queer old gentleman visiting across the Green? He seems
like a foreigner."

"Monsieur something-or-other," Father answered. "I didn't catch his
name, though Louis tried to introduce us the other day, when they were
passing where I was working in the north pasture. I've never quite
understood the Meadows' household, anyway. They seem queer and
foreign--all but Louis. He is a true American boy. I've often wondered
where John Meadows hailed from. He brought Louis here as a small baby,
and I never knew where he came from. He would never say much about it.
By the way, Simpson wrote that we could have that new fertilizer next
month."

And that's all they thought or cared about it. But, at any rate, their
conversation had given me one bit of news--about Louis having been
brought here as a little baby, and that folks didn't know the Meadows'
people before. I'd always supposed that they had lived here all along,
too. I wonder if Louis knows this? I wonder if I had better tell him? I
don't know. Somehow that, and the news the Imp brought to-day, has made
me feel about as mixed up as possible. I can't make head or tail of
anything. I wish Carol were here.

I've just been looking over this journal from the beginning, noticing
all the queer things that have come up about Louis since I began it. I
think I'll put them down in order and see if it will help me to make
anything out of the strange situation.

First, the queer way that Louis's folks have always treated him and the
fact that he isn't any real relation. That looks to me very much as if
his antecedents or his forefathers or whatever you call them must have
been of some different station of life from the Meadows people. And yet
Louis says their families have always been old friends. At any rate,
they must feel, for some reason, responsible for him to some one, or
they wouldn't be so careful about him. By the way, that some one must be
"Monsieur"; who else _could_ it be?

Next there were those mysterious cablegrams. Of course they were from
"Monsieur," but what did he mean by saying, "The time is ripe"? Sounds
as if some sort of plot was being hatched. And then about those papers.
_What_ are they, and _where_ are they? Have they anything to do with
Louis? I suppose they must. Does Louis himself know anything about them?
He has never said a word to us.

Besides, there was that queer performance when Miss Yvonne had Louis dig
in the cellar at night. I'm simply positive she must have been hunting
for the papers then, and also on New Year's Eve in the attic. I believe
they must be documents to prove that Louis is to come into a great
fortune, perhaps one that his ancestors left him. Yes, that's a brand
new idea, and I'm certain it's nearer the truth than anything we've
thought of yet. "Monsieur" is probably the family lawyer in France, and
has come to straighten everything out. Hurrah! I do wish Carol was here,
so that we could talk this over. It's a much more sensible idea than the
one that Louis is the descendant of some titled person. It would explain
a number of things,--why "Monsieur" doesn't like Louis to do any work,
and that sort of thing. And probably, too, that's why they would like
him to go back to France and be a statesman, since he can't be a duke or
a marquis and flourish around with the nobility. I suppose it's the next
best thing, in their estimation.

It might even explain, too, why "Monsieur" expects to make so long a
stay here to get things all straightened out. Oh, I'm so glad I thought
of this! I can hardly wait for to-morrow to come, so that I can tell
Carol. And I believe I'll even tell the Imp, too. She's been so decent
to me of late that I'm willing to do 'most anything for her.


"Ahoy, girls! Come over and see the big smash!"

It was the Imp who thus hailed the two girls as they were coming home
from the village one Saturday afternoon early in March. She was one of a
group that was standing in Louis's front yard, and the girls hurried
over to see what it was all about. They found that a fine old
cherry-tree had been half blown over by a high wind the night before,
and now it threatened to fall at the slightest jar. Its fall would do
serious damage to the fence near which it stood. Louis had decided to
chop it down so that it would fall in the opposite direction. It was not
the first time that he had had the experience, and he rather enjoyed the
thought of the task before him. It was quite evident, however, that
"Monsieur" did not at all approve of this scheme. He paced back and
forth on the path, muttering impatiently to himself in French and
occasionally urging Louis to be extremely careful.

As this was the first time that either Sue or Carol had met "Monsieur,"
Louis stopped long enough to make the introductions. Monsieur bowed
formally and murmured that he was "charmed to meet mesdemoiselles," but
there his interest in them ended, and he continued to pace back and
forth and mutter to himself.

Once the Imp poked Sue and whispered:

"He says, 'Always, always this servant's work!' He's been having a fit
about this ever since they came out. But Louis was determined to get it
done. Monsieur certainly does make him mad and nervous, though."

The tree was almost ready to topple over, when an unfortunate thing
happened. It may have been that Louis _was_ nervous, or that his foot
slipped on a patch of ice, or that it was a combination of both. At any
rate, just as the ax was raised for one of his most telling blows, he
missed his aim and brought it down directly on his left foot. With a
slight groan, he dropped to the ground. An instant later blood began to
pour from the wound in sickening spurts. So sudden had it all been, that
his watchers hardly realized what had happened till the spouting blood
revealed the accident.

Immediately all was confusion. Monsieur uttered a cry that was almost a
scream and, stooping down, tried to lift Louis in his arms. Miss Yvonne
rushed out, wringing her hands and screaming, too, in her excitable
French fashion. Old Mr. Meadows raised the parlor-window and stood
calling out all sorts of impossible directions, half in French and half
in English. Carol turned as white as a sheet and looked as if she were
going to faint away. She usually did at the sight of blood. Only the Imp
seemed to have any sense left. She called out to Carol:

"You run to our house and telephone for any doctor you can get, either
in the village or at Bridgeton!"

Then she said to Monsieur:

"Please let Louis alone. He'll bleed to death if you lift him that way."

Lastly she turned to Miss Yvonne:

"Don't you think that between us we could manage to carry Louis into
the house? I'll hold his poor foot so that it won't bleed so much."

It was almost absurd to hear that small child giving everybody orders,
but it was rather fine, too. And somehow it restored them to their
senses. Carol went flying off to telephone, only too glad to get away.
Miss Yvonne stopped screaming and lifted Louis in her strong arms, while
Sue held his head and Monsieur his uninjured foot.

Louis had fainted by this time. The Imp held his injured foot in such a
way that as little blood as possible escaped. Sue admitted later that
she would scarcely have had the nerve to do it, even if she had been
able. She was very much hampered, because her left arm was still in a
sling, so that all she could do was to hold up the boy's head with her
right hand.

Somehow or other they got Louis into the house. Monsieur insisted that
they carry him up to his (Monsieur's) room, though the others thought it
would have been better to take him to his own room on the ground floor.
But Monsieur would have his way, and they got Louis there somehow. By
the time they had laid him in the big brass bed, Carol came flying back
to say that she couldn't reach a single doctor in town. Every one was
out. But she had managed to get a promise from Dr. Langmaid in Bridgeton
that he would come over directly in his car, as soon as he could leave a
serious surgical case that he was treating in his office.

Meanwhile Louis's foot was still bleeding horribly. Something had to be
done at once. Miss Yvonne had got his shoe and stocking off and was
bathing the horrid wound, but that didn't help much. No one but Sue
seemed to know how to stop the bleeding and she was practically helpless
because of her hand. The reason she knew was because she had just
finished a course of "First Aid to the Injured" lectures that had been
given to the Young Girls' Club in school by a trained nurse. Carol
didn't take the course, because she hated all that kind of thing and it
made her sick. But Sue had enjoyed it. One of the principal things she
had learned was about the tourniquet and bandaging. But how was she to
do anything with only one hand? Suddenly the idea that she could give
the Imp directions and let _her_ do it dawned on Sue. The Imp was so
quick that she would understand in a wink.

So Sue asked Miss Yvonne if she'd tear up a sheet for some bandages, and
told the Imp that if she'd do as she told her, she thought they could
stop the bleeding. Miss Yvonne went right to work, and the Imp followed
Sue's directions well, while the latter did what she could with one
hand. They used a buttonhook for a tourniquet, and in five minutes
Louis's foot was bandaged roughly and not bleeding any more. Monsieur
had been spending the time in bathing Louis's head and holding ammonia
to his nose. Presently Louis came to and tried to ask what was the
matter. But they made him stop talking, because he was so weak from loss
of blood.

After that there wasn't anything to do but wait for the doctor, so they
sat around the room, not talking and all looking nervous and
embarrassed.

At last Dr. Langmaid arrived. He came jumping upstairs two steps at a
time. After he had taken one look at Louis's foot, he said:

"Whoever did that bandaging had good common sense. Perhaps it saved his
life."

That was all, but it made Sue feel proud for the Imp. The Imp, however,
declared that it was Sue's work, for she would never have known how to
do it herself. At any rate, after that the doctor turned out every one
but Miss Yvonne, and they stayed there with Louis for an age, while all
the rest waited downstairs for news. At last the doctor came down and
told them that Louis had almost severed an artery, but that he had
broken no bones. He sewed up the wound and left directions that Louis
was to stay in bed for some time and have careful attention, lest
blood-poisoning set in. But he said it was a miracle that nothing worse
had happened, and left his compliments for the two young ladies who did
the bandaging. At which the Imp and Sue pinched each other and took
their departure.

It was after they had left the house and were walking across the Green
to their own home, their knees still shaking with the excitement they
had experienced, that the Imp remarked:

"Did you see the queer thing that hung on 'Monsieur's' wall, right
opposite to the bed?"

"Why, no," answered Sue. "That is, I suppose I did, but I was so nervous
and worried that I can't remember anything about it. I hardly took my
eyes from Louis. What was it, anyway?"

"Three pictures, but the only one that I could see was the middle one.
It was a life-sized picture of a little boy about six or seven, I should
think. He had big brown eyes and brown wavy hair, and was quite a pretty
little chap, but he was dressed awfully queerly. I guess the picture
must be quite old, for his clothes weren't like anything that's been
worn for years. I wonder why 'Monsieur' carts it around and has it
hanging there. Must be some relation, I suppose, or some child of whom
he was very fond."

"But I thought you said his clothes were so queer and old-timey,"
suggested Sue. "I imagined from the way you spoke that they must be of a
fashion more than a hundred years old."

"I guess they were, too," admitted the Imp. "I had thought that perhaps
the boy was a son or a brother, but I guess he was from way before
_that_ time."

"Must be some famous ancestor, then," said Sue. "By the way, what did
you mean by saying that the boy's picture was the only one you could
see? If the three pictures were all hanging on the wall at the foot of
the bed, you could see the other two just as well, I should think."

"No, I couldn't; and for a very queer reason," replied the Imp darkly.

"Oh, for gracious sake, don't begin to tease!" cried Sue impatiently,
suspecting that the Imp was up to one of her usual tricks. "Things have
been so exciting, and you've been such a dear, that I hate to have you
spoil it by beginning that 'mysterious' business."

"But it _was_ mysterious," argued the Imp, "and you'd have seen it for
yourself, if you'd only had your eyes about you."

"Well, what was it?" sighed Sue. "I'm afraid you're making a whole lot
out of nothing."

"I'm _not_!" cried the Imp. "And I'll prove it this minute. I _couldn't_
see those two other pictures because--they both had a heavy, dark silk
covering of some kind stretched completely over them, frames and all!
_Now_ will you believe me?"

At this curious bit of information even doubting Sue had to admit that
the Imp was right.




CHAPTER VI

IN MONSIEUR'S ROOM


March 8, 1914. I thought the last entries in this journal were pretty
exciting, with two accidents to tell about, but they were just nothing
to what's been happening since. My arm is all right again; no trouble at
all, except for a slight stiffness. So that's all about that. But
_Louis_!

For the first two days after his accident he seemed to be doing nicely.
None of us saw him, for the doctor had ordered that he be kept very
quiet. When we went to inquire, Miss Yvonne said he was better and in no
pain, and that he wanted to see us all, but that he must be quiet for a
while. Then, on the third day, her face was very grave.

"He has fever," she said. "It is not high, but the doctor is not
pleased. Louis is restless, and his foot is swollen. We are all anxious
about him."

I repeated her words to Father, and he said:

"Poor boy! Blood-poisoning, probably. I'm sorry for him. Was that ax
very rusty?"

I replied that it was, for I remember that Louis remarked about it at
the time and said he could do better work if the ax was cleaned and was
sharper. Father shook his head and said they'd have to keep a careful
watch on him now.

Next day matters became worse. From then till this evening we have been
frightfully anxious, and the Meadows' family and Monsieur grew almost
frantic. It was blood-poisoning, and the doctor said it was so bad that
he doubted if he could save Louis's foot. At that, Monsieur sent
post-haste to the city for a famous surgeon, and after days of working
over him Louis is to-night pronounced out of danger. When I went over
this evening to get the news, Miss Yvonne cried when she told me. I
cried, too, and I saw Monsieur coming downstairs, his eyes suspiciously
moist. What a relief!

They have had two trained nurses, and one of them will stay till Louis
is much stronger. Miss Yvonne is quite worn out with work and worry, and
she looks like a shadow of herself. Old Mr. Meadows appears to have
grown ten years older in a week, and seems very feeble. As for Monsieur,
in the few glimpses I've had of him he looks as if he hadn't had a wink
of sleep for four days. As a matter of fact, I heard that he hadn't gone
to bed and slept since Louis became so ill,--just napped while sitting
in a chair.

I haven't slept well myself, and neither has Carol. Even the Imp has
been very much concerned. She continues to be awfully decent to us, but
I wonder how much longer it will last. Not long, I'm pretty sure, after
Louis is well again. I know her too thoroughly to be deceived into
thinking she has turned over a new leaf for good!

Now for bed and a long, peaceful sleep for the first time in a week!


March 13. To-day, for the first time, I have seen Louis. He was much
better, and he wanted to see us so much that Miss Yvonne sent over the
servant to tell us that we three could come over (Dave had gone
yesterday), but that we all had better not see him at once. Carol and
the Imp and I went over. One by one we were allowed to go up to the
room. But we were warned that no one must stay more than five minutes,
and that we mustn't talk to Louis about anything exciting.

Carol went first, but she didn't stay anywhere near her five minutes,
for I timed her by the parlor clock. It seemed as if she had scarcely
had time to go up and walk into the room before she must have walked out
again. She came down looking awfully solemn and scared, and whispered:

"He looks awful,--as if he'd been _so_ sick! I was frightened. The
trained nurse was there, and Monsieur, too. I didn't know what on earth
to say, so I didn't stay but a minute."

Then the Imp went up, and I guess she was more successful, for she
stayed two minutes over her time. We heard her say, "Hello, old sport!"
as she entered the room, and we even heard a sound like Louis's laugh.
Then there was a great chattering in French, and I knew that she and
Monsieur were talking together. When she came down she said that
Monsieur had been thanking her for what she did on the day of the
accident, and that she had been trying to convince him she hadn't done
anything, except to obey my directions. He wouldn't stand for that,
however, and insisted that she had been the means of saving Louis's
life. Nothing she could say would persuade him differently.

Then it came my turn, and I went up with my knees shaking, like the
silly goose I am, for there was nothing on earth to be afraid of. But
somehow it always did seem a solemn thing to me to see a person for the
first time after he has been so near to death. But they shook worse when
I got into the room and saw how really awful Louis looked. He is like a
thin shadow of his former self, and _so_ white and hollow-eyed. He's
never been sick before, to any extent, so I never dreamed he could look
like that.

I murmured something or other to Louis,--I can't remember what,--and
then Monsieur began to thank me in very elaborate and formal English for
what I had done on the day of the accident. I tried to answer that it
wasn't anything, and I could easily see that he didn't think it _was_ so
much, compared to what the Imp had done. But Louis spoke up in the
weakest voice, and declared:

"Sue is a trump! _I_ know what she did, for I wasn't unconscious _all_
of the time. Between them they patched me up beautifully."

But Monsieur wasn't much impressed. It's plain to be seen that the Imp
is _his_ favorite. I don't care a scrap, however, since Louis said what
he did!

Well, I couldn't think of another thing to say, so I bade Louis good-bye
and took my departure. But before I left the room I snatched a good long
look at those pictures. I've been thinking of them constantly, ever
since that first day, and longing to see them. It certainly was queer
to see those two so tightly covered. There's something about the one of
the boy that haunts me, though. I don't know why. Carol and I have
talked it over and over, and we can't make it out. The trouble is that
she practically hasn't seen it at all. That day of the accident she
didn't come into the room, for she was telephoning the doctor. She
didn't want to come in, anyway, because she knew she couldn't stand it.
And to-day she only caught the smallest glimpse of it, because she was
so upset when she came out of the room.

The nurse says that next time we go to see Louis we can probably stay a
little longer, if he continues to improve.


March 15. We all went in again to-day. Monsieur was not there, to
Carol's and my great relief, but the nurse was. I warned Carol
beforehand to take a good look at the portrait this time, and she did.
She says she feels as I do about it, as if she'd seen it, or some one
like it, somewhere before. And yet she's _sure_ she hasn't, really. I
don't understand it.

Louis is beginning to make all sorts of plans about what he will do when
he's well again. He's wild at having to be away from school and lose so
much time, but we've promised to keep all our notes for him, and that
will help a lot when he goes back.

The Imp has returned to her old tricks again. I knew she would when the
excitement was over. She told me that she met Monsieur on her way to
school this morning, and that she walked all the way to the village with
him. He was going down to get some medicine for Louis. But she startled
me to pieces when she added:

"I asked him who that nice little boy was whose picture he had in his
room. He said he'd tell me if I'd promise to keep it a secret. I said
that I certainly would, cross my heart."

"So he told you?" I asked, trying not to act as if I cared a bit.

"Why, certainly," the Imp answered, with that wicked gleam in her eye.
"He did as he said he would. I'd be glad to tell you, but, of course,
I've promised not to."

"Did you ask him why he kept the other two pictures covered?" I
inquired.

"Yes, I asked him that, too, but he said it was for a reason he couldn't
explain at present."

The Imp wouldn't have told me if he _had_ explained. I'm positive of
that. And what's more, I simply can't believe that he told her all about
the other one. She can make things sound so mysterious, when there's
really nothing to them at all. However, I can't be certain, even of
this. Maybe he really did explain, though why he should make her promise
not to tell is a puzzle.

I'm not going to think about it any more just now. It makes me too
furious.


March 22. Such a strange, strange thing happened to-day. Dave went with
me to see Louis this afternoon, for the Imp had to go on an errand to
the village, and Carol was in the house with another severe cold. Dave
went up first, stayed quite a while, and then went on home.

Miss Yvonne took me up and told me that the nurse was out for the
afternoon, and that Monsieur was lying down in Louis's room. So, for the
first time since his accident, I actually saw Louis without a lot of
other people in the room. We chatted for a while about school matters
and what we had all been doing while he was laid up. And Louis told me
how much better he was, how he was soon going to be allowed to get up,
and that the nurse was going in a few days. After that we were both
quiet for a few moments. It was one of those pauses that sometimes come
in conversation, which get so prolonged that you hardly know how to
break them. Then, just to end the silence, I asked Louis why Monsieur
had insisted on his being in this room, and how inconvenient it must
have been for Monsieur. To my surprise, Louis became much excited and
said:

"I can't think whatever made him do it that day! _I_ didn't want to be
here. I'm horribly uncomfortable about it all the time. I _hate_ it! It
would have been so much more sensible to have put me in my own room on
the ground floor. And, Sue, what do you think?" Here Louis sank his
voice to a whisper. "I came to myself one day, out of a sort of stupor
that I'd been in, and found him kneeling by the side of the bed and
actually _kissing my hand_! I was so astonished and disgusted that I
snatched it away, weak as I was. He never said a word, but rose and
walked out of the room. What does it all mean?"

"I'm sure I don't know, Louis," I replied; "but tell me, do you know
anything about those portraits that hang on the wall opposite your bed?
Why are two covered up, and who is that boy in the middle?"

To my astonishment, Louis seized hold of my arm and whispered:

"Sue, Sue, I hate those pictures. I hate that one in the middle. I'm
_afraid_ of it! I--"

Before he could say any more we heard Miss Yvonne coming up the stairs
to tell me that my time was up and that Louis must rest. And so he
couldn't go on.

But why, _why_ does Louis hate the picture of that boy, and why, above
all things, is he afraid of it? Was there ever so curious a mystery?




