“There’s no one at home,” sighed Marjorie disappointedly.
“Come on. We might as well go.” The command held a touch of aggressiveness. “I could wear my hand out thumping it on the door for all the good it would do.”
Sensing the aggressive note in Jerry’s voice, Marjorie attributed it to the stout girl’s natural impatience of delay.
“It’s a shame; a burning shame!” They were half way down the walk when Jerry thus delivered herself.
“Why, Jeremiah, what is it?” It had dawned upon Marjorie that something stronger than impatience had seized upon her friend.
“Marjorie, Lucy Warner is at home,” stated Jerry deliberately. “As we went up the path I saw her through a window. She flashed across the end of the room farthest away from the window and disappeared.”
“At home!” gasped Marjorie. “Then she must have seen us coming and——”
“Beat it,” supplemented Jerry with inelegant force. “What’s the answer? Mignon, of course. We don’t need to ask Lucy about it. We know now that what we suspect is a fact. If it weren’t, Lucy would have answered my knock. What are you going to do about it?”
“I intend to see Lucy to-morrow morning and find out what the trouble is,” came Marjorie’s steady answer. “If she is angry with us, I shall know it the instant she speaks. We have no right simply to take it for granted that she is angry. We mustn’t even blame Mignon until we know positively that she actually made mischief.”
“Mignon is at the bottom of Lucy’s grouch. Take my word for it,” sputtered Jerry. “She has been trying to set Lucy against you ever since school began. It looks as though she’d succeeded at last. There’s just this much about it, you have stood too much from that girl. I’m going to take a hand in this affair and put Mignon where she belongs. Do you know where that is? I do. It’s outside the club.”