Anson heard them whispering.
“Heedless young things!” he scolded. “You’ll be sorry if you don’t do as I say.” Turning abruptly, he picked up the rake that had slipped to the ground and shuffled off through the rustling leaves in the direction of the orchard.
“There, you see!” exclaimed Arden. “I told you there was something weird down in that old orchard!”
“I’ve a good mind to follow him and see where he’s going,” said Terry. “What do you say, Arden, to a little more sleuthing?”
“I’m game,” Arden answered. But even as she spoke the electric bell in Bordmust Hall announced the beginning of the first classes.
“We can’t go now,” said Terry. “We’ll have to let it wait.”
“Yes,” agreed Arden reluctantly.
The two girls entered the building, having a last glimpse of the mysterious gardener still shuffling his way through the rustling leaves toward the orchard where so many strange things had happened.
CHAPTER XXI
A Bold Stroke
With great difficulty Arden concentrated on her French literature. Daudet’s “My Old Mill,” seemed very silly and unnecessary. Who cared about a sleepy French town, drowsing under a provincial sun? A real present-day mystery story would have been much more interesting and to the point.