As Patricia sank, breathless, into a seat in French class, which had already begun, Frances leaned forward from the row behind to whisper, “Know about the robbery?”
Patricia nodded.
“The paper says nobody heard a thing,” continued Frances. “Norman was in his room right next to the one where the robbers were working. Isn’t that thrilling?”
“How do you know?” traced Patricia’s pencil on the margin of her note book.
“Clarice met him this morning, and he told her.”
“Mademoiselle Quinne, continuez s’il vous plait,” requested the Professor’s smooth voice.
It must be confessed that Patricia heard little of the French lesson that day. Her mind was briskly working on the piecemeal information she had received about the disaster at Big House.
“Seems awfully queer,” she commented to Jack later in the day, “that a person or persons would break into a house early in the evening like that. Why, Mrs. Brock or Norman might have walked in on them any minute.”
Jack smiled. “He probably had worked out, by direct observation, when his chances of being undisturbed were greatest.”
“Direct observation?” repeated Patricia.