CHAPTER VII

THE IMP MAKES A DISCOVERY


Despite the fact that Sue and Carol boiled with impatience for over a
week, conjecturing what it could possibly be that made Louis afraid of
the picture in Monsieur's room, they found out nothing new on the
subject, for the simple reason that there was never a moment when they
again saw him alone. To ask him about it when others were in the room
was impossible. Two days after Sue's last visit he was allowed to sit
up, and a day or two after that he was permitted to walk about for a few
steps. Then the nurse took her leave, and Louis insisted on returning to
his own room on the ground floor.

"And only to think," sighed Sue, when she heard of it, "now we'll
probably never see those strange pictures on Monsieur's wall again. I
could cry with vexation when I think of it. Carol, do you feel as if
there were something terribly mysterious about them,--not only the two
covered ones, but the boy's, also? I wonder if it haunts you the same as
it does me?"

"It certainly does," admitted Carol, "and yesterday I wrote a little
poem about it. Here it is. What do you think of it?"

She handed Sue a scrap of paper on which the verses were written. The
two girls had dropped off the trolley on their way home from high
school, and were bound for the library. Sue took the paper and studied
it carefully as she walked.

"I like it a lot," she acknowledged, as she handed it back. "Especially
those last two lines:


     'O boy of nut-brown hair and smiling eyes,
     Speak out and tell the secret that you know.'


Really, it's awfully pretty and the best thing you've done yet. Why
don't you show it to Miss Cullingford. It hasn't any direct reference
to Louis's affairs in it, and I'll warrant she'd recommend it to be
published in our high school paper, _The Argus_."

"Well, perhaps I will," agreed Carol, visibly pleased with Sue's
unstinted praise. She folded the paper back into a book as they went up
the steps of the library.

It was while the two were wandering round the big, sunny room, scanning
the shelves for an interesting book, that they made a startling
discovery.

"Will you look at that!" whispered Carol, suddenly pinching Sue as they
were passing the door of the smaller reference room, a spot they
themselves seldom entered. There, near a shelf of immense volumes,
stood--who but the Imp! She was deeply engrossed in the pages of a tome
nearly as large as herself. The sight was the more amazing because the
Imp was neither a member of the library, so far as they knew, nor did
she ever enter it, if she could help it, except rarely to get a book for
the girls.

The two stood rooted to the spot with astonishment. Suddenly the Imp
caught sight of them. She promptly closed the book and slipped it back
on the shelf. All she would admit in reply to what she felt to be their
intrusive inquiries was the statement:

"I'm looking up something on the advice of Miss Hastings. I guess I
don't have to explain everything to you." After which remark she marched
majestically out of the room.

The girls tried to guess from the shelf where she had stood what book
she had been consulting, but as it was a long row of encyclopedias, all
exactly alike, they could not glean the least inkling. Giving up that
course, they questioned the librarian on the way out, and found that the
Imp had joined the library several days before.

"Did you ever know anything to beat it?" demanded Sue, as they passed
down the steps. "What can she be up to? I know she's awfully bright and
reads lots of books that interest grown-folks, but she's so lazy about
things and so crazy just to be outdoors that she never thought it worth
while to join the library before."

"She said," Carol reminded her, "that her teacher, Miss Hastings,
advised her to look up something. You know she always tells the truth,
at least."

"That's true," admitted Sue, "but it must be something out of the
ordinary, or she would simply have come to us and bribed us to go and do
it for her. And besides, in her class they don't have to look up things
in encyclopedias; they haven't got to that yet. No, I'm certain it's
something else."

Wondering about the Imp's strange behavior, they harked back, as they
walked homeward, to that other subject that was constantly puzzling
them.

"Do you know," said Carol, "I believe that I've come to agree with you
in your theory about Louis and Monsieur. You know I didn't when you
first told me, because I was awfully disappointed about his not being a
count or a duke. But now I think that you're right. Monsieur is probably
the family lawyer, and Louis is going to inherit a big French fortune.
But if that is the case, why is it that Monsieur seems to be trying so
hard to make Louis like him? You remember, Louis said the other day that
he constantly feels as if Monsieur were doing everything in his power to
win his affection, for some reason or other. If he were only a family
lawyer, he wouldn't care a penny whether Louis liked him or not. And why
was he kissing his hand the other day? I'm half-inclined to believe that
he's some relative--a grandfather or an uncle or something. Yet he could
scarcely be that, and the lawyer, too. Isn't it a puzzle?"

"But don't you remember that Miss Yvonne told Louis he wasn't any
relative?" Sue reminded her; "only an old friend of the family."

"Susette," remarked Carol solemnly, stopping stock still in the middle
of the road, "you may call me all kinds of an idiot if you like, but I
want to tell you one thing. I've been feeling lately that there's some
mystery here, bigger than anything you or I imagine. It's just a
feeling I have, but it haunts me continually. I'm _certain_ something is
going to happen that will make us gasp with astonishment. And when that
does happen, I want you to remind me of what I've said to-day. I'm sure
I'm right. I feel it in my very bones, as Aunt Agatha often says."

And Sue, much impressed, as solemnly promised to remind her.


March 27. There's something that the Imp is up to,--something that she
has discovered. I'm as certain of it as I am that my name is Susette
Birdsey. The reason I know this is because of what happened to-day.

Carol and I had gone down this afternoon to Anita Brown's to go over
some English history with her for an exam we're going to have in a day
or two. Anita is great on history, and somehow can make it seem so
simple and sensible and easy to remember. I don't know how she does it,
but we always like to study that subject with her and get her to explain
all about the succession of kings and what relation they were to each
other. She has the knack of making them seem like real people.

Well, we had stopped at her house on the way from high school, so we
hadn't been home this afternoon. About half-past four we left, and
happened to come out of her gate just a little behind two people who
were walking up the road. (Anita lives about half-way between our house
and the village.) It didn't take us an instant to recognize those two
people as Monsieur and the Imp. Carol was all for hurrying along to join
them, but I said no, we might just as well keep to ourselves, for they
probably didn't care for our company, anyway. So we kept on behind them,
and they were talking so fast and hard that they didn't even notice us.

Presently the Imp did a queer thing. She opened her school-bag, took out
a book--it wasn't a school-book, either!--opened it at a certain page,
and showed something to Monsieur. Whatever it was, it had the strangest
effect on him. He gave one look at the page, then stopped stock still
in the road and stared at the Imp, making a queer sound in his throat,
as if he were trying to clear it and didn't succeed very well. Then he
said something in French that we caught the sound of but couldn't
understand. But the Imp was evidently so excited that she forgot to
speak French, for we heard her say in English:

"Then I'm right, Monsieur? It's the same? I was sure it was."

And he answered:

"_Oui, oui, petite mademoiselle!_" (I know enough French to translate
this as "Yes, yes.")

After that the Imp went right on to chatter in French. But by this time
we'd made up our minds that it was high time _we_ were let in to that
little secret, so we hurried to catch up with them. But the Imp saw us
too quickly. She shut the book, slipped it back in her school-bag, and
by the time we had joined them they were conversing sedately in English
about the weather.

When we reached our own gate the Imp went off about her own devices,
with never a word about the queer performance on the street. But Carol
and I made up our mind that we'd take a peep at that book in her
school-bag when she wasn't around. So when she had gone upstairs for a
while, we opened the school-bag that she had flung down on the couch in
the living-room.

But when did we ever manage to get ahead of the Imp? She had carefully
removed that book, and it was nowhere to be found. I remember noticing
that it was a thick book with a light green cover, and there was nothing
even faintly resembling it anywhere about, so far as we could discover.
What she could have done with it, or when she could have taken it out
without our notice, beats me. Leave it to the Imp, however, to
accomplish that sort of trick.

Of course we plainly saw that there was nothing we could do, except to
question her, and we debated the longest time about whether to do so or
not. It's such a hopeless performance, if the Imp has made up her mind
beforehand that you're not going to find out anything from her. Carol
suggested that we ask her right out what she had discovered that
Monsieur was so interested in. I told her there was only one kind of
answer to expect to _that_, so what on earth was the use?

I thought I had a better scheme. The Imp has been wild for a long time
to have a fountain-pen like the one I bought in Bridgeton two months ago
for a dollar. I was going to save up and give her one for her birthday.
But that's a long way off yet. So I suggested to Carol that I offer to
let the Imp have mine, and then buy a new one with the dollar Uncle Ben
gave me at Christmas. She said it was an awful waste of a good pen, and
might not accomplish what we wanted, anyway, but that I could try it if
I liked.

So a little later, when the Imp came in where we were studying, I began
on the subject, but very carefully, so that she wouldn't suspect
something right at the start and spoil everything. After she had settled
herself to read--it was _my_ book, by the way!--I began thus:

"You and Monsieur seemed to be having a nice time while you were coming
up the road this afternoon. Does he think you talk good French?"

The Imp glanced at me warily, but replied in an amiable manner:

"Oh, yes. He says I'm the only person he's met in America, except Louis
and his folks, who speaks it with a decent accent."

Then she went on reading. It was plain that _she_ wasn't going to give
us any opening, if she could help it.

"Do you always talk to him in French?" I went on cautiously.

"Yes, always. He likes it best," she answered, without looking up again.

"But we heard you say something to him in English this afternoon," I
ventured, for I had a scheme as to just how I was going to trap her. For
a wonder, she fell into it.

"I didn't! I don't remember saying a word in English."

This was just what I had thought. She was so excited at the time that
she _hadn't_ remembered.

"Oh, but you _did_!" broke in Carol. "We heard you say: 'Then I'm
right? It is the same? I was sure it was.'"

"You horrid things!" burst out the Imp. "Always tracking me around and
eavesdropping! You once accused _me_ of that, but I think the tables are
turned now."

"Look here," I said, and I felt downright mad, "you know perfectly well
we weren't doing anything of the kind. We happened to come out of
Anita's house right behind you, and we refrained from joining you at
first because we knew you didn't want us. We couldn't help it if you
talked so loud that we could hear what you said."

She calmed down at that, and I seized the advantage and determined on a
bold stroke.

"Bobs dear," I said, in as friendly a way as I could, "we know you've
discovered something about Monsieur or Louis or some one from what you
said and did this afternoon. Won't you tell us about it, too? You know
we're awfully interested. And just to show you that we only mean to be
friendly, I'll give you that new fountain-pen of mine, if you care to
have it. I don't mean it as a bribe, but only to make you feel that we
aren't really hateful."

At this her eyes fairly sparkled for a moment. Then she shook her head.

"I can't do it, girls, much as I'm crazy to have that pen. Honest, I
can't. I'm not teasing you about it this time, either. I really _have_
discovered something quite important, and it just happened by accident,
too. But Monsieur was so upset about it, and asked me so politely not to
say anything to any one, that I just feel it wouldn't be right. I think
I took him terribly by surprise. I don't know what it all means yet
myself. There's something awfully mysterious about things over at
Louis's. And really, you've been so decent to me lately that I'd tell
you if I could, even without the pen."

Well, that was too much for me. I knew she meant every word she said,
and I could understand, too, why she felt she couldn't tell us. So I
just gave her the pen, anyway, and she was so happy and grateful. She
said:

"It's all right, girls. You're trumps! And I'll do something for you
yet, never you fear."

But only to think that it was the Imp who made the first real, important
discovery about this mystery! Well, things do happen queerly. I wonder
what in the world she can have discovered?




CHAPTER VIII

THE PORTRAIT OF MYSTERY


It was well into April before Louis came back to school, looking a
trifle thin and pale, but otherwise not impaired by his serious
accident. Carol and Sue traveled back and forth with him on the trolley
several times, but never once picked up courage to ask him the question,
the answer to which they were burning to know,--why had he been afraid
of the strange portrait in Monsieur's room?

It was not till one evening when he had come over to see Dave that the
subject was broached. Dave was detained out in the barn, helping his
father with a sick farm-horse, and while they were waiting for him in
the living-room the talk drifted to Monsieur and his devoted kindness
during Louis's illness.

"He simply couldn't do enough for me," the boy asserted. "Beginning
with his insisting on my having his room, he loaded me with delicacies
and attentions of every sort the whole time. I began by quite despising
him, but he's been so jolly good to me that I've just _got_ to like him,
whether or no! Honestly, it's almost pathetic sometimes, he tries so
hard. I feel like a brute if I don't respond in just the way he wants me
to. He's stopped talking about all the things he knows I don't care for,
and even stands for my talking about mechanical engineering and that
sort of thing. And that's going some for _him_!"

"Louis," ventured Sue, a little timidly, "do you mind telling us now why
you hated and were afraid of that portrait? You were going to tell me
that day, if you remember, when we were interrupted."

The boy looked hesitant for a moment. Then he replied:

"I believe I might as well. It can't hurt any one that I can see. I've
had the most peculiar feeling about that picture ever since my accident.
Before that I'd seen it, of course, but had never thought much about
it, and those two others that are covered I only thought were just
another eccentricity of Monsieur's. He's awfully eccentric, anyway,
about a number of things. But after I landed in that room with my
chopped foot, and had to stay there when I didn't want to and lie
staring day and night at that picture at the foot of my bed, first I
began to hate it and then I actually became afraid of it. You'll hardly
believe me, girls, when I tell you that I covered up my head with the
bedclothes at times, when I was alone in the room, so that I wouldn't
have to look at it."

"But _why_?" interrupted Carol. "What was strange about it?"

"Well," Louis answered, "it's not so much that there's anything strange
about the picture _itself_; it's more the way it made me feel and the
way Monsieur acted about it and--well, a dream I had about it one
night."

"A _dream_?" the girls exclaimed. "What was it?"

"I'll get to that presently," he said. "But first I want to tell you
what Monsieur said about it. A day or two after I was taken to that room
I asked him whose portrait it was. He said he would tell me all about it
some time, but that all he could say at present was that the child had
been one of the world's heroic martyrs. That, of course, didn't give
_me_ much information, but it made me a little more interested, and I
used to lie and stare at it by the hour, wondering how in the world a
youngster of six or seven could have been what he said.

"Then came the time when I took that turn for the worse, and they
thought it was all up with me. I had a terrible fever and was delirious,
too, I guess. And that wretched picture haunted me the whole time.
Sometimes it seemed to be coming toward me rapidly, growing larger and
larger, and the eyes would glow like balls of fire. I used to scream out
loud, because it somehow seemed as if it would wrap itself round me and
crush me. Then it would seem to retreat way off where I could hardly see
it, and almost disappear through the wall. At other times it would turn
over, hang upside down, and cut up all sorts of antics. And all the time
I couldn't seem to take my eyes from it.

"The last night that I was so very ill I had an awful dream about it. I
thought that suddenly I looked at it, and a queer change had happened to
the whole thing. Instead of the youngster being dressed up in that natty
little silk coat with lace frills at his neck and wrists and the
jewelled star on his chest and the little riding-whip, his clothes were
all queer and ragged. He had a bright red cap of some kind on his head,
and his hair was matted and tangled. Instead of being plump and smiling,
he was thin and half-starved looking, and the tears were running down
his cheeks. And while I looked, he suddenly held out his arms to me, as
if for help. I felt as if I must get right out of bed and give him some
assistance,--I simply _must_. And I guess I tried, too, for I remember
the nurses held me down. Even after I was much better, I couldn't seem
to get over the horror of that dream. I hated to look at the picture
after that, for fear I'd see it again the same way."

"But you also said," Sue reminded him, "that Monsieur acted queerly
about the picture, too. What did he do?"

"Oh, yes, that's another thing," added Louis. "He used to stand in front
of it the longest time, gazing at it as steadily as if it were the most
wonderful thing on earth. Next he would turn and stare at me, and then
look back again at the picture, till I could have yelled, it made me so
nervous. It was mostly when he thought I was asleep or in a stupor, but
I wasn't either one of those things half as much as they thought I was.
Once he came and stood over me, after I had had my eyes shut for a long
time, and I heard him muttering something about 'the temple look,'
whatever he could have meant by that. It all seemed horribly uncanny. I
didn't like it at all. I never was so glad of anything in my life as to
get out of that place and back to my own room at last."

"But, Louis," began Carol, in an awed tone, "whatever do you suppose
caused you to have that queer dream? It's one of the queerest things I
ever heard. Did Monsieur ever say anything to you about the picture that
would make you think of a thing like that?"

"Not a single thing," declared the boy stoutly, "except what he said
about the 'heroic martyr' business, and I can't believe I would have
made up the rest out of my head. It's singular--"

At this moment, however, Dave came in, and the conversation shifted to
other topics.


April 8. Carol and I debated a long while as to whether it would be a
good idea to tell the Imp what Louis had told us last night. At first
Carol was shocked at the idea of such a thing, and she looked at me as
though I'd proposed to dynamite her house. But I reminded her that the
Imp had been awfully amiable to us of late, and really it mightn't be
such a bad scheme to let her into this, especially as she had some
inside information of her own that some time she might be able to give
us the benefit of. This settled Carol's doubts, so to-day we told the
Imp.

When we came to the part about Louis's dream, she grabbed my arm and
said:

"Are you making this up, or is it really true?" I never saw her so
excited before.

"Of course it's true!" I said. "It's just exactly what Louis told us."

"Then it's the queerest thing I ever heard of," she exclaimed. "O girls,
I wish I could tell you what I know! You'd be so startled that you'd
jump out of your boots. If only Monsieur hadn't asked me not to mention
it to any one!"

"Haven't you even told Louis?" I asked.

"No. Monsieur particularly asked me not to speak of it to Louis. He
asked me to promise him that I would not, and he seemed _so_ upset about
it. But I think I know why now. I've tracked down a whole heap of things
lately. Some time I'll let you two in on it, if I can do so without
breaking any promises."

The Imp can be a trump when she wants to be. I wonder if we have
_permanently_ got on the right side of her at last?

To-day I persuaded Carol to show her poem, "The Mysterious Portrait," to
Miss Cullingford. She only agreed to do so for this reason. Our paper,
_The Argus_, is offering a prize of five dollars for the best poem
handed in by any member of the freshman class. I don't believe there's
another one who can write as well as Carol, and this is her best piece
of work. So at last she consented to let Miss Cullingford criticize it
for her, before she submits it to the contest committee. I'm just crazy
to have Carol get the prize.

She says Miss Cullingford took it and read it over,--it's not very
long,--and then began to ask her some questions about it. They were
principally about where she'd seen this portrait. Carol told her it was
in the house of a friend, but didn't say anything that would give Miss
Cullingford any clue as to where it really was. Miss Cullingford told
her that the poem was very good, and asked her to describe the portrait
to her a little more in detail. Carol did this as well as she could
from memory. At last Miss Cullingford told Carol to leave the verses
with her for a day or two, as she would like to consider them at her
leisure. It looks rather promising for Carol, I think.


April 9. Another awfully strange thing happened to-day. Our last hour
for the day was English literature, and when it was over Miss
Cullingford asked Carol to come to her after dismissal, as she wanted to
talk to her a while about her poem. So Carol went to her room, but I
didn't wait, because I was anxious to get home and help Mother with a
new dress she's been making for me. I told Carol that I'd watch out for
her when she came home, and run out to the gate to hear what Miss
Cullingford had said about the poem. Carol said she wouldn't have but a
minute to spare, because her mother and her Aunt Agatha were going to
take her to dinner with some friends at Bridgeton, and so would be
anxious for her to hurry and dress so they could catch the four o'clock
trolley.

I went home by myself and sewed hard for an hour or so. About five
minutes of four Carol came rushing up the road and dashed in at her
gate, late as usual. I grabbed up my coat, and hurried out to catch her
before she went into the house. She was breathless with running, and her
eyes had the wildest look. I thought it was because she was so late, but
she panted out:

"O Susette! I'd give _anything_ if I only had the time to talk, but
Mother and Aunt Agatha will be wild at me, as it is. I'm _so_ late! But
what do you think? You'll never guess. I've found out _whose portrait
that is in Monsieur's room_!"

I was simply stunned.

"I don't believe you!" I cried. "This is just a trick. You can't catch
me that way."

"No, no! It isn't a trick. It's _true_!" she panted. "You'll have to
wait till to-morrow. I'll tell you all about it then." And she was gone
into the house without another word.

