“I smell lilacs!” Betty decided suddenly, and turning off her lights she leaned far out into the dark, eagerly drinking in the sweet spring odors. And then, as her eyes fell on the patch of light by the back door, she remembered the anxious groom and the tittering maid, whom she had heard arguing by the back porch, and she wondered idly what kind of thing it was you didn’t rehearse, in the opinion of said tittering maid. Probably she had been telling the groom all about the play, and they were discussing some point in the plot. The maids were always as keen as the girls about the house-plays. Then she wondered, thinking of the two saddle-horses, if the Moonshiners’ riding club had been revived, and she decided to ask Georgia if she might go off on some of their spring trips. Harding was so lovely in the spring—no other place was quite like it. But—those Student’s Aid trustees met at ten o’clock sharp. Betty resolutely dismissed plays and picnics and the disturbing scent of lilacs from her mind, and courted sleep; for her alarm clock was set for six and she must be ready for a hard morning’s work.
It was an exciting day, altogether. One of the Student’s Aid trustees had secured a big gift for the Association. In return she wanted to dictate important policies, and particularly to lay out the secretary’s work. The other trustees resented her assumption of superior authority. Both factions took Betty into their confidence. One insisted on giving her lunch; the other asked her to dinner. Mr. Morton telegraphed for impossible details. Mrs. Post had hit upon this busiest day of the year for cleaning Betty’s room. Feeling very young and inadequate, and very, very sleepy, Betty escaped as soon as possible from the trustees’ dinner, put a “Do not disturb” sign on her door and went to bed.
The pale morning sun was creeping faintly in at her window, though she was sure she hadn’t been asleep ten minutes, when somebody knocked on her door. Somebody had to keep on knocking for an embarrassing interval before Betty woke up enough to realize what was happening, and to open the door. Connie stood outside. She was attired in a scarlet silk kimono, the gift of her generous but thoughtless roommate. For Connie’s washed-out hair had a decided suspicion of red in its dull tints, and her complexion was the sort that went with red hair and should never go with a scarlet kimono. In the dim light of the corridor her sallow, anxious little face looked frightened and quite ghostly.
“Did I wake you up, Miss Wales?” she demanded stupidly. “It’s four o’clock in the morning. I saw your ‘Don’t disturb’ sign, but I suppose it was meant for last night. Besides I—you see, Miss Wales, Marie has disappeared.”
Betty stifled a tremendous yawn and tried to consider Connie’s news with becoming seriousness.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she said at last. “You mean she isn’t in your room? Are you sure she isn’t in some one’s else?”
Connie nodded. “Yes—she—I’m quite sure, Miss Wales. She’s disappeared.”
“When?” asked Betty, who was wide awake now.
“I don’t know, Miss Wales. About ten was when I really saw her last. She had a chafing-dish party last night. I was studying with Matilda Jones. I kept expecting Marie to come for me, as she usually does just before they disperse, to have some of the refreshments. When the ten-minute bell rang, I went to our room. She was there, but she went right out for something. When she came back it was after ten, so she undressed in the dark. At least I supposed she undressed. When I woke up just now she was gone.”
“Oh, well,” said Betty pleasantly, “she’s somewhere in the house, of course. She ought to be in her room in bed, but——”