"What telegram? What letter? You're speaking in riddles."
Irene still seemed in the grip of some great emotion. "Wait here, all of you," she cried. "Don't move till I come back. I'll explain then," and with that she dashed off like a mad creature into the Annexe and along to her study, seized her writing-case and recklessly tossed out its contents till her fingers closed on the object of her search, the letter she had taken from Monica's study on the memorable afternoon when she had been locked in her own room. With the letter firmly clutched in her hand, she tore back to her mystified audience.
"It's one of Monica's letters," she explained, jerkily. "I—I found it weeks ago and—I read it by mistake, and because I thought it sounded so suspicious and because we all know what sort of a girl she is, I—I thought I was justified in keeping it. Listen, and I'll read it out," and while the girls were still trying to grasp what she had just said, she read the letter in a voice that shook both with emotion and lack of breath.
"But—surely——" Madge, who had joined the group with Deirdre, began doubtfully, as Irene stopped reading.
"Wait till I've finished," Irene interrupted. "That isn't all. Yesterday, I saw another letter of Monica's in the same handwriting lying about, and—oh, I don't care what you think of me for doing it!—but I read that one too. I can only say I thought it might be for the best. I was ashamed then, now I am glad I did. As nearly as I can remember, it said this," and Irene, who was gifted with a good memory, repeated the gist of the contents of the second letter.
"Don't you see—they were plotting to knock St. Etheldreda's out of the running for the shield! Monica Carr would love to spite the school like that. She hates us all, and she doesn't know what it means to be sporting. She was clever enough to realize that our chance of winning would be a poor one without Allison and so she planned to entice her away by a bogus telegram; the telegram referred to in the second letter is the telegram Allison has just received."
Madge looked incredulous. "But it can't be! It sounds like an old-fashioned melodrama. Besides—where was that telegram handed in?"
Deirdre shook her head. "Somewhere in London, I believe. But you don't really think Irene's idea is true, Madge?"
Madge glanced again at the letter Irene had handed her. "I don't know what to think," she confessed vexedly. "If it does happen to be a bogus telegram then we shall be made fools of—and Allison will have suffered all this anxiety for nothing. On the other hand, Allison must go if there's a chance of it's being genuine. She daren't risk it. The fact that her mother may be seriously ill means more to her than all the hockey in the world. Oh, bother! There's the dinner bell. What shall we do?"
"I think it's a case for Miss Julian," said Deirdre decidedly, and there were murmurs of relieved acquiescence from the other girls.