“What are they?” demanded Linda, as Pat turned the flashlight upon his discovery.
“Looks like a Hallowe’en suit,” volunteered Mike. “But what is it doing here?”
“Helen,” asked Dot, turning to the young girl, “can you remember having any masquerade parties at your house?”
“We never had any parties,” she replied. “We were too poor. On my birthdays Nana—I mean Mrs. Smalley—would make cookies, and she and I and my doll would play it was a party. That was all.”
Linda was silent. There had been something familiar about the beard in particular, for it was bigger and longer than most real ones. Now she remembered what it reminded her of.
“Remember that old man who knocked Helen down, Dot?” she inquired.
A smile broke over Dot’s face.
“Of course! A disguise! I never could understand why a man apparently so aged would be driving at that reckless rate of speed. He wasn’t old at all, I guess!”
“By George, that’s the answer!” cried Mike, positively elated by the discovery. “Now all we’ve got to do is to catch the man. Helen, have you any idea who he could be?”
“I’m afraid,” answered the girl reluctantly, “that he’s my uncle. And if he is, you won’t catch him. He’s wicked—and clever.”