The girl looked at her coldly. “No, she’s not here this afternoon. May I help you?” She flashed a brief professional library smile.
Arden felt rebuffed and explained that she had come for a book on the history of Jockey Hollow.
“We haven’t very much on the subject. Most of the papers and maps telling about it were destroyed in a fire years ago. There is this book, though,” she said, and going to a shelf took a thin red book from it. “They say Richard Howe, the old one, that is, refused to trust his papers to anyone but himself and they were lost when a fire broke out in Sycamore Hall while he was still living. Betty says the deeds to the old place were lost then also.”
Arden took the book eagerly. It was pitifully small, she thought regretfully, but thanked the librarian and, after having it stamped, left to get one of the rickety village cabs and tell the girls all about it.
It was odd though that Betty Howe was not there, and she had not appeared at tea, either. “Oh, well,” thought Arden, “perhaps she’s gone into New York or some place.” And holding the precious book close to her, she climbed into old Pop Warner’s car and told him to take her to Sim’s house. He was a talkative old man, and he knew Arden and her friends quite well. He seemed to know a lot about them, in fact, and asked her question after question as he drove her to Sim’s. She squirmed with impatience and then sat bolt upright as he asked in his squeaky voice:
“Heard you was chased by a ghost in Sycamore Hall! What would your dad say if he knew you was galavantin’ around there? No place for young ladies, I’ll say! Stay on your own side of the railroad tracks.” Then he lapsed into silence as he turned into the driveway.
“What do you mean, Mr. Warner?” Arden asked quickly. “Who told you we were there?”
“I hear things in this business. People always talk when they’re riding along. There’s bound to be fire where there’s smoke,” he chuckled. “If I was you, I’d let well enough alone. Hannah Howe is a smart woman,” he managed to say as the car stopped with a jerk. “That’ll be fifty cents.” He took the money and started away after a curt, “G’afternoon.”
Arden felt rather suffused with the day’s adventures. There had been Granny’s story; then the overheard remarks from those men at the drugstore, and last but not least, the insinuations of the old cab driver.
At any rate, she had news for the girls, and she hurried up the drive and into the house to give it to them. This historical study was fast becoming a deep-dyed mystery, decided Arden.