This is simply _horrible_. Can I _ever_ wait till to-morrow?




CHAPTER IX

CAROL MAKES A DISCOVERY OF HER OWN


To Sue, the night that followed seemed endless. The mere idea that Carol
had actually discovered something, and then hadn't even had a chance to
give her the faintest inkling about it, was enough to keep her from a
wink of sleep. But dawn came at last, and with the first light she was
up and dressing frantically. If she had thought of it, she might have
known that her chum would not be about for the next three hours.
Breakfast on that day was only an empty form, and no sooner was it over
than Sue snatched up her books and rushed madly from the house, much to
the amazement of the rest of her family.

Never doubting that she would hear the whole story from Carol as they
walked to the village, she was filled with despair when she found that
Carol's Aunt Agatha proposed to walk down with them, in order that they
might assist her to carry a heavy basket of things she was taking to
some sick woman in the village. Aunt Agatha's progress was slow, and to
Sue's agonized signals Carol could only shake her head and dumbly
signify that her friend must wait till later for revelations.

But even this was not the end. Also waiting for the trolley was Louis.

"Do you mind telling him, too?" whispered Sue.

"I'd rather not," returned Carol. "I really don't think I ought to yet!"

This only added to the mystery. Louis wondered much at their
unresponsiveness that morning, and, in fact, during all the school day
and the returning trip that afternoon. For not another moment offered
itself as entirely suitable to the tale that Carol was to unfold. Once
they had reached the Green, however, Louis betook himself about his own
affairs, and the two girls were left alone with their secret.

"Come up to the den in our barn," said Carol. "That's where I want to
tell you."

"But it'll be cold," objected Sue. "Can't you come into the house?"

"No. I don't want to be interrupted, and I've something to show you,"
insisted Carol darkly.

Consumed with wonder, Sue obediently followed her up the hay-loft
ladder, and they locked themselves into the chilly, hay-scented den.

"Now do begin at once!" exclaimed Sue. "I never spent such an awful,
maddening day of suspense in my life. Don't wait a minute!"

"I'm just as crazy to tell you as you are to hear it," responded Carol.
"Do you think _I_ haven't been boiling with impatience all day? Well,
here goes! Susette, it's the queerest thing in the world, the way I
happened across this. It's all through Miss Cullingford. That day, after
I'd described the picture to her as well as I could, I remember that she
looked puzzled and said, 'That somehow sounds familiar to me.' But I
didn't think anything of the remark at the time, because I was too
interested in what she was going to say about my poem, and I soon
forgot it. But yesterday, when I went to her after school, she asked me
if I'd recognize the picture if I saw it again, and I said that of
course I would. Then she suddenly drew a book out of her desk and opened
it at a certain page. And, Sue, will you believe me when I tell you?
There was a copy of that _very same picture_, right before my eyes!"

"Well, for goodness sake, tell me who it was, or I'll die of curiosity!"
cried Sue impatiently.

"That's just what I don't know," Carol answered. "But I have the book
here. It belongs to Miss Cullingford, and she offered to lend it to me.
Of course, when I saw it, I acted surprised, but not half as much so as
I felt, because I didn't want to have to tell her anything about Louis.
I only said that it seemed to be the same picture, and she said it must
have been some copy that I'd seen, for the portrait was a famous one,
painted by a famous artist. Then she went on to criticize my poem, and
made one or two suggestions about some little changes in it. She said
that if I made them, she thought the poem stood a fair chance of
winning the prize. Then she offered to lend me the book to take home and
read, because she thought I might be interested in it. She little knew
how _desperately_ interested I was! But come! Let's look at it for
ourselves, and see if we can find out anything we'd like to know."

Carol took the book out of a desk where she had locked it, and opened it
at a certain page. And there, staring right up at them, was the selfsame
picture that hung in Monsieur's room,--the "boy of nut-brown hair and
smiling eyes." Only of course the picture was in black and white, not
colored as in the oil-painting. But it was the _same_; you couldn't
mistake it. And underneath the portrait it said, "The Dauphin of
France."

"Carol," said Sue, after she'd read it, "will you tell me what on earth
a 'dauphin' is?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," answered the other. "I never heard the
word before, and I haven't had a chance to look it up anywhere. It looks
something like the word 'dolphin.' Perhaps it's the French for it. And
yet I don't think that is likely. A dolphin is some kind of a
sea-creature, like a porpoise, isn't it? So it _couldn't_ have any such
meaning here."

"But what is this book?" asked Sue.

They looked at the title, and it was, "Memoirs of Madame Lebrun." Carol
said that Miss Cullingford had told her that it was an account of the
life of a famous French artist and of the pictures she had painted. As
that didn't give them any special help, they turned the pages eagerly,
but couldn't seem to find out a thing about this particular picture that
interested them.

"Wait a minute," said Carol. "I'll run into the house and look up the
word in our big dictionary. Maybe I can find it there."

She came flying back after a few moments, all excitement, panting:

"It _was_ there! I didn't dare hope it would be. It gave a whole lot
about how the word originated. We weren't so far off the track when we
thought of 'dolphin.' It _did_ come from that! But anyhow, the
principal meaning was, 'The eldest son of the King of France. The heir
to the throne.' It also says that there isn't any such title in France
now."

After that they just sat and stared at the picture in silent amazement.
What in the world could it all mean? If they'd been confused before,
they were now more muddled than ever. Suddenly an idea occurred to Sue.

"Which dauphin do you suppose it was?" she questioned. "There must have
been a lot of them."

"Maybe we could find out if we read the book through," suggested Carol
helplessly.

The task, indeed, appeared herculean. Neither of the girls were in the
least interested in memoirs, or in any other literature of that "dull"
class. Both had frequently acknowledged that only stories of adventure
and mystery and excitement contained the least interest for them. There
seemed, however, no other way out of this tangle.

"Well, all right! If we must, we must, I suppose," said Sue. "I'd
attempt 'most anything for the sake of solving this mystery. Suppose we
read it aloud, turn and turn about. But for goodness sake, don't let's
try to do it up here. We'll freeze. What if people _do_ see us with it?
They'll probably only think we're reading it for study. The Imp might
suspect something, but she--"

Suddenly Carol interrupted with:

"See here! Why not _tell the Imp_? She's evidently found out a lot of
things on her own hook, and she even said she might tell us about them
some time, if she could. Perhaps we've got ahead of her on this. I'd
just enjoy getting ahead of her for once! Let's tell her and see what
happens."

It was now Sue's turn to demur. Carol was so insistent, however, that
she finally gave a reluctant consent, and they went out to hunt up the
Imp. A little triumphantly Sue led her younger sister up to the loft,
and with just a touch of patronage she promised her the surprise of her
life when she got there. But to their intense chagrin, the two girls
found, as they had discovered many times before, that they had, so to
speak, to get up very early in the morning to get ahead of the Imp.

"Look!" cried Carol, exhibiting the picture. "What do you think of
that?"

The Imp gave it only one disdainful glance.

"Huh!" she sniffed. "Aren't you a little late in the day? I discovered
the same thing about a month ago in the same book, or in one just like
it!"

The two sat staring at her in stunned silence. Then Carol glanced at the
book.

"It's so, Sue," she murmured. "It's the very same kind of a book that we
saw her showing to Monsieur that day. Look at the light green cover."

It was indeed the same! But the Imp had had her triumph and now could
afford to be magnanimous.

"Since you've discovered the same thing," she said, "I'll tell you how
_I_ happened to come across it. Our teacher, Miss Hastings, recently
brought and hung up in the schoolroom some pretty new pictures. One that
I liked very much was called 'The Girl with the Muff.' One day I asked
Miss Hastings something about it, and she told me who the artist was and
said there was a book in the library about her, with pictures of her
other paintings in it. Next day she brought the book to school and let
me look at it. And, girls, it was this book, or one like it, and while I
was looking it over I almost jumped out of my shoes to come across this
very picture. I didn't say a word about it, though, but just went and
joined the library and got the book out and read it all."

"And did you find out who this dauphin was?" Sue asked breathlessly.

"I certainly did," answered the Imp, "and a whole lot more besides."

"Well, who _was_ he, then?"

"I wonder if I ought to tell you?" said the Imp reflectively. "You see I
promised Monsieur I wouldn't say anything about what I had discovered.
As you can guess now, I showed it to him, and it quite took him off his
feet with surprise. He begged me to say nothing about it to any one."

"Look here!" exclaimed Sue suddenly. "You told us once, quite a long
while ago, that you asked Monsieur one day who the picture of the 'nice
little boy' in his room was, and that he told you then. So how could he
be surprised when you found it out later?"

Sue thought she'd surely caught the Imp _that_ time. But the other only
laughed.

"He only told me just what you said he told Louis--that it was one of
the world's 'heroic martyrs.' I was teasing you girls into thinking I
knew it all. You'd been pretty hateful to me just around that time."

"I thought as much!" said Sue. "But we'll forgive you now, if you'll
tell us what you know. There can't be any harm in it, since we've
discovered just what you have."

But the Imp wouldn't have been herself, if she had acted in a way like
ordinary folks. She stood and thought it over for a moment, keeping them
on tenter-hooks all the time. Then she remarked:

"No, I don't honestly think it would be keeping my promise, if I said a
word to you about it. I'm going to keep _that_, whatever else I do. But
I'll open the book at one picture before I go, and that's all the hint
I'm going to give you." She took the book and laid it open at a certain
place, and then dashed down the stairs before they had time to say
another word.

The two girls almost fell over each other in their hurry to see what the
picture was. It was a beautiful woman, and underneath it were the words,
"Marie Antoinette."

"What in the world has _she_ got to do with it?" demanded Sue. "Of
course we all know who _she_ was. Didn't she get killed, or something,
in the French Revolution? But what has that to do with this dauphin?"

"Perhaps she was some relation," suggested Carol. "If she was the queen,
maybe he was her son?"

"Tell you what!" Sue interrupted. "Let's go to the library to-morrow and
hunt up some book on the French Revolution, or some other French
history, and see if we can clear this thing up. I'm not going to wade
through _this_ book. It doesn't seem to say a thing about what we want
to know."

Carol agreed that this seemed the best course to pursue. Plainly, it
would be useless to consult "Madame Lebrun" any further. They took the
green book that had given them its startling revelation and hid it
safely in the desk. Then they turned to go. Suddenly Carol faced her
friend.

"Susette Birdsey, what do you make of all this, anyway? What has it to
do with Monsieur and--with Louis?"

"I'm as much at sea as ever," admitted Sue.

"Well, you remember what I told you the other day," remarked Carol
impressively. "There's more here than we have ever dreamed. I'm more
firmly convinced of _that_ than ever!"




CHAPTER X

JOTTINGS FROM THE JOURNAL


April 12, 1914. Well, we've found out all about that dauphin, and an
exhausting piece of work it was. I never waded through so much history
before in all my life. If the Imp hadn't given us that hint, though, it
would have been far worse, for we wouldn't have had the least idea where
to begin.

We went to the library this morning and spent till lunch-time there, and
then went back again this afternoon. As it was the Easter holidays, we
fortunately had all the time to spend on it that we wanted. But I must
tell all about what we've discovered. Some of it is very, very
confusing. We can't understand what it can possibly have to do with
Louis, and yet there are things about it that make us sure that it
somehow has _something_ to do with him.

To begin with, there isn't a shadow of doubt that this portrait is of
the dauphin who was the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, king and
queen of France around the time of the French Revolution. They seemed to
be having a pretty mixed up and bloody time in France just about that
period, and everybody had it in for the royal family and all the
nobility. The common people somehow got control of things, and first
they put the king and queen and dauphin and his sister in prison, and
then they killed the king and queen. The dauphin was a little boy of six
or seven at the time, and they didn't kill him, but kept him a prisoner
for three years in a place called the Temple Tower, till finally he died
of neglect. I think it said that he died in 1795.

It just made us wild to read about how shamefully they treated that poor
little fellow. They gave him in charge of a horrible, cruel cobbler,
named Simon, who beat and ill-used him abominably,--just because he
happened to be the child of a king,--and then afterward they shut him up
in a room by himself, where he never saw a single soul for six months,
and handed him his food as they would to a dog in a kennel. At the end
of that time they appeared to be a bit sorry for the way they'd acted,
and let him come out into a decent room and tried to take a little
better care of him. But it was too late, for he died soon afterward,--as
I should think he would after standing that kind of treatment for three
years.

Carol and I got so worked up over the thing that we almost cried. We
felt awfully to think that a poor, innocent, little chap should be
treated that way by people who were fighting for liberty and justice, as
the French were. It didn't make any difference if he _was_ a king's son.
He had just as much right to be fairly treated as any one, and _more_,
because he was so little and helpless. I don't wonder that Monsieur said
he was one of the world's heroic martyrs. One book said that he was
always so sweet and gentle and winning. His pretty manner at times even
softened the hearts of some of his cruel jailers.

Well, that's the history of the dauphin. He would have been Louis XVII,
if he had lived to become a king. The portrait of him must have been
painted before all the trouble broke out. At that time the poor little
fellow could not have dreamed what he was going to suffer later. It's
well that he didn't know.

As there didn't seem to be any more to find out, we decided we'd better
go home.

I was longing for a chance to tell the Imp what we'd discovered, but she
had a bad sore-throat from getting her feet wet this afternoon, and
Mother had put her to bed. So I must wait till to-morrow. But since I've
had an opportunity to sit down and think this all over quietly, I've
been trying to see what connection all these things can possibly have
with affairs across the Green. So far, however, nothing but unanswered
questions has been the result.

For instance, I can _not_ understand why Monsieur should consider that
portrait as one of his most treasured possessions. Of course the story
about the boy is terribly sad, but unless he was some relative of
Monsieur's (which is quite impossible), why should Monsieur cherish the
picture? He never saw the child, and can't possibly have any affection
for him. I don't understand it. And what are those two other pictures,
so carefully covered? Perhaps they are more portraits of the same child,
painted later and too sad to be looked at? I'd love to know.

I wonder, too, if Louis knew about this dauphin, would he still continue
to hate the picture? Or would he be afraid of it? I'm just crazy to tell
him, yet I suppose it wouldn't be fair,--at present, anyway. Good
gracious! An idea has just occurred to me. I happened to think of that
strange dream Louis said he had when he was sick. Was there ever
anything so curious? I remember that he said the little fellow seemed so
changed, with ragged clothes and matted hair and tear-stained cheeks and
a red cap on his head! Why, that is just the way one of those books
described him after he was put in charge of the cobbler. Simon took away
all his nice clothes and made him wear a red "liberty-cap," and forced
him to sing the songs of the revolution and dance for him. And Louis
dreamed all that change in his appearance, yet he doesn't know who the
subject of the portrait is and very little, if anything, about this
dauphin, in all probability. This is simply uncanny! I must tell Carol
in the morning.


April 19. I haven't had a chance to write a thing in this journal for a
week. We have been having the dressmaker. She's getting all our spring
things in order, and I've had to help her and Mother with the sewing
every spare minute that I've had. Father's been laid up, too, with an
acute attack of rheumatism, and was in bed several days. For nearly half
the week I didn't even go to school. So, altogether, I've been having a
rather strenuous time.

But, all the same, I haven't forgotten our mystery for a single minute.
Carol has kept me posted on anything new that has happened, though
nothing special did happen till yesterday. She has been madly reading
history ever since. She always did have a taste for it, and this has
given her the inspiration to read up French history from the very
beginning. She says she's finding it as interesting as a story. Well,
maybe she is, but I'm sure _I_ wouldn't.

One thing she said was that the more she read, the more she felt that
the French weren't much to blame for what they did while getting rid of
their kings and queens in that revolution. Of course they might have
used gentler means, but they were probably too exasperated by the way
they'd been downtrodden. From almost the beginning the reigning monarchs
were a _precious lot_, evidently considering it their chief business in
life to squeeze the most they could out of their subjects. Each one felt
he'd lived in vain, apparently, if he hadn't gone his ancestor one
better at that occupation! Carol says that Louis XVI seems to have been
a lot better than most of them, but by that time the French were too
furious to consider that, I suppose. Anyway, he had to suffer for what
his ancestors had done.

We haven't seen much of Monsieur lately. Louis says he hasn't been
well. This climate doesn't agree with him, and he has rheumatism and
gout, and has caught a dreadful cold. I don't see why he stays here, if
it makes him so miserable. Anyhow, he was in such bad shape that he
decided to go to New York to spend a few days at a sanitarium, and Miss
Yvonne had to take him there, for he was too sick to go alone. He went
yesterday, and last night a queer thing happened. Carol told me about it
this afternoon, giving the account as Louis told it to her while coming
home from school on the trolley.

It seems that he and his uncle were sitting downstairs in the
living-room when, about nine o'clock, they heard a dreadful crash
upstairs, directly over their heads. They couldn't think what in the
world it could be, and were so startled that neither of them moved or
spoke for a moment. Then Louis jumped up, exclaiming:

"Something's the matter in Monsieur's room! That's right overhead. I'll
go up and see."

At first his uncle didn't seem to want him to go, saying he'd rather go
himself. But as he's very feeble and doesn't go upstairs often (his
bedroom is on the lower floor), Louis wouldn't hear of it and insisted
that at least they go together. So up they went.

When they reached Monsieur's room and struck a light, they saw that the
picture of the boy had fallen to the floor and that the glass was
broken. Evidently, the wire by which it was hung had become rusty and
given way, for the picture is very heavy. Louis didn't think much of the
occurrence. He merely remarked that he'd clean up the broken glass and
get a glazier to come in the morning and put in a new one. Also, he said
he'd get some new wire and rehang it.

But for some unknown reason old Mr. Meadows was nearly wild. He stood
and wrung his hands, and walked up and down, as if something perfectly
awful had happened. Louis couldn't make out what in the world was the
matter with him. Finally he said:

"It's all right, Uncle. What are you so excited about? I'm going to
have it all fixed up to-morrow. It will be as good as ever. The picture
itself isn't damaged a bit."

But even then his uncle couldn't seem to calm down, and all Louis could
get from him was this remark, repeated over and over:

"'Tis an evil omen! An unfortunate sign! On no account must Monsieur
know of it!"

Louis said that was all right; he needn't know of it. The picture would
be all fixed up long before Monsieur came back. And even Miss Yvonne
needn't hear of it, for he'd see that it was in place before she came
home to-day. This seemed to calm Mr. Meadows somewhat, and he finally
consented to have it so. But all the evening he kept muttering, "An evil
omen!" to himself, and acted uneasy. Louis says he doesn't see any sense
in it. I can't say that I do either, even with what I know, and yet it
does seem sort of queer.

I'm too tired to write much more to-night, and yet I must tell about how
the Imp acted when we told her of what we'd unearthed in the histories
about the dauphin.

We were awfully enthusiastic over telling her, for we felt sure she
would think we'd done a good piece of work. As a matter of fact, Carol
and I doubted very much whether the Imp could possibly have found out as
much as we had, for we'd dug into things so thoroughly. We felt sure we
were giving her some points she hadn't discovered, and we were rather
proud of ourselves. Imagine our disgust when she remarked, after we'd
finished:

"Well, you've done very nicely, children!" She always calls us
"children" when she wants to be patronizing and unpleasant. I thought it
strange that she should suddenly turn horrid, when she's acted so
friendly of late.

"Don't be hateful," I said, "but admit that we have given you some good
points."

"I don't mean to be hateful," she retorted, "but it makes me mad to see
how little you girls use your brains."

"I don't think that's a nice remark," I said, "but I'll forgive you for
it, if you'll be kind enough to explain what you mean."

"Why, just this," she answered. "There are one, two,--yes, three points
in things you know about that you haven't connected with this picture or
this history at all, so far as I can see."

"What are they?" I demanded.

"You know that I can't tell you," she replied. "I can only advise you to
use your brains and your memories."

"Anything else?" I inquired, as mildly as I could, for by that time I
was getting furious with her.

