Gladys and Harry Townsend were seen everywhere together; but to-day there was often a third person with them, the Countess Bertouche, the woman of the gold-colored brocade, but lately introduced in Newport society.
“I believe Gladys is engaged to Harry Townsend,” whispered Grace to Mollie, when she had observed Harry bending over Miss Le Baron and talking to her in a more devoted manner than usual.
“Well,” retorted pretty Mollie, with a toss of her head, “I am sure I do not envy either one of them.”
All afternoon the gypsy tent had been flooded with visitors. Barbara and Ruth had the time of their lives. No one recognized the two automobile girls in the aged crones who mumbled and told strange fortunes in hoarse tones.
It was growing late, and the gypsy tent was for the time deserted. Ruth was resting on the couch in the back of the tent, while Bab sat near her, talking over their experiences of the afternoon.
Suddenly the tent flap opened, and Grace and Mollie rushed in. Before either of them spoke, they turned and fastened the flap down again securely, so no one could enter without their knowing it.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ruth and Bab at once, for it was plain to see their visitors were greatly excited.
Grace and Mollie started talking together. “Mrs. Cartwright’s diamond butterfly——” then they both stopped. “Are you sure no one can hear? Mollie, you tell,” finished Grace.
“The butterfly has gone, vanished right off Mrs. Cartwright’s frock, this afternoon, while she was talking to her visitors. You know, she changed the ornament she wore in her hair into a brooch. She showed it to me early this afternoon, when I first came, and now—it is gone! I tell you, girls, there’s a thief among these Newport people. I think it, and so does Mrs. Cartwright, and ever so many others. Promise you’ll never tell,” went on Mollie, “but there are two detectives here watching all the guests! I’d like to find the thief myself. I’d know Mrs. Cartwright’s butterfly anywhere.”
There were noises at the tent door.