As she reread the spiteful message, her thoughts leaped to Rowena Farnham as the person most open to suspicion. Yet Rowena had made a direct attack upon her. Again there was Mignon. She was wholly capable of such a deed. Strangely enough, Marjorie was seized with the belief that neither girl was responsible for it. She did not know why she believed this to be true. She simply accepted it as such, and cudgelled her brain for another more plausible solution of the mystery.
As she studied it the more she became convinced that the writing was the same as that of the similarly signed letter Miss Archer had received. The stationery, too, was the same. The words, “The Observer,” were the crowning proof which entirely exonerated Rowena. She had certainly not written the first note. Therefore, she had not written the second. Marjorie was in a quandary as to whether or not she should go frankly to the principal and exhibit the letter. She felt that Miss Archer would wish to see it, and at once take the matter up. She could hardly charge Rowena with it, thereby lessening her chances of entering the school. This second note made no mention of Rowena. Its spitefulness was directed entirely toward Marjorie herself. As it pertained wholly to her, she believed that it might be better to keep the affair locked within her own breast. After all, it might amount to nothing. No doubt, Rowena had related her own version of the algebra problem to Mignon. Mignon was noted for her malicious powers of gossip. A garbled account on her part of the matter might have aroused some one of her few allies to this cowardly method of attack. Still this explanation would not cover the writing of the first letter.
Quite at sea regarding its source, Marjorie gave the distasteful missive an impatient little flip that sent it fluttering off her desk to the floor. Reaching down she lifted it, holding it away from her as though it were a noisome weed. She burned to tear it into bits, but an inner prompting stayed her destroying hands. Replacing it in the envelope, she tucked it inside her silk blouse, determining to file it away at home in case she needed it for future reference. She hoped, however, that it would never be needed. Whoever had slipped it into her Cæsar must have done so after she had left her desk on the previous afternoon, following the close of the session. She wished she knew those who had lingered in the study hall after half-past three. This she was not likely to learn. Her own intimate friends had all passed out of the study hall at the ringing of the closing bell. She resolved that she would make casual inquiries elsewhere in the hope of finding a clue.
During the rest of the week she pursued this course with tactful assiduousness, but she could discover nothing worth while. What she did learn, however, was that due to a strenuous appeal to the Board of Education on the part of Mr. Farnham, his daughter had been allowed, on strict promise of future good behavior, to try an entirely new set of examinations. Fortune must have attended her, for on the next Monday she appeared in the study hall as radiantly triumphant as though she had received a great honor, rather than a reluctant admission into the sophomore fold.
“Well, she got there!” hailed Jerry Macy in high disgust, happening to meet Marjorie in the corridor between classes on the morning of Rowena’s retarded arrival. “My father said they had quite a time about it. She got into school by just one vote. He wouldn’t tell me which way he voted, but he said he was glad she wasn’t his daughter.”
“I’m honestly glad for hers and her parents’ sake that she was allowed another trial.” Marjorie spoke with sincere earnestness. “She’s had a severe lesson. She may profit by it and get along without any more trouble.”
“Profit by nothing,” grumbled Jerry. “She can’t change her disposition any more than a cat can grow feathers or an ostrich whiskers. Row-ena, Scrapena, Fightena, Quarrelena she is and will be forever and forever. Let’s not talk about her. She makes me—I mean I feel somewhat languid whenever her name is mentioned.” Jerry delivered her polite emendation with irresistible drollery. “Did you know that there’s to be a junior basket ball try-out next Tuesday after school?”
“No.” Marjorie’s interest was aroused. “Who told you? It certainly hasn’t been announced.”
“Ellen Seymour told me. She’s going to help Miss Davis manage the team this year in Marcia Arnold’s place. I imagine she’ll do most of the managing. I guess Miss Davis had enough of basket ball last year. She told Ellen that it took up too much of her time. She knew, I guess, that the upper class girls wouldn’t relish her interference. Ellen says you must be sure to be at the try-out. She hopes you——” Jerry left off speaking and looked sheepish.
“Well, why don’t you finish? What does Ellen wish me to do?”