"Yes, one thing more," she said. "You were trying to be patronizing,
weren't you, when you asked me if you hadn't given me some good points.
As if it wasn't _I_ who put you on the right track in the beginning!
I've always said that you two were an ungrateful pair, and now I'm sure
of it. I'll give you just one more piece of information, and then I'm
through. You thought you had discovered more than I have? Why, I've
unearthed so much more that you haven't even touched or suspected that
you'd be perfectly amazed, if you knew what I do!" With that, she
flounced out of the room.

I can't help but believe the Imp, mad as she has made me. Goodness knows
when she'll come round to being amiable again, for once she goes off on
a tangent like this, she _stays_ off for a good long while. It's too
bad!

What in the world can those three things be that she was talking about?




CHAPTER XI

LOUIS SPRINGS A SURPRISE--AND THE CONSEQUENCES THEREOF


May 1, 1914. Nothing special has happened during the last two weeks that
is worth writing about. Carol and I haven't made the least progress in
solving the riddles I last mentioned. The Imp fulfilled all my
expectations, and has been most objectionable ever since that day. Queer
how she turns completely around at times, especially when she feels the
least bit touchy, and acts as if we were her mortal enemies. She has
hardly spoken to us lately.

Monsieur came home from his sanitarium, and seems a lot improved. The
weather is lovely, anyhow, and he stays outdoors a good deal, so I
suppose that helps, too. Carol and I have had several interesting talks
with him. You can't help seeing a good deal of your neighbors in this
shut-off spot around the Green, when the weather is nice, and even
Monsieur seems to have become used to strolling over and having little
friendly chats with us. He has "thawed out" a lot, and actually seems
quite human _now_. The Imp is still his favorite, of course, but he has
come to realize _our_ existence when she isn't about.

What I wanted specially to write about to-night was the delightful time
we had to-day. Louis gave us all a treat, and besides providing such a
good time, he also gave us the surprise of our lives. There was to be a
big aviation exhibition over in Bridgeton this afternoon, and yesterday
Louis gave us all invitations to go with him and see it. He said he had
unusually good seats on the flying field. It was something we wouldn't
have missed for anything, and so we all went,--Dave, Carol, and myself,
and even the Imp. Louis said he had invited Monsieur, too, but Monsieur
did not care to go, not feeling as well as usual to-day.

I've never seen an aëroplane near by before. To tell the truth, the
nearest I ever _did_ see one was probably a thousand feet up in the air,
sailing over our house one time. We had gorgeous seats right in front,
and could see everything plainly. I was so thrilled when the first one
rolled out and soared up majestically that I could have risen and
shouted myself hoarse. Carol had to pull me down once, to keep me from
tumbling right over the railing in my excitement. But that was nothing
to what was to come. We were so absorbed that we didn't notice that
after a while Louis slipped away and disappeared. What was our
astonishment to see him suddenly strolling down the field in a regular
aviator's costume, with a helmet in his hand. He came over to us,
laughing, and said:

"I know I've given you all a shock, that is, all except Dave. He's been
in the secret. But I might as well up and confess my crimes now. I've
been mad about this aviation business for a year or more, and I have
been studying it secretly for some time. A fellow I know here in
Bridgeton has a machine and is to fly to-day. His name is Page Calvin.
He hasn't gone up yet. I've studied and worked on his machine till I
know it by heart, but I've never been up in it yet. To-day he's going to
take me up, and if I stand it all right,--some people can't, you
know,--why then it's aviation for _me_, in preference to everything
else!"

Well, we were so thunderstruck that we couldn't say a word for a moment,
and just gasped. At last I managed to stammer:

"And--and is Dave going in for this, too?"

"Not I!" said Dave. "I haven't any head for it. I get too dizzy. But I'm
going to help Louis build a model aëroplane when we've finished that
motor-boat. I'm interested in the mechanical part of it."

"But what about Monsieur?" Carol asked Louis. "Have you told him about
this?"

"No, I haven't," said Louis. "That's why I wanted him to come to-day, so
that I could surprise him, too. I'm sorry he couldn't--"

Just then some one came and told Louis that the biplane he was to go up
in was ready, so that he said good-bye and walked away. We watched him
put on his helmet and climb into the machine, and I confess now that I
never expected to see him alive again. It's all right when some one you
_don't_ know is going up; you're just excited and thrilled. But when
it's some one that you _do_, you're simply frozen stiff with fright, and
you're morally certain that he'll come crashing to earth any second!

Carol and I gripped hands and held our breath, and I believe it was the
longest fifteen minutes I ever knew or expect to know. They sailed
completely out of sight for a while, and then the suspense was worse.
But at last the biplane came back and settled on the field as gracefully
as a bird. Louis was wild with excitement when he returned to us, and he
says it's the most wonderful experience imaginable. The Imp was so
worked up over it that she wanted Louis to persuade his friend to take
her up and "loop the loop"! He laughed, and told her it was not allowed,
but I believe that for a while she really thought she could tease him
into it.

There was one other exciting thing that happened. Toward the last a
machine went up and something went wrong with the engine when it was
about two hundred and fifty feet in the air. It began to droop over in a
sort of lopsided fashion, and then began to settle, like a bird that has
been wounded in the wing. Before it reached the ground it was almost
upside down, and every one was nearly frantic, thinking the man in it
would fall out. But he didn't, and at last it came to earth with quite a
crash. A lot of people rushed to help the aviator out, Louis among them.
He wasn't killed, but they said he had a badly fractured arm, and we saw
him being fairly carried off the field. It made me actually sick to
think what a horribly dangerous career Louis was letting himself in for.
But it didn't seem to disturb _him_ a bit. All he would say was that a
careful aviator would never let a thing like that happen.

It was late when we came home, so we invited Louis and Carol over to our
house to tea, and had a jolly evening afterward.

I've had a gorgeous day and, as Louis said, "the surprise of my life."
But I cannot help wondering how Monsieur is going to take this piece of
news.


It was the day after Louis's great surprise, and, since it was Saturday,
he was out in the barn hard at work putting the finishing touches to the
motor-boat that was to be launched on the river during the coming week.
Carol, Sue, and the Imp had also drifted over to admire the
"toot-and-scramble," as the Imp insisted on pronouncing Louis's favorite
French expression, _tout ensemble_.

"Won't it be jolly to have our first picnic up the river in her?"
remarked the boy, stopping to glance critically at a stroke of varnish
he had just administered. "Do you know, I really began this boat just to
get my hand into that kind of mechanical work, but I believe we're going
to have a lot of fun out of her, too. However, just you wait till I
begin my biplane--"

At that moment a shadow fell across the doorway, and the figure of
Monsieur entered unexpectedly behind the group.

"_Bon matin_," he began, as was his custom. Then suddenly and sharply he
added in English to Louis, "What is that you say?"

"Good-morning," said Louis, politely. "I haven't seen you, sir, since
our expedition yesterday, or I would have told you what I told the girls
at the aviation field. I hope you'll be pleased."

With a visible effort, for, in reality, he greatly dreaded this
revelation to Monsieur, yet simply and directly he told the old
gentleman what he had said and done on the previous day.

The result was as unexpected as it was distressing. Not one of the
listeners but was fully prepared to see the excitable French gentleman
rage and storm and attempt to forbid Louis to engage in so dangerous a
pursuit. From all they had heard of him, they could imagine no other
course of action. They were entirely unprepared, however, for the
strange quiet with which he received the news. It was not till Louis
began to tell of yesterday's flight that Monsieur suddenly raised his
hand and cried in a low voice:

"Stop! A chair, if you please! I--I feel very--ill!"

Not till then did they notice the strange, gray pallor that had crept
into his face. Louis hurried into the main part of the barn and came
back with a rickety chair. When he had placed it, Monsieur sat down
heavily and, groaning slightly, pressed his hand to his side.

"Hurry in--to--Mademoiselle Yvonne!" he gasped. "Tell her--bring my
medicine. My heart! It--it has been weak for years!"

Louis dashed out of the barn to obey his command, and Carol dashed after
him, glad to get away from the sight of physical suffering. But the Imp
and Sue stayed with the old gentleman, the Imp steadying him in his
chair with her strong young arm, for he seemed to be slipping down. Sue
began fanning him frantically with a newspaper. It seemed as if the
other two were gone for an age, and, in fact, they were gone longer than
might have been expected, for Miss Yvonne was not about the house and
had to be hunted up in the big garden.

Before they came back, however, Monsieur appeared to grow a trifle
easier. But the only word he said during the absence of the others was
just before they came back with Miss Yvonne.

"It is useless!" they heard him murmur, and the Imp, bending over, asked
him what he had said and if they could do anything. But he acted hardly
aware of her presence, and went on murmuring something in French. Then
the others returned, bringing Miss Yvonne, breathless and excited, but
carrying a bottle and spoon. A few moments after taking the medicine
Monsieur seemed easier, and with the help of all he managed to get back
to the house.

"It's all right now," Louis told the girls. "He says he will go to bed
and rest, but the worst of the attack is past. Don't you worry."

The three girls wandered back across the Green, subdued and upset by
what had happened. Even the Imp was apparently forgetful of her past
grievances toward the others.

"I wonder what he was trying to say?" marvelled Sue, as the three roamed
aimlessly toward Carol's barn. "Did you catch it, Bobs? You were nearest
to him, and I think he spoke in French."

"Yes, I caught it," said the Imp, turning to them suddenly. "And look
here, girls, I believe I might as well tell you the whole thing now, if
you care to hear. I'm getting tired of the worry of carrying this thing
around by myself!"

If she had exploded a bomb in their midst, she could not have startled
them more.

"Gracious! What has made you change so?" demanded Sue, wonderingly.

"Well, I feel kind of upset by what has happened this morning," admitted
the Imp, "and so I feel like getting this thing off my mind. Do you know
what he was muttering in French, as he sat there? It was this: 'It is
useless to try any longer to keep the secret. I must tell him at once'!"

"So you see, if he tells Louis," went on the Imp, "there's no reason,
so far as I can see, why I shouldn't tell you _now_. Come up into your
den, and I'll tell you all I know!"

She began to climb the ladder to the haymow, and the two followed her,
silent with amazement.




CHAPTER XII

WHAT THE IMP KNEW


The three filed into the den off the haymow, and Carol solemnly
padlocked the door on the inside. As there were only two chairs, the Imp
perched herself on the old desk, curling her feet up under her. The one
window was wide open, and through it was wafted the scent of lilacs and
the sound of a lawn-mower propelled by Dave somewhere across the Green.
For a moment after they were seated no one spoke.

"Well?" said Carol, impatiently. "Go on, Imp! Begin _some_where."

"I was just wondering where to begin," admitted the Imp. "I was trying
to remember what you actually _do_ know, but I guess, except for the
fact as to who that picture is, you don't know a single thing."

"You once said," Sue reminded her, "that there were three things we
actually knew that we hadn't connected with this affair. We've tried and
tried to think what they were, but somehow we never could seem to strike
them. Perhaps you'd better begin with _them_."

But the Imp ignored this suggestion.

"I suppose it _has_ dawned on you that that picture has some connection
with Louis?" she asked.

"We've thought of it, but it seemed so impossible that we finally gave
up the idea," replied Sue. "What _could_ it possibly have to do with
him?"

"Everything," answered the Imp briefly.

"Go on, then!" commanded Sue. "You've kept us on tenter-hooks long
enough. If you're going to tell us at all, do please begin at the
beginning, and don't stop till you're through."

"The trouble is just this," admitted the Imp. "I don't actually _know_
anything much at all. It's just guesswork, except for one or two things.
You seem to think Monsieur has told me the whole business. Well, he
hasn't,--not a single thing,--except that I was right about knowing who
that portrait was, and he asked me not to say anything about it,
especially to Louis. Everything else I've worked out for myself, and it
_may_ be all wrong; but somehow I don't think it is."

The two listeners looked crestfallen. For some time past they had come
to believe that the Imp was wholly and entirely in Monsieur's
confidence. It was a shock to learn the truth. Carol immediately
intimated as much to the assembled company.

"You're a pack of sillies," exclaimed the Imp scornfully, "to imagine
such a thing, anyway! Why, this thing is of--of immense importance
to--well, I was almost going to say to the whole world. Do you suppose
for one moment that a youngster would be let into such an important
secret?"

"What are you saying? 'To the whole world'?" cried Carol. "Are you going
crazy, or do you think you are taking us in again with some of your
nonsense?"

"I'm _not_ talking nonsense, and I'll prove it. Do you know what I
discovered by reading a little more than you did at the library, and
also from an old book that Miss Hastings lent me, because I told her I
was interested in the subject? Well, I found out that, although most
people think it's a settled fact that that poor little dauphin died in
prison, still there are a lot of legends that he really escaped, that he
was helped to escape by some of the Royalists, and that the little boy
who died there wasn't the dauphin at all!"

The Imp stopped to let this startling news sink into the minds of her
hearers.

"But--but--" stammered Sue, "if he escaped, what became of him?"

"That's something that never was known," answered the Imp. "After the
downfall of Napoleon and the restoration of the Bourbons in France,
there were a lot of pretenders who _said_ they were the escaped dauphin
and claimed the throne. But they never could prove it, so no one paid
much attention to them. Only you see there must have been some truth in
it,--his escape, I mean,--or no one would have thought of such a thing."

"But I don't see, anyway, what all that has to do with this affair,"
remarked Carol.

"Don't you?" replied the Imp coldly. "Then you're more stupid than I
gave you credit for being."

Carol quite wilted under this rebuke, but Sue, who had been doing some
rapid thinking, cried:

"Mercy! It can't be possible that--"

"Wait a minute," interrupted the Imp. "I'm going to answer your question
about those three things, and see what you make of it. Do you remember
what they used to call Louis XVI--the people, I mean? I'm sure you know,
because you mentioned it to me that day you were telling me what you'd
found out."

"'Louis the Locksmith,'" answered Carol promptly.

"Right," said the Imp. "Does _that_ make you think of anything?"

Carol shook her head.

"Oh, you're hopeless!" groaned the Imp. "Try the next one. When Louis
was sick one time Monsieur stood over him murmuring something about 'the
Temple look.' Does _that_ convey anything to your mind?"

"It does to mine," interrupted Sue. "Oh, I believe I'm beginning to
understand."

But Carol still looked hopelessly confused.

"Well, here's the last," went on the Imp. "Why should Monsieur and all
the others treat Louis in the queer way they do? Why should Louis have
found Monsieur kissing his hand that time?"

"Oh, please explain _clearly_, Bobs!" moaned Carol. "You mix me up so,
firing questions at me, that I can't think at all. Just say straight out
what it is."

"All right, I will. I'll say it in words of one syllable, suitable to
your infant mind," laughed the Imp. "It may sound like the craziest idea
that ever was imagined, but I believe Louis to be a descendant of that
little dauphin, and I believe Monsieur knows it and the Meadows people,
too."

The conjecture was so stupefying in its scope that the three girls sat
for a moment in dumb, confused wonder.

"I can't believe it," murmured Carol, at length. "Right here on little
Paradise Green, way out of the world, to have such a thing happen?
Impossible!"

"It's no stranger than lots of other things that have happened in
history," asserted the Imp, "when you come to think it over. And it's so
possible, too."

"But here, _here_!" cried Sue. "What in the world would Louis be doing
in America? I could believe it more easily if we lived somewhere in
France."

"I read in one book," replied the Imp to this objection, "that there was
a rumor that after the dauphin escaped he was taken to America. There
was an American Indian, named Eleazar Williams, or something like that,
who claimed to be the dauphin. So you see it's not so impossible, after
all."

"Now I begin to see," remarked Carol, after a long pause, "what you
meant by some of those three things. If Monsieur thinks Louis is a
descendant of the dauphin, I can understand why they all treat him with
such respect. Why, girls," she cried enthusiastically, "just
think,--Louis--_our Louis_--may have royal blood in his veins! I simply
can't believe it!"

"That remark about 'the Temple look' meant, I suppose," murmured Sue,
"that Louis looked so awfully when he was sick that it reminded Monsieur
how the dauphin must have appeared after his bad treatment and illness
in the Temple Tower. That never occurred to me. But I can't yet see any
connection with what you said about 'Louis the Locksmith.'"

"That's easy," answered the Imp. "It was one of the first things I
thought of. Don't you remember how Louis XVI was always tinkering with
things and fixing locks, and how fond he was of mechanical work? The
whole court used to resent it. Well, the Meadows and Monsieur evidently
think that Louis has inherited that trait, and it drives them wild.
Don't you remember what Louis told us Miss Yvonne once said when she
found him fixing the lock on the kitchen-door? 'The ancient blood! It
will ruin everything!' Doesn't that indicate what they think?"

"True enough," Sue had to admit. "But what foolishness all this is,
girls, when you think of Louis's history and the history of his family!
I was asking Father about Louis's folks not long ago, just out of
curiosity. He said that the Durants had lived in and owned that house
across the Green for many, many years, even longer than our descendants
have lived in our house. It was way back in the eighties when Louis's
father left here and went out West. He was a young man then, about
Father's age. In fact, they'd gone to school together. But this Charles
Durant went away out West to better himself, and rented the old house on
this Green. Father says he never saw him again, because Charles Durant
and the wife he'd married out there were suddenly killed in an accident.
The first Father heard about it was when old Mr. Meadows and his
daughter, whom nobody had ever seen before, came to this place with the
tiny baby who was Louis, and settled here for good. They never said much
about themselves, except that they were old friends of the Durant family
and that they had always lived in France. They explained that they had
come over here to take care of and bring up the last Durant baby, since
its parents had been killed. Now will you tell me how anything about a
dauphin could come in there?"

"Maybe they didn't bring the baby from out West," suggested Carol, "but
brought him over from France with them. Maybe he isn't a Durant at all."

"That's possible, too," said the Imp, "but, after all, it doesn't make
any difference where he came from, does it, if Louis is what we think he
is?"

"But who is this 'Monsieur,' and what has _he_ to do with the whole
thing?" suddenly cried Carol.

"That," admitted the Imp, "is what I can't figure out. I'm sure he must
be some relative. They say there are descendants of the Bourbons still
living. It wouldn't be strange if he wanted to hunt up a long-lost
relative, but why he should make such a secret of it is beyond me."

"Bobs," cried Sue, suddenly going off at a tangent, "have you any idea
about those two other pictures in Monsieur's room,--the ones all covered
up? I've stayed awake nights trying to guess who on earth they could be,
and why he keeps them covered."

"Why, of course I don't _know_," laughed the Imp, "but I can make a good
guess. I believe they're portraits of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette. I
can't imagine why he keeps them covered, unless it's to keep Louis or
any one else from guessing anything about this affair. Of course they're
very well-known portraits, and almost any child would know who they were
at first sight. But it's different with the dauphin. Very few people
know that picture by sight. That's the only reason I can think of."

It seemed such a simple explanation, after they'd heard it, that both
girls felt a little chagrined to think that they'd never had the wit to
work out this easy problem. But so humble were they now, after the Imp's
astounding revelation, that they were willing to admit their inferior
wit twenty times over.

It was Sue who presently voiced the unspoken thought that was in each
mind.

"I wonder how Louis will take all this?" she sighed.

This was a matter that went beyond their conjecture. How, indeed,
_would_ Louis take it?




CHAPTER XIII

SUSPICIONS


May 17, 1914. It may seem a strange thing, but two whole weeks have gone
by since the Imp told us what she did, and nothing has happened at all.
By "nothing" I mean that no astonishing developments of any kind have
occurred. We went out from Carol's barn that day perfectly certain that
everything--about Louis, at least--would be changed and strange and
upheaved. We lived on a tiptoe of expectation for hours and days, but
all has gone on over there just the same as ever. I can't understand it.

That morning, about eleven o'clock, Louis came over to tell us that
Monsieur was feeling much better, and that we need no longer worry about
him. We all gazed at him curiously,--_so_ curiously, I'm afraid, that he
noticed it.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "You all act as if you were seeing a
spook. Is there anything wrong about me anywhere?"

"Oh, no!" I hurried to assure him. "We were wondering how Monsieur was
getting on."

"Well, he's getting on famously," said Louis, "but I certainly did
manage to upset him. I was afraid he wouldn't take the news well, but I
didn't dream it would be as bad as that. I only supposed he would rant
and tear his hair. I'm horribly sorry, for I'm actually getting a bit
fond of the old gentleman, queer as he is."

