“Well, if we had called one,” the president persisted, “you girls wouldn’t have had a mystery to present.”
“Wouldn’t we, though?” Peg’s eyes fairly glistened. “Doris, now is the psychological moment, as Miss Preen would say, for springing our find.”
The girls, except Geraldine, gasped. She was yet too mystified to realize the importance of the announcement. They watched Doris, who unstrapped her school books and drew from her history a clipping from a newspaper. “This is from the Dorchester Chronicle,” she announced, “and it certainly sounds mysterious to Peg and me.” She looked around at them, deliberately, tantalizing.
“Oh, for goodness sakes, do hurry and read it,” Bertha Angel urged.
“Peg, you read it. You can do it full justice.” Doris passed it over to her fellow-committeeman, who pretended to study it leisurely.
“Peg, if you don’t hurry and tell us, we’ll mob you.” Bertha stood up and seized a pillow from the window seat, holding it threateningly. “Be calm, Sister Sleuth,” Peg said. Then she held the small scrap of paper close to a window as the short afternoon was drawing to a close. “It is headed, ‘Information wanted.’ A man owning a cattle ranch in Arizona has written the Chronicle asking that the following letter be given publicity:
“‘Dear Sirs:
“‘My young and pretty sister, Myra, was sent East to be educated. Our parents wanted to get her away from a ne’er-do-well gambler she had met in Douglas. He followed her East and married her. We never heard from her again, but believe she settled in some small community near Dorchester. I am running the ranch, but half of it belongs to Myra, and, as I believe if she is living she must be in need, I want to find her.
“‘(Signed) Caleb K. Cornwall.’”
Peg looked up triumphantly. “There! What do you think of that for a mystery?”