“Her saddle and that big felt hat she wears when she rides, and her corduroy suit have disappeared too, Miss Wales.”
Betty started. “They have? Then she’s probably gone on some early-morning riding-party. Oh, dear, those crazy girls! What won’t they think of next?”
“I don’t believe it’s a regular riding-party, Miss Wales. From things Marie has been saying lately, I think it’s an elopement.”
Betty’s eyes grew round, and her voice quivered with anxiety. “Please tell me all that you know about it, Miss Payson, as quickly as you can. There may be no time to lose.” Betty closed the door softly and began hurriedly to put on her clothes, while she listened to Connie’s story.
“Well,” began Connie eagerly, “she’s been writing letters lately—oh, quantities of them! She always writes a good many, but lately she’s spent most of her time at it. And she’s cut classes a good deal. She’s never done that before. And a few days ago she gave me six of her dresses—two perfectly new ones. She said she shouldn’t want so many clothes much longer. Then day before yesterday a man came to call. I heard the girls say it was the same one she was with the night of the prom. She was very much excited that evening, and it wasn’t about the play, because when I spoke about that to her she didn’t know what I meant at first, and then she said, ‘Oh, the play!’ as if it wasn’t of any consequence to her. Yesterday morning when I came into our room after a class she was rolling a lot of things up in her rain-coat. I asked her what in the world she was doing, and she—she kissed me”—Connie blushed at the intimate confession—“and said she was just seeing how much you could tie on to a saddle, because some one had asked her to find out. And now”—Connie’s lips and voice quivered—“and now she’s gone. That’s all I know, Miss Wales. I think she’s eloped on horseback with that man from her home in Montana.”
“But that would be so perfectly absurd!” Betty was dressed by this time. She twisted her hair into a hasty knot, and put on a droopy hat to hide the snarls. “Have you ever heard Marie speak of riding to any of the little towns around here, Miss Payson? Was she especially fond of any little village near here?”
Connie considered for a minute. “She likes the ride to Gay’s Mills, because it’s all the way through the woods. And she’s been over there twice lately. She went riding day before yesterday,—we all thought it was queer for her to go riding on the day of the play—and I think from something she said that she lost the girl she started out with, and maybe met some one else.”
“What girl did she start with?”
Connie mentioned the name of the sophomore who, being proverbially unlucky with horses, had fallen off on the famous Mountain Day ride.
“I see,” said Betty curtly. She was perfectly sure that, unless Montana Marie had meant to lose her, she would never have gone riding with that particular girl. “Please telephone Grant’s garage,” Betty ordered swiftly. “Tell them to send up a car at once, and a man who knows the country roads. Say it’s for me. If they object to the early start tell them it’s a matter of vital importance. If that’s not enough, hold the wire and call me. I shall be in Mrs. Post’s room. I hate to bother her, but I can’t very well go alone.”