"Did he say anything more to you about it?" asked the Imp.

I knew she couldn't resist asking that. I was crazy to, myself, but
couldn't pluck up the courage.

"Not another word," Louis replied. "I expected he'd say a whole
dictionary full. He did start off once with a word or two, but evidently
changed his mind. He hasn't even hinted at it since."

This seemed a little queer, but we decided (after Louis had gone) that
Monsieur was probably putting off the ordeal till he felt stronger. That
would be entirely likely. So we told each other that by the next day
Louis would probably know the whole strange truth.

But the next day came and went, and Louis was just the same and nothing
was changed, even at the end of a week. He told us that Monsieur had
never so much as alluded to the subject again, and, for _his_ part, he
was mighty glad that the affair had blown over. He said he was sure
Monsieur would get used to the notion after a while.

So time has passed, and things remain just as they were. We cannot
imagine what has come over Monsieur,--Carol, the Imp, and myself, I
mean. Why is he waiting? Why doesn't he tell Louis, as he said would
have to? What does all this delay mean?

But if everything remains outwardly the same, it is not so with the way
we three _feel_ about things. I don't know if I can explain the strange
change that has come over our feelings toward Louis and Monsieur and
all that concerns them,--especially toward Louis. All our lives he has
been just 'Louis Durant,' the nice boy who lived across the Green, who
played with us from the time we were babies and studied with us in the
same classes in school, who was just like our brother, except that he
didn't live in the same house. We have always thought of him in the same
way that we do of Dave. Now, however, everything is different. He
_isn't_ 'Louis Durant' any more. He's some strange, unknown,
long-way-off person, whose ancestors were monarchs of one of the
greatest countries on earth, and who might have been a king himself, if
things had gone a little differently. I simply _can't_ feel near to, and
well-acquainted with, a person like that. Carol says she can't, either,
and the Imp admits that she's felt so a good while longer than we have.

It seems as if _our_ Louis had been taken away forever and a strange,
unapproachable person had been put in his place. Not that Louis
_himself_ acts any differently. He's exactly the same as ever, of
course, and he's said a dozen times in the course of the last week:

"What's come over you girls, anyway? You're all the time gazing at me
with eyes as big as dinner-plates, and you act so queerly and are so
absent-minded that I don't know you! Has a realization of the fact that
I hope some day to be a full-fledged aviator had such a doleful effect
on you as all that? You haven't been the same since that day. I wish to
goodness that I'd never told you, if you're going to take it in this
silly way."

Of course we try to assure him that nothing at all is the matter, but it
doesn't work very well.

We three have talked a number of times about whether we ought to breathe
a word of what we suspect to Louis, but the Imp says positively, "No."
If he is to know, she says, he must learn it from Monsieur and from no
other. In fact, by rights she ought not to have let us into the secret,
and she wouldn't have done so, except that she thought there would be
no reason why she shouldn't after Monsieur had told Louis. Since he
apparently hasn't told him anything yet, it is our duty to keep the
secret. I guess she must be right. _I_ wouldn't want to be the one to
tell Louis, anyway.

Our final exams for this year are coming in a week or so, and we are all
"cramming" hard, so I probably won't have a chance to think of much else
for some time to come.


June 3, 1914. Everything is just about the same as when I last wrote in
this journal. Nothing is changed, as far as we can see, in affairs
across the Green. We are all so busy working for and taking our
examinations that we haven't had much time to think about it, especially
Carol, who is weak in mathematics, and I, who always dread Latin. Only
the Imp remains unworried by these troubles. Her studies never did cause
her a moment's uneasiness, as far as I can see, though how she gets
through them, when she never makes even a pretense of studying, is
beyond me.

Monsieur is about again in the usual way, and two or three times Carol
and I have had a few moments' conversation with him, while he was
strolling on the Green. I simply can't describe the uncanny feeling I
have when with him now. If he was a mysterious person before, he's a
million times more so now, and every moment that I'm talking to him I
find myself in a panic, for fear those eagle eyes of his will bore into
my mind and discover the fact that I know his secret. Of course I don't
suppose he realizes for a moment what he said that day he was taken so
ill, and certainly he does not dream that the Imp was keen enough to
unearth what she did. He is polite and courteous and stilted--and very
French--in his manner toward us, and I suppose he no more dreams that we
know what we do than he supposes that the sky will fall on him.

One thing is beginning to disturb me very much. It's a suspicion that
occurred to the Imp, and that she confided to us a day or two ago. She
rather startled Carol and me by suddenly putting this question to us:

"What do you figure out that Monsieur's plans are?"

"How on earth should _we_ know?" said I.

"Well, you must admit that he probably has some, or he wouldn't be
dangling around here so long," replied the Imp. "Why shouldn't he tell
Louis what he has to tell, and then go away or take Louis away, as the
case may be?"

"What do _you_ think, Bobs?" asked Carol. "I'll warrant you have worked
it all out."

"If I tell you what I think, you'll tell _me_ I'm a lunatic," declared
the Imp. "It does sound rather crazy, and yet why shouldn't it be so?"

"Why shouldn't _what_ be so?" I cried. "You haven't even told us yet."

"Well, here's my notion," she said. "Suppose--well, just suppose that
somebody wanted to overthrow the present government of France. Wouldn't
this be a lovely chance?"

We were struck dumb with amazement by this astounding proposition.

"I guess you _are_ a lunatic!" I said. "But even lunatics ought to have
a chance to explain themselves. Go on."

"Oh, I know it sounds foolish," returned the Imp, "but, after all, is it
any more foolish than the possibility that our Louis may be a descendant
of a king of France? Just think what that means. Suppose there are a lot
of discontented descendants of royalists in France, who are dissatisfied
with the present form of government. And suppose that they hear there
_is_ a direct descendant of Louis XVI now living. Wouldn't it be a
lovely chance to get up a secret insurrection in his favor and so
restore him to the throne? It wouldn't be the first time that a republic
has been overthrown in that country, if you remember. And if this
Monsieur happens to be a Bourbon relation, he'd be all the more
interested."

Just then Carol gave a gasp, and cried out:

"Yes, and do you remember the way that first cablegram commenced? 'Time
almost ripe'! I always did think that was queer."

"Exactly what I said," continued the Imp. "And what do you suppose
Monsieur is twiddling his thumbs around Paradise Green for? Just
because Louis isn't falling in with his plans as nicely as he'd hoped.
I'll warrant Monsieur has been horribly disappointed from the first,
because Louis was so thoroughly _American_ and didn't take a scrap of
interest in his French affairs. He sees plainly that Louis isn't going
to be easy to handle. And if _Louis_ won't stand for this restoration
business, then 'the fat's in the fire.' _That's_ what's bothering
Monsieur. And he's waiting around to see if he can't win Louis over
unconsciously somehow. At least, that's how I've figured it out."

We couldn't help but agree with her, and wondered that we'd never
thought of it by ourselves. Besides, the more we thought of it, the more
we remembered dozens of little incidents that seem to confirm it. If we
all weren't so busy pegging away at our exams, and so had more time to
think about this, I feel sure that we could come to some definite
conclusion about it, but as matters stand, I, for one, am too bewildered
to know what to think.

And Louis goes about as happy as a lark, unconscious of it all!


June 29, 1914. Examinations are over at last, and I'm thankful to say
that we all passed, except that Carol has a "condition" in mathematics
that she'll have to make up during the summer. Anyhow, it's over, and we
can breathe more freely and look forward to vacation.

Last evening after tea the Imp asked Carol and myself to go for a walk
with her, as she had something important she wanted to tell us. We
suspected that she'd thought out something else about Louis, so we went
quite willingly. Otherwise, I'm bound to confess, we'd have been bored
stiff with the prospect of spending our time with her. It was quite
true. She _had_ thought of something new.

"Girls," she began, "has it occurred to you that if what we suspect
about Monsieur and Louis is true, it's a very serious affair?"

We said we supposed so, but that we didn't see how we could help it.

"That's just it," she answered. "We _ought_ to help it, somehow. I told
you once that this was a matter that might affect the world, and you can
easily see now that it is. Ought we to simply sit down and let it slide
gaily along?"

"But what on earth can _we_ do about it?" I demanded. "Just remember
that we're nothing but three young girls, one not even out of public
school, and that not a soul on earth would believe us if we were to make
such fools of ourselves as to tell what, after all, we only suspect."

"History has sometimes been in the hands of as young people as
ourselves," she remarked. I'm sure I don't know where the Imp gets all
her information, and yet somehow I'm bound to believe her. _I_ couldn't
think of a single case where history had been in the hands of any one of
our age, but I didn't dare say so, because she would probably have
promptly pointed out half a dozen cases. So I said nothing.

"I haven't made up my mind what we ought to do," she went on, "but I'm
sure _something_ must be done, and pretty soon, too!"

"Suppose we begin by telling Father," I suggested. "He has a pretty
level head about most things."

"Pooh!" she scoffed. "He'd just laugh his head off at us, and tell us to
run away and play and forget all about it. You know Father doesn't take
much stock in anything that isn't agriculture." This was quite true, and
we saw at once that the Imp had the right of it.

"No, don't speak to any one yet," she added. "We'll keep the secret a
while longer, till I've thought out a better plan."


This morning another queer thing happened. As there was no school, we
were all sitting on the veranda discussing the startling news in the
paper, the assassination of the Archduke of Austria, which happened
yesterday. Just then Louis came over to ask us to go out in the launch.

"What do you think of the news?" he asked.

We said it was awful, and that we were wondering what would happen next.

"You ought to have seen Monsieur when he read it," went on Louis,
laughing at the recollection. "He got up, crumpled the paper into a
ball, and stormed about the place as if he were having a fit. I asked
him why he was so excited about it, and he immediately began to reel off
a lot about the 'balance of power' in Europe,--how it would be upset and
what Austria would be likely to do, where Russia would object and how
France might be affected, and a whole lot more that I couldn't begin to
understand. He's a great student of international politics, he says, and
this news seemed to upset him a lot. I'm sure I can't see why."

The Imp poked me so hard in the ribs that I almost shrieked aloud, but I
saw at once what she must be thinking. _Are_ Monsieur's plans upset by
this, I wonder? Or are we just imagining trouble where there is none?
I'm sure I don't know. But of one thing I'm certain. I never realized
how strange it would feel to go off for a picnic up the river in a
launch run by a boy in a pair of paint bespattered overalls, whose
ancestors sat on the throne of France and who might, in his turn, become
the future ruler of that country.

Anyhow, I don't like it. I'm not happy, and I wish things were just as
they used to be. So does Carol, but I'm afraid the Imp enjoys all the
excitement.




CHAPTER XIV

A SOLEMN CONCLAVE--AND WHAT CAME OF IT


It was a hot morning toward the middle of July. About nine o'clock three
girls might have been seen issuing from the Birdseys' gate, two carrying
between them a well-filled lunch-basket. The third,--none other than the
Imp,--bore a couple of shawls and two or three books, also a
thermos-bottle of large proportions.

"I know you're not awfully keen about this picnic," she was saying to
the others, "but it's only because you're a lazy pair and desperately
afraid of getting a little overheated. It'll be cool and pleasant down
at the old boat-house on the river. We can put on bathing-suits and have
a swim first, and then eat our lunch when we feel like it."

"But I don't see why you're so anxious for this picnic just to-day,"
grumbled Carol. "It's blazing hot getting there, and we could have a
much more comfortable lunch at home and go for our swim this afternoon."

"Yes, and I was planning to do a lot of work in the house this morning,"
added Sue, discouragingly. "I wanted to rearrange my room and make that
new waist for which Mother gave me the material. I hate to have things
so upset."

"Look here!" exploded the Imp. "Didn't I make all the sandwiches and
pack the lunch-basket and do every blessed thing for this picnic before
you were even out of bed? Do be a little grateful, just for once. I had
a reason, and a precious good one, for wanting to get off by ourselves
to-day. I want to talk over something with you."

The other two pricked up their ears.

"What is it?" they demanded, with an increase of interest.

"Oh, yes," scolded the Imp, "you're anxious enough, now that you think
there's something worth while in it. I've a great mind not to tell
you."

"Oh, go on, Imp!" soothed Carol. "You can't blame us for being a little
grumpy on this hot morning. Have you found out something new?"

"I'll tell you after we've had our swim," was all the Imp would
vouchsafe, and with that they were forced to be content. At the end of a
hot walk across the meadows in the blinding sun, they emerged on the
river bank at the cool little boat-house under the willows. Here they
donned bathing-suits and splashed about in the river for an hour. When
they were dressed again they lounged on the wide platform, amply shaded
by one immense willow that overhung the water. They were comfortable and
lazy and cool, and even the two reluctant ones acknowledged themselves
quite happy.

"Well, let's have lunch," suggested the Imp, "and while we eat I'll tell
you what's been in my mind for several days."

They spread out the sandwiches and fruit, and during the meal the Imp,
who had not put on her shoes and stockings, sat on the edge of the
platform and dabbled her feet in the water.

"I guess I don't need to give you three guesses as to what I'm going to
speak of," she remarked, between two mouthfuls of a sandwich.

"Oh, no; it's Monsieur, of course, and Louis," replied Sue. "Has
anything new come up? _I_ haven't heard of anything. Louis has been away
at Bridgeton a lot, and I imagine he's been with that Page Calvin,
puttering around the old biplane he's always talking about. I've had a
mind to ask Dave, who certainly knows, but of course _he_ wouldn't give
me any definite information. I think Louis is trying to pluck up courage
to begin work on that model, but he knows he'll have another awful fuss
with Monsieur when he does."

"That isn't what _I_ was going to talk about, anyway," said the Imp. "It
may all be true, but something more important has been on my mind for
several days. It's this: How much longer are we going to let this affair
go on, and do nothing about it?"

"You've asked that before," remarked Sue, uncomfortably, "and I can't
for the life of me see what we _can_ do."

"You've made that brilliant remark before," replied the Imp, scornfully,
"and it doesn't help matters one bit. The point is that things have come
to such a state that something _has_ to be done, and done pretty soon. I
had a little talk with Monsieur yesterday, and I'm going to tell you
some of the things he said. He was sitting out on that seat on the Green
about five o'clock in the afternoon, reading his paper. You and Carol
were off down at the village getting the mail, and I didn't have a thing
to do, so I strolled over to talk to him.

"He began by saying the news was bad, very bad. I was sort of surprised,
because I'd looked at the paper every morning, and there hasn't been a
single exciting thing in it since that archduke what's-his-name was
assassinated some time ago. I thought that fuss had all blown over, but
Monsieur says it hasn't, and that Europe is on the verge of some
tremendous upheaval. He said that that murder was only the match that
would start the conflagration, or something like that. Anyhow, he ended
up with these words:

"'I tell you, petite mademoiselle, I have seen it coming this long, long
time. Kingdoms will fall; republics will totter; the face of Europe will
be changed. France, France herself, will experience a mighty upheaval!
It is inevitable!'"

The Imp stopped impressively, and her hearers were evidently thrilled.

"What does he mean? What _can_ he mean?" she went on, her voice
unconsciously rising higher and higher, "except that he's mixed up in
all this. If Austria and Russia and Germany and England and France are
all going to be in a big fuss, as he suggested, can't you see what a
lovely opportunity it would be for him to put through this scheme about
restoring the Bourbon monarchy? What else can he mean by saying,
'Republics will totter; France herself will experience a mighty
upheaval'? I tell you, girls, it's time this thing was reported to the
authorities. I'm sure our government could prevent it, if it only knew,
and then, too, if we really care anything about Louis, we ought to
protect him, even if he _is_ a royalty,--I'm sure he doesn't _want_ to
be one!--from being caught in all this mix-up."

"But how can we report it to the authorities?" asked Carol, in a scared
voice. "I wouldn't know the first thing about how to go about it."

"Then I'll tell you," announced the Imp, dramatically. "I don't believe
that in so important a thing as this we ought to stop short of the very
highest authority there is. I propose that we write to the President
himself. And I propose that we do it this very afternoon. I've thought
it all out. I've even brought along the things to do it with."

True enough, she produced a fountain-pen and some notepaper. So
impressed were her hearers that Sue could only quaver, in a voice that
shook with nervousness:

"Well, you go on and write it, Bobs. I'm sure you'll know what to say.
And we'll all sign it, if you wish. Perhaps that will make it look more
important. But somehow I feel as if we ought to tell Father first."

"Then you'll spoil everything," declared the Imp. "He wouldn't believe
it, to begin with, and by the time he was convinced it would probably be
too late. No, this must go off to-night. How ought I to address the
President of the United States,--'Dear Sir' or 'Your Honor' or what?"

"If mademoiselle will delay this proceeding for a moment," said a
strange voice with startling unexpectedness, almost at her elbow, "it
may not be necessary to write the note."

The Imp turned about so abruptly that she dropped her fountain-pen into
the river. The two others, fairly turned to stone in their astonishment
and fright, sat motionless.

It was Monsieur himself. He had emerged from the bushes close to the
water's edge, and now stood beside the platform of the boat-house. As no
one of the three sufficiently recovered their wits to address him, he
went on:

"I owe you a thousand apologies for this intrusion and for being an
unwilling eavesdropper. I came to a spot among the trees a short
distance away early this morning, before the sun was hot. I have often
been there before. The nook is a favorite one of mine. I bring my book
and Mademoiselle Yvonne contrives me a little lunch, so that I do not
have to go back in the heat of the day. I must have fallen asleep before
you arrived, for I was not aware of your proximity till I awoke. Then
you were eating your luncheon and conversing. I was about to make my
presence known to you, when I caught the drift of your conversation and
astonishment forced me to listen. Mesdemoiselles, I know not how you
have arrived at this conclusion, but I take it that you think me a
conspirator, a--a plotter against the government of one of the world's
greatest nations. You think it is your duty to report me to the
authorities of your country. Is it not so?"

It seemed as if the three found it impossible to break their abashed
silence. At length the Imp plucked up sufficient courage.

"Yes, I guess that's about it," she admitted, nervously.

"Would you be so good as to inform me on what grounds?" he inquired,
with the courtesy that never failed him.

The Imp glanced at her companions and back again to Monsieur. They were
plainly caught in a trap. Should she tell what she knew, or refuse point
blank? For an appreciable moment she hesitated. It was evident that if
they put Monsieur in possession of the facts, they also would put
themselves quite completely in his power. That would, on the face of it,
be a foolish proceeding. Yet how could they do less? There was something
about the old French gentleman's perfect courtesy and frankness that
disarmed even the suspicions of the Imp. While she hesitated, however,
Sue, to her own and every one else's astonishment, took up the cudgels
in his behalf.

"I think it is only fair to tell Monsieur what we have been thinking,"
she said in a trembling voice. "He may be able to show us that we are in
the wrong."

Monsieur turned to her with a grave bow.

"I am sure there is some misunderstanding," he declared. "I have heard
only enough to cause me to suspect that my actions and motives here may
have been misjudged." Then he turned once more to the Imp.

"P'tite Mademoiselle Hélène, you and I have always, so I thought, been
the best of friends. May I not understand from you the cause of this
serious suspicion of me?"

Then and there the Imp, her feet still unconsciously dabbling in the
river, told Monsieur in halting fashion the whole history of their
discoveries about the portrait and their consequent conjectures. He
listened to it all, an inscrutable expression in his eyes, till she had
finished. When the recital was over he stood quite still for several
moments, while the others waited breathlessly.

"You are marvelous children--you Americans," he said at last,
"especially petite Hélène here! Who would have dreamed that you could
piece together this story so accurately, with so little ground to work
on? Yes, so accurately, as far as its foundation goes, for there you are
right, astonishingly right. But, my good little friends, your premises
may be right, but your conclusions are most deplorably wrong."

"Do you mean that we guessed right about the portrait and Louis, but
were wrong about what _you_ intend to do?" demanded the Imp, scrambling
to her feet and approaching Monsieur excitedly.

