"Father, you're a trump!" cried Marcia, blissfully. "I knew you'd get right to the bottom of this mystery at once."
"Hold on! Don't count your chickens before they're hatched!" warned the captain. "This is only a possibility—not a probability. The major may know nothing whatever about it. But look here! it's high time we were heading for home. We don't want to be late to dinner."
They reached the apartment, bursting with news to tell Aunt Minerva, but were met at the door by that lady, flushed, flustered, and very much excited.
"Such a state of affairs!" she cried. "An hour ago I received a telegram from Cousin Drusilla in Northam saying she was very ill indeed and wouldn't I come up at once, as she was virtually all alone. Of course I've got to go. I can't leave her there sick without a soul to look after her. But what on earth are you all going to do?"
"Oh, go right along, Minerva! The girls and I will get on famously. They can try their hand at housekeeping, and you've a good maid in the kitchen to help. Don't you worry a minute!"
"Yes, but—" began Aunt Minerva.
"You've got just fifteen minutes to catch the Boston express," said the captain, decisively, looking at his watch. "Give me that suitcase and come right along."
Aunt Minerva, who had really been all packed and ready for the past twenty-nine minutes, meekly obeyed.
"I won't be gone more than a few days," she remarked, as she kissed the girls good-by. "I'll get some one to take my place with Drusilla just as soon as I can. Don't let Eliza boil the corn too long, and tell her—" The sentence was never finished, for the captain at that point gently but firmly led her into the hall and closed the door.