"Not without you," argued the other, "I have lots I ought to do, but I'm going to cut it for this night. Come along," and she took Dorothy's arm. "I'm dying to hear Ned sing a coon song."
But they found number twenty-three vacant. Edna was out, so was Molly, in fact everybody seemed to be out, for knots of girls talked in every corner of the halls and always stopped speaking when Dorothy and Rose came up to them.
"It's the investigation!" whispered Rose. "They are waiting for Viola; did you ever see such a crowd of magpies."
"I'm going in," said Dorothy, nervously. "I can't bear the way they look at me."
"All right," assented Rose, "I'll see you home since I dragged you out. And I'll promise to make known to you the words of the very first bulletin. Sorry to be so cruel, but I cannot find any sympathy in my heart for Viola Green."
"Oh, indeed I can," spoke up the kind-hearted Dorothy. "She has so much worry about her mother. And perhaps she inherits some peculiar trait—"
"Bottle Green, I suppose. Well, you can pity her if you like, but I will save mine until I know why."
So Rose-Mary kissed Dorothy good-night—she had done so regularly of late, and the two friends parted. For some time the hum of voices could be heard in the corridor outside Dorothy's door, then the lights were turned out and everything seemed as usual.
But in room twelve Viola Green was struggling—struggling with a weighty problem. What Mrs. Pangborn had said to her that evening in the office meant for Viola dismissal from school, unless—unless—
Viola was thinking of a plan. Surely she could make Dorothy agree to it, Dorothy was so easy to manage, so easy to influence.