"I will permit you to judge of that after you have heard my story,"
replied Monsieur. "For I will now put you in possession of the whole
truth, since you have discovered so much. Allow me, if you please, to
sit down, while I render this accounting of myself."




CHAPTER XV

MONSIEUR'S STORY


He stepped up to the platform and took a seat on one end of an old bench
that flanked one side of it. On the other end sat Carol and Sue. The
Imp, unable in her excitement to remain seated anywhere, stood near him,
her great, blue eyes wide with wonder. A catbird sang at intervals in
the willow above them, and the incessant _lap-lap_ of the river ran like
a musical accompaniment in their ears. Not one of the three girls was
ever to forget this strange moment in their lives, not even its
beautiful setting.

"It is hard for me to know just where to begin," Monsieur at length
broke the silence by saying. "But, as I have said, _mes enfants_, you
three have worked out for yourselves a difficult problem, so perhaps it
is best that I commence by telling you where you were right, and end by
pointing out where you erred. I hasten to begin.

"It may have been a foolish whim of mine that I bring with me to this
country the three portraits that are so dear to me, and especially
foolish to leave the one unveiled. I had, however, my reason for that,
but I did not contemplate that the public was to be admitted to my room,
as it had to be during our--during Louis' serious accident. All this,
however, is beside the point. I will begin by telling you that I am not,
as you have so shrewdly suspected, this 'Monsieur de Vaubert' that I
call myself here. Truly, 'de Vaubert' is a part of my name, but it is
not all. In France I am known as the Marquis Philippe de Vaubert de
Fenouil. It is a title that is ancient and honorable. It goes back to
the time of Louis XIII--yes, and even before that. When our Louis
discovered the 'F' on my handkerchief, he was entirely right in his
surmises, and I was not very astute to leave it lying about.
_N'est-ce-pas?_"

He smiled deprecatingly at his three listeners, with a smile so
genuine, so utterly friendly, that they found their dark suspicions
melting away, even before his tale was well begun.

"To go back to the portrait, however. Yes, it is a very beautiful copy
of Madame Lebrun's original. It was executed many years ago by an
exceedingly clever copyist, and I doubt if many would know it from the
original. It is my dearest possession. I will tell you why.

"My little friend, petite Hélène here, by her wonderful ingenuity and
perception has deduced the conjecture that the ill-used dauphin, who
should have been Louis XVII, did not die in the Temple Tower, as history
has recorded it. There have, indeed, been many legends to that effect.
But the truest one, the truth, was never known to the world. There are
remaining to-day but two families who are in possession of the
facts,--my own and that of our friends the Meadows, whose real name, as
you perhaps know, is Mettot. All the rest of that wonderful brotherhood
which helped to rescue him are dead and gone, and the secret is dead
with them.

"In order that you may fully understand, I will now give you a short
account of the real story of the dauphin's rescue. As you know through
your researches, after Simon the Cobbler was released from the care of
the young king, the dauphin was placed in a small room and completely
isolated from the world by bolts and bars. Not even his jailers saw him,
only hearing him speak through an aperture in the door. It was the most
inhuman treatment of a child that the world has known, and it is a
thousand wonders that the boy survived. But he did. At the end of an
awful six months, when Robespierre himself was sent to the guillotine
and Barras came into power, the boy was removed from this horrible
incarceration and brought to a large, clean room, where he was taken
care of by two or three guardians chosen for their humanity and
kindliness.

"It was at this period that a plot was formed by a league of
warmhearted, loyal men,--not only royalists, but republicans, too,--to
rescue the dauphin from his long imprisonment and send him somewhere,
possibly out of the country, to live out the rest of his life in peace.
This league was known as 'The Brotherhood of Liberation,' and the world
to-day would stand amazed, did it know the members, the many _famous_
members, who composed it. It has even been whispered that Barras himself
and the great Napoleon Bonaparte--then young, poor, and comparatively
unknown--were concerned in this plot. All that, however, is as it may
be.

"But the main thing is this. The brotherhood was accustomed to meet
secretly at the house of my grandfather, another Marquis de Fenouil, in
Paris, for he was one of the chief leaders and originators of the
scheme. Among them was a young fellow scarcely more than five years
older than the dauphin, one Jean Mettot, who was deeply and devotedly
interested in the plan. It seems that he and his little foster-sister,
Yvonne Clouet, had once become acquainted with the dauphin as he played
in happier years in his garden of the Tuileries. Through his
intervention, the queen, Marie Antoinette herself, had given the young
fellow's foster-mother quite a large sum to defray the overdue taxes on
her home and thus enable her to keep it for her children. So grateful
was this poor washerwoman, Mère Clouet, and her little daughter Yvonne
and her foster-son, Jean Mettot, whom she had adopted from the foundling
hospital, that they had vowed to help the poor, ill-used dauphin, even
to the extent of risking their lives for him.

"It was Jean Mettot who played one of the most important roles in the
plan to smuggle the dauphin out of the Temple Tower. He was employed in
that citadel as cook's assistant, and thus was able to give aid right on
the spot, as it were. One of the dauphin's three guardians, Gomin, had
also become a member of the brotherhood, else the plan could never have
been carried out.

"On a given day a sick child who greatly resembled the dauphin was
smuggled into the Tower in a basket of clean linen brought by Mère
Clouet, laundress for the Temple. This child was so ill that there was
no possibility of his recovery. He was speedily substituted for the
dauphin, who was carried up to the great unused attic of the Temple.
There he was kept for several weeks, unknown to the world and tended
only by Jean Mettot. When the sick child at length passed away, the
authorities proclaimed that the dauphin was dead and that there was no
further need to guard the Tower. It was then that the _real_ dauphin was
smuggled out of the Temple in a basket of soiled linen and taken to the
home of the Clouets, where he remained for several days. He was finally
removed by some of the members of the brotherhood in high authority, and
was sent to a distant and obscure corner of France to be cared for and
brought up, under an assumed name, by humble people. The brotherhood was
then disbanded, being first sworn to secrecy by an inviolable oath never
to reveal what had been done.

"The boy, Jean Mettot, later became a soldier in Napoleon's army and
rose to the rank of officer. He finally married little Yvonne Clouet,
and, as you have doubtless surmised, this John Meadows whom you know is
his descendant,--his grandson, in short. The original Jean Mettot,
however, and my grandfather, the marquis, kept closely in touch with
each other for a time, drawn together by their mutual love and loyalty
to the little dauphin. It was Jean Mettot alone who, several years after
the escape of the dauphin, was summoned by that young man to Havre, in
order that the dauphin might bid farewell to his rescuer. The dauphin
was sailing for America, never to return. He intended, he said, to live
there incognito, in some obscure capacity, as he had no desire ever to
return to France and certainly never wished to rule over that nation.

"Jean Mettot later attempted to communicate the news of the dauphin's
departure to my grandfather, but found that he had suddenly passed away
and that his son had assumed the title. As Mettot was not certain
whether the secret had been handed down to the son, he did not reveal
his news. Many years later, when he was a middle-aged man, the notion
took hold of him to go to America and see if he could discover any trace
of the dauphin. He had nothing whatever to assist him, except the
assumed name of the dauphin, 'Louis Charles Durant,' and the fact that
the ship on which he had sailed had been bound for a New England port. I
think it was Boston. With only these two points to aid him, he sailed
for America to engage in his almost hopeless task.

"In all the years he had heard not so much as one syllable from the
exile, but even this did not discourage him. He began his search in New
England, shrewdly suspecting that 'Louis Durant' might not have traveled
very far from his first landing-place. Many weeks and months of
absolutely useless and fruitless effort followed. No one in any of the
large cities, or even in the smaller towns, seemed to have heard of
'Louis Charles Durant' or of any one corresponding to his description.
It was by sheer accident--when Jean Mettot's horse (he made it a
practice to travel about on horseback) went lame one stormy night right
by your Paradise Green--that he was forced to ask for a night's shelter
in one of the only two houses on the Green at that time. It was on the
door of the Durant house that he knocked, and none other than the
dauphin himself opened it!"

At this point in the narrative Sue and Carol breathed a long sigh of
intense interest, and the Imp came closer and rested her hand on
Monsieur's knee.

"Yes, it is marvelous, is it not?" he went on. "There is a proverb which
says, 'Truth is stranger than fiction,' and I have always found it so. I
leave you to imagine the meeting between those two, for they quickly
recognized each other. After a time Mettot heard the whole story from
the dauphin. It ran like this:

"He had come to America, landing in New England and wandering about for
a time, almost penniless and earning his way as he went by doing odds
and ends of labor for the farmers. Singularly enough, he enjoyed it.
Does it seem strange to you, _mes enfants_, that a king should enjoy
himself in this fashion? Ah, but he no longer wished to be a king! Not
for all the riches of the earth would he have gone back to his country
and assumed his rightful title. His terrible childhood years in prison
had given him a longing only for freedom and independence of thought and
action and a desire for the most absolute simplicity of life.

"To Jean Mettot he confided how at length he had drifted out to this
present farmstead, had apprenticed himself to the good farmer who owned
it, and how for several years he had served him faithfully and well for
a sum that was a mere pittance, but on which he could live happily. Two
years later the farmer's daughter, who had married some time before,
came home to her father's house a widow. After a time she and the
dauphin became mutually attracted to each other and married. Six months
after their marriage the farmer died, leaving his farm to his daughter
and her husband, the unknown dauphin. At the time of Jean Mettot's visit
they had a fine little son, then ten or twelve years old, and were as
happy and contented as could well be imagined.

"Mettot made them quite an extended visit, but never did the dauphin
reveal to his wife that he had ever known Mettot before, or give the
least hint of his own identity. He said that he preferred these things
to remain secrets forever, buried in the past. He told Mettot that he
desired his descendants to remain in complete ignorance of his past and
of their own origin. Should a crisis ever arise (now unforeseen by him),
when it would be wise for any of his descendants to know their
forefather's history, he had prepared for such an emergency a document
which he had securely hidden away. He acquainted Jean with its
hiding-place and gave him permission to transmit the secret to his own
descendants. On no account, however, was it to be communicated to the
dauphin's descendants, unless the aforementioned crisis should arise.

"Jean Mettot went back to France, and never again saw the son of Louis
XVI. But he continued to keep in touch with 'Louis Charles Durant' of
America, and to his own son he communicated the strange secret. And his
son, in turn, communicated it to a son of his own, the present Jean
Meadows whom you know. The dauphin died when he was scarcely more than
middle-aged, for his constitution was never robust after the cruel
hardships of his childhood. The son whom he left lived to a ripe old age
on the same farm, and left an heir in his place to continue the line.
This child, the father of our own Louis, becoming discontented, as he
reached manhood, with the life on a simple New England farm, leased the
property, as you probably know, and went out West to make his fortune.
He married a young western girl on the Canadian frontier, and both were
mortally injured in a terrible accident on one of the Great Lakes'
steamers. He had time, however, before he died, to send word to France,
to this present Jean Mettot, leaving their baby son in his care. The two
families had always kept in touch, though none of the present generation
had seen each other.

"I am sure you must be wondering during all this recital where _I_ come
into the story. It is about time for me to make my entrance. That is
what I am about to disclose. Mettot and his daughter Yvonne, on hearing
the sad news, forsook all and came to America to take possession of the
baby, which was still being cared for at the hospital where its parents
had died. The Mettot family had not prospered with the years, the
present Jean's father having unfortunately lost the modest fortune that
the original Jean had amassed. They were living in a humble way in a
small French village, and had practically sacrificed everything to come
over to America on what they considered an almost sacred charge.

"What, then, was to be done? Jean Mettot cast about in his mind for some
time, considering the matter, but at length came to the conclusion that
the crisis, spoken of by the original dauphin, had now arrived and that
the time was come to disclose the secret to some one. But to whom? That
was the great question. Suddenly he bethought himself of me, the present
Marquis de Fenouil. He had not the slightest idea whether the secret of
the dauphin's escape had been transmitted in our family, but, taking the
risk, he wrote me a full account of the whole proceeding, throwing the
present little orphan, so to speak, on my mercy.

"And now at last I enter. I cannot, indeed, give you the slightest idea
what this wonderful news meant to me. The secret _had_ been
transmitted,--aye, it had become a sacred tradition in our family! Many
long and fruitless searches had we made,--I, my father, and my
grandfather before us,--to trace, if possible, the fate of that lost
dauphin. Not one of us but would have sacrificed his all to have made
sure of the after-history of our adored little monarch. The portrait
that you have seen, and those of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI, which I
have always kept veiled, have been our most cherished family
possessions, especially that of the dauphin. We worshipped the memory of
that heroic little uncrowned monarch.

"Can you then understand what it meant to me to find myself at last on
the track of a true descendant of the dauphin? For a time I could
scarcely credit it. But I knew from my grandfather the part played by
the original Jean Mettot, and I could see no reason to doubt that this
tale of his descendant was genuine. My first impulse was to send for
them at once, and to bring the child up as my own son, till he should be
of suitable age to disclose the secret to him. But there were a number
of strong objections to that course. I need not mention them all. One is
sufficient. For the past twenty years I have not been strong. My health
is only sustained by constant treatment from physicians, and I spend
three quarters of my time at sanitariums and health resorts. I am
seldom, if ever, in residence at my French estate. There were a number
of other legal reasons why it was not wise for me to appear to adopt a
child, presumably as my heir, which you would scarcely understand, so I
will not recount them. Suffice it to say that I decided on a course
which may seem strange to you, but which appealed to me as wisest at the
time.

"The child was a mere baby, not yet a year old. I concluded that for the
present it would be best to leave him in America, the land that his
kingly ancestor had chosen to adopt. In Jean Mettot's name I leased the
same Durant farmhouse that belonged to his father and that one day would
be his own, sent the Mettots there with their infant charge, and
instructed them to bring up the boy in ignorance of his real ancestry,
until such time as I should deem it best to come over to America and
take charge of his affairs. They have worthily fulfilled that charge,
having kept me constantly informed of his growth and progress.

"In truth, I never supposed the interval would be so long before I
should find it possible to come here. One matter after another,--my
health chiefly,--has delayed me from year to year, though I have planned
the trip more times than I care to count. During this past year,
however, the news sent by our friends the Mettots proved somewhat
disturbing to me. In order to explain this, I must now disclose to you
my plans for 'Louis Charles Durant.' They are, as you will see, far from
any schemes to restore the Bourbon monarchy in France. That would be in
direct opposition to the wishes of the dead dauphin. No, I wished him
to learn of his wonderful ancestry secretly, and only as something to be
proud of. I wished him to grow up as my own son, and, when the time was
ripe, I would legally adopt him. At first there were several obstacles
in the way, but these have lately been removed. In my own heart,
however, he would never be my son, but the _king_ who should rightfully
have ruled over me. I wished him to study statecraft and become a great
political light--a French statesman--and perhaps some day make a great
name in the world. He should be a king of men in deed and act, if he
could not be in name and right. These were my ambitions for him. I felt
that he _must_ fall in with them."

The three listeners stirred uneasily, and the catbird in the tree above
them uttered its odd, mournful cry. Monsieur paused a few seconds to
gaze out over the blue heat-haze on the river. Then he went on:

"It was, therefore, disturbing tidings that I began to receive from Jean
Mettot. At first his reports had been satisfactory in every respect.
The boy was upright, manly, and entirely lovable in nature. Up to his
tenth or twelfth year he had developed no traits that would seem in
opposition to my plans for him. But of late my news of him had been very
unwelcome to me. To begin with, he openly avowed that he cared nothing
for France or French history and traditions. He was American to the
core, and he actually boasted of it. This was not surprising, however,
considering the fact that he had been born and brought up in this land.
I promised myself that this difficulty would be easily overcome later.
But there was something that troubled me more.

"The Mettots began to report that the boy was developing a strongly
_mechanical_ turn of mind, that he was constantly working with tools and
contriving unique devices of his own for various mechanical
purposes,--in short, that he was following directly in the footsteps of
the unfortunate Louis XVI. It has always been my contention that if that
monarch had devoted himself more to the affairs of his kingdom and less
to puttering about with tools and locks, he never would have lost his
throne. It was an ominous sign to me. But even then I hoped that it
might prove merely a childish whim and fade away into other interests as
the years progressed. It did not, as you very well know. I now feel it
to be a family inheritance, impossible to overcome. I have resigned
myself to it, only praying that in time other matters more important may
overgrow and stifle the tendency.

"But I also realized that the day could no longer be delayed when I must
make the trip across the ocean and see with my own eyes the
great-grandson of our long-lost dauphin. Perhaps you think it strange
that I did not send for him to be brought to me. But I had my reasons
for that, also. I wished to see the boy in his natural environment. I
wished him to know nothing of me. I wished to study him and learn his
character, watch him at his work and play, observe him with his friends,
and discover for myself his ambitions and tendencies. How could I know
that I would really care for him _personally_, or he for me, unless I
followed this course? I loved him already for his _ancestry_, but I
wished to love him, if possible, for _himself_. And as I am an old,
childless, lonely man, I wished him to love me for _myself_. Only by
coming here incognito, I deemed, could this be accomplished.

"Well, _mes enfants_, I came. The history of my stay here you are fairly
well acquainted with. At first, I confess, I was bitterly disappointed.
The boy was a fine, upstanding, splendid specimen of American boyhood,
but he was thoroughly _American_. He resembled in no way that I could
see, facially at least, the portrait that I had brought with me. That,
of course, was entirely natural; yet I was disappointed. At times I
thought I could discern a fleeting resemblance, but it was always
fleeting. Only at the time when he was so ill did I seem to see in him a
resemblance to the little dauphin after he had been some time in
prison."

At this point the three girls glanced at each other, and, noticing the
exchanged look, Monsieur went on:

"Yes, that is what I meant by the 'Temple look,' which remark you say
Louis overheard. But to proceed. The worst disappointment, however, was
that terrible mechanical trait, a trait I found it impossible to
overcome and to which I have now resigned myself. We had our quarrels
and disputes over that subject, as you know, but at last I felt myself
unable to cope with so strong a passion. I pass on to other things.

"I need scarcely tell you that during these passing months I have come
to care deeply and tenderly for this boy. He may be different, entirely
different from my ideal of him, but I have come to recognize his fine,
genuine manliness, the entire lovableness of his character. His attitude
toward me has never deviated from the courteous and thoughtful and
attentive, except in the one instance of his boat, and I myself was at
fault there! I feel that he is even developing a sort of fondness for me
with the passing of time. When you realize that he knows nothing
whatever of my real identity or my object in coming here (I think he
rather suspects both at times), this is all the more admirable. As for
my feeling for him, I _adore_ him, mesdemoiselles,--I can say no more.
He is the worthy descendant of a king, even though he be not _French_ in
anything but ancestry.

"You can easily see, then, what it meant to me when he made that
astonishing announcement a few weeks ago. Could anything be more
unutterably terrible for me to hear than that this most dangerous of all
careers should be the chosen one of my adopted son-to-be? It is
incredible to me, even yet. I am praying daily that the whim shall pass
from him. In the first shock of it I thought that the time had come for
me to disclose the truth to him, whether I was ready to do so or not.
Yet on second thought I again hesitated. There is one link in the chain
that is still missing. It is for that I am waiting, for I do not wish
him to be made acquainted with the secret till I can lay the complete
evidence before him.

"You remember, perhaps, that I spoke of a document, prepared by the
dauphin and hidden by him in some spot, the secret of which he
disclosed only to the original Jean Mettot. It was his wish that the
document be found and delivered to his descendants, should a crisis ever
arise when it would be deemed necessary to disclose the secret to them.
That document, I am sorry to say, we have as yet been unable to
discover. The original Mettot wrote the directions for finding the
hiding-place in a sealed letter and left it with his son, who, in turn,
left it in care of our John Meadows. Unfortunately, when this John
Meadows and his daughter came to America they failed to bring the letter
with them, because they supposed that they would return at once to
France. More unfortunately still, since they have been here their little
home was burned to the ground, and the letter, of course, disappeared in
the conflagration. Meadows himself never read the letter, and he has
only a vague remembrance that his grandfather once said in his hearing,
when he was only a small child, that he believed the hiding-place to be
somewhere near a chimney. That is absolutely the only clue we have had
to work on.

