“Righto, my dear little Betty, but ghosts and mysteries are two different things. Some unhappy old man shot himself in that dismal farmhouse and nobody ever wanted to live there after that; and so it has just fallen to pieces. But everybody knew the old man and just why he was so sad and discouraged, and so there isn’t any mystery to it at all, at all.”
“Where did the boys go?” Bertha looked up suspiciously. “Heavens, I hope they aren’t anywhere around. They might overhear us talking about mysteries and then our new name wouldn’t be secret any more.”
“They drove out of the yard; I saw them,” Betty, still near the window, remarked.
“Jack had a book. Probably that one of Conan Doyle. Perhaps they’re going to return it.”
Suddenly Bertha dropped her sewing and her eyes were bright “Say, girls, we’ve wondered a million times where the boys hold their secret meetings, but never once did we even suspect that it might be in that dreadful old Welsley place.”
“Bertha Angel, I believe you’re right. No one would ever interrupt them there.” Peg shuddered.
“And what better meeting-place for a boys’ detective club than an old ruin haunted by a ghost that had committed suicide!” Doris commented.
“Well,” Merry sighed, “we’re not likely to find out, since our dear parents will not permit us to prowl around at night unless the boys are along to protect us.”
Then Peggy had an idea. “Girls,” she exclaimed, “we ought to have some kind of a party for Geraldine and Alfred. Let’s have a moonlight skating party and a sleigh ride combined, and when we’re out that way, let’s suggest visiting the old ruin. If the boys refuse, we will know that they don’t want us to see what they have in there. If they agree to the plan, then we will know that is not where they hold their secret meetings.”
“Bright idea!”