“There’s Shag,” said Cleo, “and he’s running around as if someone were talking to him. See, there’s a light dress moving behind the honeysuckle arbor.”
“It can’t be Peg. I’ve never seen her wear a white skirt,” replied Grace. They could easily see the movement of white between the green vined lattice. “And it can’t be Aunt Carrie—she wouldn’t wear white either.”
“Just let’s go up the walk and see,” suggested Cleo daringly. “Someone might be prowling around.”
It was only a few steps out of their way, and wild flowers always offered an excuse for leaving the path, so Grace and Cleo had no reason to hesitate.
Shag raced out to meet them as they entered the grounds, but the figure in white darted farther into the heavy shrubbery.
“That you, Peg?” called Cleo.
No answer.
“Come on,” whispered Grace, “let’s go in farther.”
With Shag close to their heels they followed the wild-grown path, and presently came up to the end of it.
“Buzz!” whispered Cleo; for the white skirted one was now forced out of the shrubbery and stood facing the girls who had followed her up.