"I need not tell you that the search for that document has been
unceasing since I first arrived, and even before that. Every nook and
cranny, from attic to cellar, has been ransacked without the slightest
result. Unless the house itself is torn down, I see no possible hope of
finding it. However, I do not yet utterly despair; and when the document
does come to light, I will make the great disclosure to Louis and
formulate my future plans. Circumstances _may_ be such, however, that I
shall have to put him in possession of the secret before the document is
found. I should be sorry for that, as I wish him to feel that our
evidence concerning this strange story is complete.

"And now, my friends, you know it all. I have hidden nothing from you. I
have shown you my inmost heart. I have only one request--that you still
keep this thing a secret from every one, especially from Louis."

He stopped, and there was silence. The catbird above them had flown
away. The river was unruffled by the slightest breath. The water had
ceased its _lap-lap_. The afternoon stillness was complete. Carol and
Sue sat motionless in their corner, their hands clasped, their eyes wide
and intent.

Suddenly the Imp flung herself to the ground and buried her face on the
old French gentleman's knees, a passion of choking sobs shaking her
little body. He laid his hand on her head and murmured in a startled
voice:

"Little one, little one! What is it that troubles you?"

"O Monsieur, Monsieur!" she gasped. "What a little _beast_ I've been!
Can you ever forgive me? _How_ I have misjudged you!"




CHAPTER XVI

AUGUST FOURTH, 1914


July 27, 1914. It is ten days since that strange afternoon down at the
old boat-house on the river. I have been living in a kind of dream ever
since. I cannot somehow believe that I'm just plain, ordinary Susan
Birdsey, living on out-of-the-way little Paradise Green, to whom nothing
unusual ever has or ever will happen. Paradise Green is no longer the
prosaic place it was. It is the secret spot chosen by history as the
home of one of her most romantic characters. Who would ever have thought
it? And I, Susan Birdsey, am one of the three humble persons Fate has
chosen to be the sharer of this marvelous secret.

I cannot help thinking of what Miss Cullingford said when she suggested
that we keep a journal,--that some journals had been interesting and
valuable additions to history. That, at least, is what I never supposed
mine could possibly be. And yet, if she could only see it _now_! But she
never will, of course, nor any one else, for I have promised Monsieur
that I will never, without his permission, reveal a single word of what
he has told us. This is not, he says, because it would harm any one, or
make the slightest change in the world's affairs, but because of the
poor "lost dauphin's" wish.

We three have talked of it incessantly,--Carol, the Imp, and I. Somehow
the wonder of it never grows any less. That such a thing _could_ happen
here, here on little Paradise Green! And yet the Imp says it is no new
thing in history for an exiled king to hide himself away in a strange
country amid the humblest surroundings. Where _does_ she get all these
historical facts, anyway? Even Carol, who is fond of history and reads a
lot of it, doesn't know half as much about things as the Imp does. I am
changing my opinion of the Imp very much lately. I used to think she was
such a scatter-brained, harum-scarum child, without a serious thought
in her head. But I guess we really didn't _know_ her then, and misjudged
her a lot.

But it's Louis, our Louis, who seems to us the strangest, the most
impossible thing to believe. Before we heard Monsieur's story we
imagined this about him, but half the time we told ourselves it wasn't,
it _couldn't_ be true. We _must_ be on the wrong track, we said. Now we
know that it is all true, and Louis can never be "our Louis," the friend
we've always known, any more. How could he be? To begin with, he's going
to be the adopted son of the Marquis de Fenouil (I _hope_ that's the way
to spell it!), a great nobleman of France, and go away to France and
inherit a title, and probably we'll never see him again as long as we
live. In addition, as if that weren't enough, he's not the plain
American boy we always thought him, but the great-great-grandson of a
king of France. And _we_ know this, even if the rest of the world does
not, and can never, never feel on the same footing with him again. Not
that that will make any difference, I suppose, if he's to go away from
here for good. But it's like losing your brother,--like losing Dave, for
instance,--only Dave never has been, especially of late years, as
friendly and near to us as Louis has been.

We have seen almost nothing of Louis since that day with Monsieur. He
has been to Bridgeton every day, spending the time, I'm perfectly
certain, with that Page Calvin and his miserable aëroplane. It makes me
perfectly sick to think of it, especially since Monsieur has told us
everything. By the way, I can't get out of the habit of calling him
"Monsieur," but it's just as well, I suppose, because we're not supposed
to know he's anything else. Of course Louis doesn't realize what all
this means to the old gentleman, but if he only knew that it was fairly
breaking his heart, I do believe he'd be willing to give up the
dangerous scheme and take to something else. I feel sure Monsieur
suspects why he's away at Bridgeton, but he never says a word to
us,--just suffers in silence.

The Imp sees Monsieur and talks to him very often as he sits on his
favorite bench on the Green. He sits there a great deal, on that bench
under the big elm, and reads his paper and watches us play tennis.
Sometimes we all go over and talk to him, but he never says a word about
what he told us that day on the river,--not, at least, when we're all
together with him. He does speak of it sometimes to the Imp when they're
alone. She says that to-day he told her that the situation in Europe is
very grave. He is certain that Austria is about to declare war on
Serbia, and that if she does, the whole of Europe will be involved.
There will be the most awful conflict the world has ever known, if this
happens.

The Imp asked him if France was likely to go into it, too, and he said
he did not see how this could be avoided; France would always do what
was right. But here's the worst. He says that if France declares war, he
will have to return immediately, since important political matters will
demand it, and he intends to tell Louis the whole truth and take him
back with him. That piece of news seems perfectly ghastly to us, and
yet I honestly don't see how Monsieur can do anything else.

I felt to-day, after hearing this from the Imp, that I simply must
understand this European situation for myself, so I got the daily paper
and read up everything I could find about it. But I have to confess that
I was not much wiser after I had read it than I was before. So I went to
the Imp and asked her if she could explain the thing. She said:

"Why, it's this way. Monsieur has told me all about it. Austria
considers that she's got to make Serbia get down on her knees and beg
pardon, because an Austrian archduke was killed there. So Austria's sent
Serbia a note proposing all sorts of concessions that Serbia will never
stand for in the world. The Serbians answered that note yesterday, and
were willing to make whatever reparation they could about the archduke,
but they won't hear of some of the other things. Austria wants the
'whole hog,' or nothing, so of course she'll take this opportunity to
declare war. Russia has always sort of sympathized with the Serbians,
so if they get into trouble, she's going to give them a hand. And
Monsieur says she's already mobilizing her troops. Germany is in a
compact always to help Austria out, so that's where _she_ comes in.
Monsieur says Germany's been waiting forty years for this opportunity to
get gay and let loose on Europe, so she isn't going to let such a lovely
chance as this pass." (These are the Imp's words, not Monsieur's, I feel
certain!) "And France has a compact to be an ally of Russia, and
England's in that, too, so you can easily see what a beautiful
parrot-and-monkey time it's going to be!"

The situation is a little clearer to me now, I'll admit, but the whole
thing makes me terribly depressed. I'm glad I don't see much of Louis
now. I simply cannot be with him and act naturally, as if nothing were
out of the ordinary. I cannot face him and think who he really is, and
keep the wonder and pain and bewilderment of it out of my expression. So
perhaps it's a good thing he's away so much.


August 1, 1914. Austria declared war on Serbia a few days ago. The Imp,
in a terrible state of excitement, rushed up to my room with the paper
that morning to announce the news. But we've had worse since, and it's
all turning out as Monsieur said it would. We--that is, the Imp, Carol,
and I--were all going into Bridgeton to the circus to-day, but we've
given it up. None of us seemed to have the heart for that kind of a lark
in the face of what is going on and what it means for Louis. He still
unsuspectingly goes off to see Page Calvin every day, and never gives
the European situation a thought, I'm certain. Of course he can't for a
moment imagine that it will have any bearing on _his_ affairs.

The Imp told us to-day that Miss Yvonne is not a bit well. She's had a
nervous breakdown of some kind. Monsieur thinks it's because of this
awful state of affairs in Europe, and also because they can't seem to
find the least trace of those papers. That has been preying on her mind
for a long time. She thinks it's her fault and her father's that they
didn't bring that letter with them from France. It really wasn't,
because they came away in such a hurry, without knowing much about the
actual circumstances. Nevertheless, she is continually worrying about
it.

We told Mother she was ill, and Mother and the Imp went over to see her
yesterday. They took her some grape conserve and some raised biscuits
we'd just baked, and they said she seemed awfully grateful for the
attention. The Imp said she seemed more _human_ than she ever had
before, and more communicative, too,--not about any of their secret
affairs, of course, but on general topics. She says her eyes bother her
a lot, so the Imp offered to come over every day and read the paper to
her, and she actually said she'd like it.

Louis's birthday comes in a few days--on August fourth--and we're
planning a little surprise-party for him. We're going over there early
in the morning,--Dave, Carol, the Imp, and I,--and just casually ask him
to walk across the fields to the old boat-house with us. When we get
there we're going to suggest to him that he take us out in the launch
for a while. And when we get back we're going to produce a big spread
that we'll have previously hidden in the boat-house, and have a regular
feast on the platform. In the middle of it all we're going to present
Louis with a gold watch-fob that we all chipped in for, and Monsieur is
going to give him the most beautiful watch. Monsieur, of course, is to
be a member of this party. The Imp asked him, and he seemed delighted
with the idea. Under ordinary circumstances, I would consider it the
greatest lark, but as things are, it seems as if I could hardly endure
it--to sit there all day and look at Louis and think what he's soon
going to learn from Monsieur.


August 4, 1914. The worst has happened, the _very_ worst! It makes me
sick beyond words to read what I last wrote here--about having a
surprise-party, a _picnic_! It was a surprise-party right enough, but
the surprise was very much on our side, after all. We all started over
for Louis's this morning, just as we'd planned. We'd been up at six
o'clock, carrying the "feed" (as the Imp calls it) down to the
boat-house, and everything was quite ready. At the last minute Dave
couldn't go over with us, because Father had some urgent errand he
wanted him to attend to in Bridgeton, but he promised to join us later.

I confess that we weren't any of us as hilarious over this party as we'd
ordinarily be, for we all feel a lot depressed about this thing. But we
hadn't a suspicion of what was ahead of us.

We'd hoped to see Monsieur or Louis around outside, but no one was
anywhere in sight. So we knocked at the front door, and Louis came and
opened it.

In all my life I'll never forget how that poor fellow looked. He was
_stricken_! I can't think of any other word that expresses it so well.
He didn't seem surprised to see us, but instead of inviting us inside,
said:

"Come out on the Green and sit on our old bench for a few minutes, will
you? I've something to tell you."

We followed him in dead silence, and we felt that something awful, must
have happened.

"Have you seen the morning papers?" Louis asked, when we were seated.

"No," I said. "What's the matter?"

"_France has declared war!_" he answered.

Somehow he didn't need to say another word. We knew the whole thing. It
had come at last. There wasn't one of us who could think of a word to
say, not even the Imp, though she's usually quick enough with a reply.
But this time she seemed struck dumb.

After we'd all sat there for what seemed like six months, Louis said:

"I've heard the whole story from Mon-- I mean from the marquis. I know
that you know it, too. He told me so. I understand that he didn't intend
to tell me to-day,--that you were going to give me a surprise-party for
my birthday. Thank you, girls, all the same. I--I--"

He couldn't say any more just then, but sat staring away at nothing.

"It was the news in the paper that changed it all," he went on at last.
"Germany has invaded French territory and violated the neutrality of
Belgium, so of course the war is inevitable. The marquis is much excited
and has to go back at once to offer his estates and his assistance to
the government. I shall go with him."

He said all this in the strangest way, in a sort of dull, monotonous
voice, as if he'd just learned it by heart and hadn't the slightest
interest in it. It was the Imp who spoke first.

"Louis," she said, very quietly, "were you sorry to hear about--about
that other matter?"

He didn't answer for a minute, and just sat looking off into space
again. Finally he said, in the same monotonous voice:

"It's _killing_ me!"

"But, Louis," I found the courage to say, "it's really a wonderful
thing. You ought to be proud of it."

"Proud of _what_?" he demanded fiercely.

"Of--of being the descendant of a French king," I said.

"I've been proud as Lucifer all my life to be an _American_," he
answered. "What are French kings to me? And I _am_ an American, too! Not
a thing he's said can make me anything else. I don't care if my ancestor
did come here from France. Every American's ancestors came from
somewhere else, if you go back far enough. That doesn't alter things."

"Yes, that is perfectly true. You are just as much an American as ever,"
I admitted, thinking of that side of it for the first time. "But if
that's so, I can't see what you're so down-hearted about."

"What do you think it means to me to give up all my plans and ambitions
in life and go over to France and become a French nobleman by adoption;
to devote myself to every interest but the one I'm wrapped up in and
fitted for during all the rest of my days?"

"But, Louis," began the Imp, "if you feel so--strongly about it, why do
you have to do it? Couldn't you persuade Monsieur to let you do
something else? He's simply devoted to you. Surely he'd be willing to
meet _your_ wishes, somehow."

"You don't understand," answered Louis. "Can't you see that I'm under an
absolute _obligation_ to meet his wishes? I'd be an ungrateful brute, if
I did anything else. You must realize what his ancestor did for mine. I
wouldn't be in existence to-day, if it hadn't been for what the original
marquis did to help the--the dauphin to escape. Why, I'm also under a
tremendous obligation to the Mettots for the same reason. And then,
there's something else you don't know about that makes it even worse. I
haven't a cent in this world, nor ever have had, that hasn't been
supplied by Mon--by the marquis."

"You had this farm, didn't you?" I interrupted, for Louis has always
told us that this farm was his, or at least would be his when he came of
age. That was all the Mettots had ever told him about his affairs.

"Oh, yes; so I thought!" he answered bitterly. "But of course I didn't
know that my father had died deeply in debt, leaving this place
mortgaged to the hilt. I would never have owned a penny of it if the
marquis hadn't stepped in and redeemed it, paying every cent of the
expenses of my bringing up. Why, the very pocket-money I've had was his,
and I always supposed it was the proceeds from the sales of our
garden-truck. Oh, I'm tied hand and foot by the deepest of obligations!
There's nothing else to do. I'm helpless."

We all were silent for a long time after that. I, for my part, couldn't
think of one thing more to say. Louis was resigned and quiet and utterly
hopeless. And to try and comfort him and put the best side on things was
a perfect farce. None of us attempted it.

"When do you go?" I asked, presently.

"In a week or so," he said. "As soon as things can be arranged.
Monsieur--I mean the marquis--has asked me to beg that we be excused
from the surprise-party, in view of what has happened. I don't know what
he means by that, but probably you do. He also wished me to explain to
you that you are at liberty to tell any one you wish that I am to go to
France to become his adopted son, but that the other secret you will
always kindly keep to yourselves."

"Louis," said the Imp, "we were going to have a surprise-party for you
at the boat-house to-day because it was your birthday, but I guess the
surprise is on us. Anyhow, here's a little trifle we wanted to give you,
but we hadn't intended to present it in _this_ way. You'll understand,
though."

She handed Louis the watch-fob, and he took it in a sort of dazed,
unseeing way. But he thanked us a lot, adding that Monsieur had given
him the watch after they had had their interview.

"I'll never forget you," he said, "and you needn't think because I have
to go to France that I'm not going to see you again, either. I'm coming
back here as often as I can manage it, and I'll be the same old Louis.
You'll see!" This thought seemed to give him the only comfort he had.

"But what about the Meadows?" asked Carol.

"Oh, they're going, too, of course," Louis answered. "Their mission here
is over now. The marquis is going to close the house, but he's granted,
as a concession to me, that he'll keep it, and not sell it or even rent
it to any one else. There I can come back to it once in a while, and
live in the old way for a time. He's an awfully good sort, I will say,
and is only doing this because he sees I'm all broken up over things.
Well, I must go back to help him send off despatches and pack. It's a
hateful job. Come over and see Aunt Yvonne. She's upset over this, and
instead of feeling joyful, as I should suppose she would, is quite
miserable over something. I can't understand what it is, though."

Louis went off directly across the Green. It was heartbreaking to watch
him.

But the Imp says that one thing is certain. They evidently haven't told
Louis about those papers that can't be found.




CHAPTER XVII

THE IMP MAKES A LAST DISCOVERY


A burning August sun shone down pitilessly on the parched brown grass
and dusty roads about Paradise Green. The great elms stood absolutely
motionless in the stifling air. Into this merciless atmosphere, quite
early in the morning of August 12, emerged three girls, bound for the
home of Louis Durant.

"Isn't it awful!" moaned Carol, perspiration streaming down her face, as
they plodded on in the blazing sun. "This terrific heat has lasted a
week, and there isn't a sign of let-up yet!"

"And to think that poor Miss Yvonne has to tear up the house and pack at
such a time as this!" echoed Sue. "She isn't a bit well, either. I'm
awfully glad she's letting us help her. I never supposed she would, but
she must be kind of desperate, with their servant gone. She's fine to
have let her go, though, for the servant said her son had to join the
army, and she might never see him again, if she didn't leave for France
at once."

"Yes, it is great of Miss Yvonne to struggle through this alone," put in
the Imp, "but I still don't see why Monsieur didn't want her to get help
from the village, except that he didn't wish strangers to pry around and
ask questions at this time, I suppose."

They reached the gate and turned into the yard. Monsieur was sitting
under a tree, reading a paper and striving to imagine that he was as
cool as possible in its shade. Louis was in the house, helping Miss
Yvonne.

"Come in, girls!" he called through an open window. "We are precious
glad to see you. Can you help us pack these books?"

The tone strove to be his usual, careless, care-free one, but it was
patently anything but that. Not one of the girls but realized the effort
he was making.

They entered the room, donned dust-caps and aprons that they had
brought with them, and entered on the work with assumed zest. They were
in Miss Yvonne's room on the ground floor, and the dismantling process
had begun to be complete. The bed was taken down, the bookshelves
emptied and their contents piled on the floor, and the furniture was
shrouded in sacking. Little remained to be packed, except the contents
of a big closet built into one wall. Miss Yvonne was elsewhere, so the
young folks had the room to themselves.

"Isn't the weather awful!" groaned Carol, for the second time in ten
minutes.

"The news in the paper is worse!" commented Louis.

"Oh, what is it?" chorused the girls. "None of us have had time to read
the paper to-day."

"The Germans are demolishing Belgium. They've entered France at several
points and are bound straight for Calais and Paris. It seems as if
nothing could stop them. They're walking away with everything. They're
hideously prepared for this, and not one of the other nations is. It
makes my blood boil! Oh, if I could only _do_ something, instead of just
going over to France and watching the show! But I suppose Monsieur
wouldn't hear of it."

"Louis, you mustn't get into this fight. You're too young!" exclaimed
Sue.

"Yes, that's what he says," muttered Louis, viciously scrubbing a book
with a dust-cloth. "But I'm seventeen; and I don't agree with him. I've
lost all interest in life, anyhow. Why shouldn't I go in and smash a few
of the enemy's heads?"

The three girls shuddered, but did not answer.

"There!" cried the Imp, glad to change the subject. "I've finished these
books. Now what else is there to do here, Louis?"

"Aunt Yvonne said that closet was to be emptied and all the things piled
on the floor."

The Imp straightway dived into the closet, calling back:

"I'll hand the things out, and you all put them where they are to go."

She began hurling out packages and bundles in an endless stream, for it
seemed as if the closet had been used for years as a storage-place, and
that the contents had seldom been moved.

"My, but there are a lot of them!" coughed the Imp, choking with dust.

"Yes, Aunt Yvonne said she was rather ashamed of this closet," said
Louis. "She's used it as a catch-all for years, and most of these
bundles are things she never has any use for, yet won't under any
circumstances give or throw away."

"We have the same kind of a closet at home," remarked Carol. "Mother
says she doesn't know how she'd get along without it,--I mean the kind
of place where you stow things away that you hardly expect to touch
again."

"So have we," echoed Sue.

