She went mournfully over the scene again bit by bit.
“I wonder what he wants our decorations for,” she reflected. “They’re only good for a tea-room. Then he must mean to use this for a tea-room. But if he rents it all decorated, of course it’s worth more. Why didn’t I think to say that? Why didn’t I make him think we would certainly go right on somewhere else? He can’t steal our name and our ideas. It’s not fair. Madeline must come and talk to him.”
And she returned with new energy to her letter, trying to make the case seem as urgent as possible, and Madeline’s presence absolutely necessary. Madeline was having a beautiful time in Bohemia; Dick Blake had told her that her stories were improving, and one of them had actually been accepted by an obscure magazine that “paid on publication.” Madeline had celebrated this landmark in her Literary Career by giving a dinner at Mr. Bob’s latest find in the way of Italian cafés, and she had discovered, over the coffee, that four of her six guests had been honored by the same magazine, and that all were still waiting patiently for the years to bring around the mystic time of publication.
“Who cares? It was a delicious dinner, and just as much fun as if I had really arrived,” Madeline had written Betty. “And now the other four are all going to be game and celebrate too.”
Betty realized how much persuasion it would take to detach Madeline from four impending celebrations, and begged her with all the eloquence she could command to come to the rescue of the Tally-ho. She was just folding her letter when a queer little squeal from Dorothy made her jump.
“I’m through now, Company,” she called, “so you can chatter away as fast as you like. What’s the matter?”
“I opened the secret drawer all by myself,” cried Dorothy in an excited treble. “Nobody showed me. I just heard you and Madeline and Miss Mary—I mean Mrs. Mary—talking about how to do it. And I remembered, and after I got tired of drawing pictures for magazines I did it. Look!” and she danced over to Jack of Hearts’ stall with the secret drawer in her hand.
“Why, Dorothy Wales!” began Betty in astonishment. “I don’t believe I could have opened that myself. Why, there’s something in it. What! Oh, Dorothy, you darling, you’ve helped now, I can tell you! Why, Dorothy Wales, do you know what you’ve done? You’ve found Eugenia’s theme.”
“If you’d asked me I’d have found it before,” announced Dorothy with dignity.
“What do you mean, little sister? Did you hide away Eugenia’s theme in that drawer?”