“Only that it was dark.”
“How did you happen to notice that?”
“The path which is always well lighted from the windows on that side was so dark that I involuntarily looked up to see what was the matter,” responded the youth glibly, gazing directly, and Patricia thought somewhat defiantly, into the Dean’s eyes.
“Were you out again that night?”
“Yes, Dean; I went over on an errand—for Mrs. Brock.”
“Through the dormitory yard?”
“Yes.”
“And when did you return?”
“I don’t really know the exact time, but it was after the Fire Department had reached the Hall; I could not get through the crowd to go home.”
“How, then, did Mrs. Brock get in touch with you to deliver her message to Mrs. Vincent?”
“After watching the firemen for a while, I went around the block and entered Mrs. Brock’s house just in time to prevent her going over to the Hall herself.”
“Why didn’t you want her to go?” demanded Dean Walters sharply.
“Well, she is an old lady, and it was a cold night for her to be out, and late for her to be out alone.”
“What was your ‘errand’ for Mrs. Brock, and where did it take you?”
“That I am not at liberty to disclose; it is my employer’s business,” was the decided response.
Dean Walters opened her lips to speak, then abruptly closed them again. A moment’s silence followed; then, turning toward Mrs. Vincent and the girls, she said curtly: “You may go. Your testimony was quite satisfactory. Mr. Young will remain.”
Single file, like Indians, the four women left the office, descended a short flight of stairs, passed through a doorway at the foot, and were out upon the street. Then everybody drew a long breath of the frosty air and began to speak.
“Wasn’t it terrible?” demanded Frances. “I acted like a fool.”
“Oh, forget it!” advised Katharine. “You were nervous; we all were.”
“Not you,” contradicted Patricia. “I envy you your poise upon all occasions.”
“What do you suppose the Dean will do about Norman Young, Mrs. Vincent?” asked Frances.
“I imagine she may get in touch with Mrs. Brock,” replied the chaperon somewhat irritably; for she felt she had not made the best of impressions upon the Dean. It was advisable for her to have that lady’s goodwill; for the appointments as chaperon in the various dormitories were made yearly, and Mrs. Vincent had reasons of her own for wishing to remain at Arnold Hall at least two years longer.
Several days passed, and the girls still gossiped among themselves about the investigation; for the officials were strangely silent upon the subject. No statement had been made public, and the students were consumed with curiosity.
“Mrs. Vincent,” said Katharine one night when the chaperon came to her room to borrow a hat, “what did the Dean find out about the fire? We’re dying to know.”
“I believe that upon the advice of Mrs. Brock, the whole affair has been dropped,” answered Mrs. Vincent, trying on Katharine’s hat before the mirror, her mind more upon what she was doing than upon what she was saying.
“What on earth—” began Katharine.
“I don’t know any more,” interrupted the chaperon quickly. “I’m not sure I should have told you that much. Don’t quote me, please.”
“I won’t,” promised Katharine good-naturedly, “but may I tell the girls without saying where I got the information? They’re all wondering.”
“Perhaps it would be well to do so; then maybe they’ll drop the subject.”
A couple of weeks later, the Dean announced in chapel one day that defective wiring had evidently caused the fire in Arnold Hall, and asked the girls in all dormitories to be very careful in their use of electrical appliances.
CHAPTER XV
UNDER ARREST
Spring came early that year, and the hills around Granard were a lovely haze of pale green. The woods were filled with delicate wild flowers, and streams which would be mere threads later in the season, now swollen by rapid thaws, were tumbling riotously along their rocky beds. Birds were darting madly back and forth across the landscape, seeking mates and places for cozy nests.
“Pat,” suggested Jack, on one of the warm, bright days, “the spring has gotten into my blood. Let’s cut Shakespeare this afternoon, and go for a hike in the woods.”
“Jack, you shouldn’t tempt me like that!” she cried reprovingly, stopping beside the bench where they had had their first talk. “I wonder if he’ll say anything important in class.”
The boy laughed at her sudden change of tone and attitude. “I don’t believe so. He’ll talk on the last act. We know that pretty well, don’t we?” grinning mischievously down into the girl’s brown eyes.
“We’ll take a chance anyhow! When shall we start?”
“Right now. Shall you be warm enough in that thing?”
“‘That thing!’ I’d have you know this is a perfectly good leather jacket which my father gave me for Christmas.”
“My error! It’s good looking, anyhow.”
“You can’t fix it up now.”
Laughing and joking, as gay as the spring all around them, they swung briskly along the state road until they reached Tretton Woods; then they plunged in among the feathered trees.
“Oh!” cried Patricia. “Arbutus! The darlings!” Sinking down upon a bed of last year’s leaves, she tenderly plucked a couple of sprays. “It always seems a pity to tear up a whole lot of it,” she observed, handing one piece to Jack, and fastening the other in her own buttonhole.
A little deeper in the woods they came upon a merry little stream.
“Look, Pat,” exulted Jack, “at that brook. Let’s make a dam—”
“And a lake?” concluded Patricia, eagerly.
Like two children they worked happily until a wide pond spread out in a fern bordered hollow.
“Isn’t that lovely?” rejoiced Patricia, gazing proudly at the result of their labor.
“It sure is! Gosh, Pat, look!” holding out his watch.
“Half past five? It can’t be. How I wish now I’d brought the car.”
“No, you don’t, young lady!” contradicted Jack masterfully. “A hike’s made on two feet, not on four wheels.”
“We’ll be late for dinner—”
“Never mind. I’ll take you somewhere to eat.”
“Like this?” looking down at her soiled hands and muddy skirt.
“Sure.”
On the way out of the woods, Patricia’s attention was caught by a cluster of cup-like white flowers. “Aren’t those pretty, Jack? Let’s take them home as a souvenir. We’ve lost our arbutus.”
Both stooped to gather a handful as quickly as possible.
“Oh, the nasty things!” cried Patricia. “Their stems are just full of red juice.”
“Looks for all the world like blood,” commented the boy, dropping his flowers into the stream, which quickly whirled them away, and wiping his hands on his handkerchief. Patricia followed his