They worked for a time in silence. At last the Imp, dusty and cobwebby,
tossed out a final bundle, with the remark:

"That's the last, I guess, except some scraps of wrapping-paper and so
on. I'll just look among these to see that there's nothing more."

They heard her grubbing about for a moment or two, and then came a
stifled exclamation.

"What's the matter?" cried every one simultaneously.

"Somebody bring a candle!" commanded the Imp. "There's something queer
here!"

Louis rushed away to get one, and was back in a jiffy.

"Here it is," he said, handing it in to the Imp. While she lit it the
three crowded into the doorway to see whatever was to be revealed.

"It's this hole," explained the Imp, holding the candle to a space about
six inches in diameter, near the base of the wall. "It was back of a
pile of bundles, and I guess it must have been made by mice or rats, for
the gnawed bits are lying all around. It must be rather recent, too, for
it looks so. My hand slipped into it a moment ago, and the boarding came
loose as I was trying to get it out. I think it must be because it was
so old and rotten. Anyhow, it pulled away, and I just caught a glimpse
of something behind it that seemed strange."

Louis crowded into the closet at this, and gave the board a wrench. It
fell away, disclosing a sight that made the four stare with surprise.

"Why, it's a _fireplace_!" cried the Imp, poking her head in as Louis
pulled away another board. "A great, immense fireplace, even bigger than
the one in your living-room."

It was nothing less. Each girl took a turn at poking her head into the
open space, and all were amazed at the breadth of the great
chimney-place, which still contained the andirons and curious old hooks
and cranes of bygone years.

"I must tell the others!" cried Louis. "I'm sure they'll be interested
in this." And he rushed away to inform them.

While he was gone, the Imp suddenly emerged from the closet in great
excitement.

"I have an idea," she whispered to the others. "I may be crazy, but I
believe we're on the track of the hiding-place of those papers. Don't
you remember what Monsieur said about a _chimney_?"

The two girls looked startled. Before they could discuss the matter,
however, back came Louis with Monsieur and the Meadows couple behind
him.

"It's perfectly clear to me," Louis was explaining to them, "that at
some time or other, pretty far back, some one had the great 'long
kitchen' in this house made into two rooms, and the original walls and
fireplace were entirely boarded-up and concealed. I always thought it
rather strange that this house, which is exactly the same build and
design as the old Caswell place, for instance, or a dozen others around
here, should be entirely without that immense 'long kitchen,' as they
call it, that all the rest have. You know it's the original kitchen of
the former New Englanders. They used it as kitchen and dining-room and
everything. The fireplace is the biggest in the house, for often they
would have an ox drag into the room a great log that would entirely fill
the chimney-place. Somebody has evidently had that room made into two
smaller ones, with no fireplace at all. Queer thing to do. I wonder why
they did it?"

In his interest in this explanation, Louis had not appeared to notice
the evident excitement of Monsieur and old John Meadows and Miss Yvonne.
Now he was thunderstruck when Monsieur asked him if it was possible to
pull down the boarding around the fireplace.

"Why, of course," exclaimed Louis, much astonished. "I have some tools I
could use, and it wouldn't take much strength, but what's the use of
demolishing it now? It will make an awful mess, and there probably isn't
much beyond what we've already seen, anyhow. It would be a good thing,
perhaps, to have this fine old room restored while we're away, but I
don't see any use in beginning it now."

The marquis, trembling so that he was forced to support himself by
leaning on a packing-case, spoke with more decision than his hearers had
ever heard before:

"Tear down the woodwork, Louis. It is my wish. There may be an
excellent reason." Without further protest, Louis went to work.

The noontide sun grew hotter and hotter, but the company in that
curiously littered room did not notice it. Not a word was spoken as they
watched Louis, but a breathless suspense gripped them all,--all, that
is, except Louis. To him it was only a useless whim of Monsieur's that
he was obeying, and he was secretly rather irritated. He found, during
the course of his labor, that the chimney-place ran clear behind the
walls into the next room, which was that of old Mr. Meadows, but even
this did not daunt the marquis.

"Tear down the wall between, if you can. Knock it down, break it down,
somehow. I do not care, so long as we free the chimney!"

Before Louis was finished, the place looked as if it had suddenly been
subjected to an air-raid and earthquake combined, but no one cared. By
that time even Louis had begun to feel a vague suspicion that they were
on the track of something. When the fireplace at last stood free amid
the surrounding débris, he stepped aside, remarking:

"There! That's about all I can do, I think. That was a clever piece of
work--the way this other room has been entirely concealed. Not one of us
has ever suspected that it was here, though I suppose if we'd been any
sort of architects, we might have done so."

"Oh, here are the old Dutch ovens!" cried the Imp, rushing forward to
examine the curious little iron doorways in the sides of the
chimney-place. "I saw the same thing in the Caswell house. They used to
bake bread in those, when the chimney became good and hot."

She pulled open one of them and thrust in her hand.

"Gracious! There's something in here!" she almost shouted, hauling out a
small iron box covered with the rust and dust and cobwebs of what must
have been a century in hiding.

"Give it to me! Give it to me!" cried old John Meadows, striding
forward and fairly snatching it from her grasp. "It is the one, the very
one my grandfather spoke of, and in the _chimney_, just as I have always
thought he said."

With tears of excitement in his eyes, he took the box and placed it in
the hands of the marquis. Miss Yvonne, sobbing quietly in the intensity
of her relief, sat down on a small packing-case and hid her face in her
hands. The three girls, understanding something of this strange
discovery, stood by, breathless in their excitement and interest. Only
Louis, to whom the whole proceeding was a dark mystery, stared at them
all, open-mouthed and questioning.

Monsieur took the box and placed it in Louis's hands.

"Can you open it for us?" he asked. "I suppose we might find the key, if
we hunted long enough, but I cannot wait for that. Open it without a
key, if that is possible."

"I suppose I could get it open with an ax," remarked Louis, examining
the box carefully, "or even with a hammer and chisel, if you're not
afraid that the contents may be hurt."

"It will not harm it, I am sure," replied Monsieur, and Louis brought
the necessary tools.

It took a long while to break the lock, for the workmanship was stout
and strong. But at last this was accomplished, and Louis handed the box
to Monsieur for further investigation. They all pressed around him
eagerly, as he opened the lid. It contained nothing but a paper, folded,
tied, and sealed--a paper so faded, stained, and tender that they
scarcely dared touch it, lest it fall apart. Monsieur took it out with
extreme care, broke the seal, and handed the unread document to Louis.

"Read it," he said. "It concerns you, and you alone. It is your right to
have the first reading of it. It is a sacred message, transmitted to you
through the years by your great-grandfather, the lost dauphin."

"Shall I read it aloud?" inquired Louis, in a voice of hushed awe.

"If it pleases you to do so," replied the marquis.

[Illustration: Louis began to read aloud, stopping often to decipher a
word]

Louis cleared his throat nervously, and began to read aloud in French,
stopping often to decipher a word that was blurred by the stains of
time. As the two girls, Carol and Sue, could understand little or
nothing of what he read, they could only watch curiously the expression
on the faces of the other auditors. But before Louis had read far, that
expression became singularly different on each of those five eager
countenances. Miss Yvonne leaned forward from her packing-box, her eyes
startled and unbelieving. Old John Meadows ruffled his white hair
distractedly with his hands and muttered, "What? what?" in English, and
other expressions in French. The Imp's big blue eyes fairly danced with
amazement, and pleased amazement, at that. Monsieur stood listening, his
hands clenched, his head thrust forward, his eagle-like gaze intent,
unbelieving, stricken. Only Louis read on stolidly, as if the content
had not yet registered itself on his mind.

Suddenly he threw down the paper and shouted, "Hurrah! hurrah!" and
then more solemnly, "Oh, thank God! I'm so glad."

"What is it? what is it?" cried Sue and Carol, simultaneously. "_Please_
tell us! We haven't understood a word of it."

"You poor things!" he exclaimed gaily. "Listen! I'll translate it for
you. It's very short." And he went on to translate from the ancient
paper as follows:


     I who write this am the Dauphin of France, who should have been
     Louis XVII. I escaped from the Temple Tower in my tenth year by
     means which I shall not attempt to explain here. All that is known
     to others who could make it public to the world if I so wished. I
     do not, however, wish it. My only desire is to remain forever
     hidden. Should there, however, arise at any future time a cause or
     reason for making descendants of mine aware of the truth of their
     real ancestry, I wish to make this statement. _I have no
     descendants._ The boy whom Jean Mettot supposes to be my son is no
     flesh-and-blood heir of mine. The boy is the son of my wife by her
     former husband. He was a young child, less than two years old, when
     I married her, and so fond did I become of him that I felt no
     difference and wished to feel no more difference than if he were
     truly my own. But no Bourbon blood runs in his veins, praise God,
     and heirs of his may never inherit the throne of France. I am ill
     and weak, when writing this, and I feel that death is not far away.
     Only Jean Mettot knows the hiding-place I have designed for this
     document. I pray God there may never be need to disclose it.

     LOUIS CHARLES.


"But--but," stammered Sue, when Louis had finished, "what does this
mean?"

"It means," cried Louis, "that I haven't a drop of Bourbon blood in me!
It means that I'm a plain, _American_ boy, after all!"

He threw his cap into the air exultantly and shouted another hurrah.


Strangely enough, it was Sue who first gave a thought to the marquis.
Glancing suddenly toward him, she exclaimed in a low voice:

"O Monsieur!"

He was still standing in the same tense attitude, his expression dazed
and unbelieving. Not one of them but expected that this news, so happy
to Louis, so tragic to him, might cause an attack, possibly a fatal one,
of his physical ailment. But the marquis was made of sterner stuff than
they knew. With a sudden squaring of his shoulders, he walked over to
the window and stood staring out, his back toward them all, his hands
clenched behind him.

So long did he remain thus, that the tense silence became almost
unbearable. It was Louis at last, with his head up and the kindest
expression the girls had ever seen in his eyes, who walked over to
Monsieur and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Will you forgive me, sir," he said very quietly, "for my beastly
expressions of joy? I ought to have realized what a blow this news would
be to you,--whatever it may mean to me."

The marquis turned and looked deep into his eyes.

"My boy," he spoke in a husky voice, "you are worthy to be the lineal
descendant of a king, even if fate has willed that you are not."

He could say no more at that moment, and Louis went on:

"I want you to know I feel, sir, that my obligation to you remains
precisely the same, even though conditions are changed. I owe you
everything I have. You undoubtedly will no longer contemplate taking me
for your adopted son. There isn't the slightest reason for it now. But I
want to give you and the country you love the very best that is in me. I
am an American of the Americans, and I'm prouder of it than ever. But I
want to 'do my bit' for France and for you. Will you allow me, sir, to
go with you to France and join the French Flying Corps? It is the only
way that I can repay you."

The marquis was still gazing straight into the boy's eyes. Now he laid
both hands on his shoulders.

"You shall have your wish, my boy," he said, still huskily. "I now see
that I should never have striven to restrain you. But, king or no king,
an adopted son of mine you shall be, if you yourself will consent to it.
I love you for yourself. What matters any other reason? But, before God,
I promise you that in no way will I put the slightest obstacle in the
path you have chosen for yourself. France will yet be as proud of you
as I am. Louis Charles, will you be my son?"

"I never knew any parents," answered Louis, in a shaky, unsteady voice,
"and I've--I've missed them horribly. Will you be--my father?"

When the girls looked around, they found that old Mr. Meadows and his
daughter had vanished from the room. At Sue's beckoning finger, the
three girls tiptoed out after them.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE END OF THE JOURNAL


September 25, 1914. It's so long since I've written in this journal that
I'm quite discouraged about it. Not a single entry have I made since
that wonderful day over at Louis's when they found the document. Well,
there hasn't been much to write about, and we've all felt lonely and
blue and _apprehensive_ (that's the only word I can think of to express
it) ever since Louis sailed for France.

They did not get away quite as soon as they had expected. Changed
conditions and sailing dates delayed them a week or more longer than the
original plan. I think it was at least the twentieth of August before
they left for New York and their steamer.

Oh, it is such a desolate place now, across the Green, since they went
away,--all shut up and dark and lonely! But Monsieur has left the key
with us, and asked us to go through it once in a while to see that
everything was all right. In the spring he intends to have an architect
come and restore the "long kitchen" to exactly its former appearance,
and to put all the rest of the house in good shape. He says that, since
Louis wishes it so much, he shall come back here whenever there is an
opportunity, that is, whenever his duties will permit, and that he can
live here as long as he likes. That is glorious news. We are all so
happy about it, and Louis was just wild with joy.

But _will_ he come back? That is the awful question. Aviation is
dangerous enough, even here in a peaceful country. What earthly chance
of life has one over there in the midst of this horrible war? It makes
me shudder every time I think of it, and I don't dare think of it much.
I have awful nightmares about it every night.

The Imp has taken to reading up everything she can find on the subject,
and she insists on telling us hair-raising tales about the dangers and
accidents that happen to military aviators. I asked her once if it
didn't simply make her sick to think of such things in connection with
Louis, but she only said:

"Oh, no! Louis's not going to have things like that happen to _him_.
He's different!" I only wish I had her faith.

Louis's departure with the marquis was a nine-days' wonder here, of
course. Everybody talked about it incessantly for a while, speculating
at the greatest length on why in the world a French nobleman should do
such an eccentric thing. But naturally, no one except we three girls
ever guessed the truth, or ever will. For it was the marquis's wish
that, even as things turned out, the truth about the dauphin should
never be made public.

We have all gone back to school, and are plodding along in the same
prosaic way. The only thing we're doing that really interests us is to
knit an outfit for Louis--a sweater, a helmet, some wristlets, and
socks. He said before he left that he'd probably need them, and we
promised to make them as quickly as possible.


September 28. We had a letter from Louis to-day,--the first since he
left. Of course it caused the wildest excitement. He said they had a
safe voyage across, and he wasn't seasick a minute, though the marquis
and old Mr. Meadows were very ill. Louis said that they went straight to
Paris, and there the marquis used his influence and had him enlisted in
the French Air Service. In a few days Louis was notified to report for
duty at the Hôtel des Invalides. Here he went through his physical
examination, passed it, and then was sent to Dijon to get his outfit,
which is provided by the government. After going through all that, he
was sent to Pau (we've looked up these places in the Atlas, and know
exactly where they are!) to become a member of the flying-school.

Louis had been there only a week when he wrote this letter, but he says
that, owing to the hard study he put in on Page Calvin's machine, he's
almost perfect in the mechanical parts,--the engine and steering,--and
instead of having to spend several weeks at that, he can soon begin the
actual flying. Of course I don't understand all his technical talk, but
one thing is easy to see--he's completely and absolutely _happy_. He
says he'll write again when he's actually "been up," but that he has
hardly a moment to himself during the day, and at night he's so tired
that he almost falls asleep on the way to bed. The French course must be
very strict and exacting.


November 22, 1914. I didn't suppose it would be so long before I'd write
here again, but there's generally nothing much to write. Paradise Green
has returned to its old, sleepy nonentity of a place since Louis went
away. Only one thing has stirred the quiet surface of our family. Dave
has been extremely morose and uneasy ever since Louis's departure, and
yesterday he launched a thunderbolt in our midst by asking Father if he
could go off to "the front" and enlist in the French army. Father was
very quiet about it, but he refused absolutely. Then Dave broke down and
blubbered like a baby. He said he wanted to do something to help in
this beastly mess, and that he thought America was "rotten" not to get
into it, too. But Father said:

"If America ever does get into it, Dave, you'll go with my full
permission,--but not till then!" So Dave had to be content with that.

We heard from Louis to-day,--the most _wonderful_ letter! Two weeks ago
he finished his course in aviation and was ordered to duty at the front.
So off he went (he wasn't allowed to tell us where the "front" was) and
has been there ever since, scouting over the enemy's lines in a biplane
with the _chef pilote_, to familiarize himself with conditions. He will
soon be actively engaged with the enemy. It makes me sick and cold to
think of it. Will we ever see Louis alive again, walking about Paradise
Green in the old way? I have simply made up my mind that it is not
possible,--that if it ever happens, it will be nothing short of a
_miracle_.

On looking back in this journal, I find that I have kept it exactly one
year. I have fulfilled my promise to Miss Cullingford, and I believe,
if she could only read it, she'd find it a very interesting "supplement
to history." But of course she never will read it. That would be
breaking my promise to the marquis. I do not think I will write in it
any more. The year is over, and Louis has gone--and may never come back
any more.


April 10, 1917. To-day, in an old drawer of my desk, locked away and
almost completely forgotten by me, I found this journal that I kept
three long years ago. How long, how _very_ long they seem now! I was
sixteen then, and still in high school. I am nineteen--nearly
twenty--now, and have been a year in college. At present I am home for
the Easter vacation, back in little Paradise Green, and in rummaging
through my desk I found this journal. The idea has come to me to add one
more entry, because it will make the story complete.

When I last wrote here, I was positively certain that Louis would die,
that he would be killed in some terrible battle or have some accident
to his aëroplane. Nothing of the sort has occurred, marvelous as it may
seem. Yes, the miracle has happened, and Louis, our same old Louis, is
back in his home on Paradise Green! What is more, the Meadows, or
Mettots, as I now call them, are back here with him, just as in the old
days. It's too wonderful for words!

But the marquis is not here. He never will be here any more, for he died
a year ago, leaving his title and what little remains of his estate to
Louis. The greater part of it has been turned over to the French
Government.

But Louis! Oh, that has been the wonderful part of the story! He has
been known for two years as one of the most daring and successful
members of the French Aviation Corps, with a record of captured enemy
machines and successful engagements to be proud of. He has been
decorated by the French Government and honored in a dozen ways, and has
never been wounded or injured till just lately.

In an engagement at Eaucourt l'Abbaye last October, toward the finish of
the great Somme battle, he was wounded in the side, but managed to land
his machine safely. The wound was not serious in itself, but his old
enemy, blood-poisoning, set in, and for a while it was nip-and-tuck
whether he could recover. But Louis says his constitution is "sound
American," and after a long siege he was pronounced out of danger and
recovered. He has been compelled by his commanding officer, however, to
take a long leave of absence, to recover complete health before he
returns to the front.

So he came back to Paradise Green, to take up life, as he says, where he
left it. During this Easter vacation we four have been rollicking
around, just as we used to when we were children and hadn't a care on
our minds. Carol is as grown-up as I am, and is attending college with
me. The Imp is a tall, lanky creature now, nearly through high school,
and at times can be quite as exasperating as ever. They say she's cut
out for a brilliant future, but just at present her whole mind is
concentrated on becoming a Red Cross nurse, so that she can go off to
"the front" and get in the thick of it. Mother and Father won't stand
for it, of course, but trust the Imp to get her way--somehow.

And that brings me to another thing. America has at last entered the
war. We can scarcely believe it yet. Louis is jubilant, and Dave
promptly claimed the promise that Father made him three years ago.
Father has consented, as he said he would, but is feeling pretty grave
about it. And the look in Mother's eyes is enough to keep Dave from
effervescing too openly. I dare not think very far into the future, but
for the immediate present we all are trying to be happy.

I had almost decided to destroy this journal, but something Louis told
us has made me change my mind. He said that before Monsieur (I cannot
get out of the habit of calling him that!) passed away, he told Louis
that he had changed his mind about keeping secret any longer the story
of Louis's descent. He said that he believed the dauphin would have been
filled with pride at the wonderful attainments and service to France of
the descendant of his own adopted son, and would glory in the world's
knowledge of his connection with him. So Louis said that, although he
wasn't ever going to say anything about it himself, he didn't specially
care if the rest of us did. The matter seemed of little importance to
him, anyhow. He said that probably no one would believe it, anyway, as
there were too many stories already concerning the escape and claims of
the "lost dauphin."

Probably they won't, and I wouldn't blame them, for it does seem
well-nigh incredible. However that may be, I've changed my mind about
this journal. I'm going to show it to Miss Cullingford. She and I have
always been great friends, even after I left high school, and I want her
to read for herself the whole history of this wonderful thing that
happened on little, out-of-the-way Paradise Green.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52946 ***