“Oh! Oh!” she screamed. “It’s terrible! Down here—in the cellar——!”
(Frontispiece) (THE MYSTERY OF JOCKEY HOLLOW)

The Arden Blake Mystery Series

MYSTERY OF
JOCKEY HOLLOW

By
CLEO F. GARIS

A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers
New York Chicago

The Arden Blake Mystery Series

BY CLEO F. GARIS

The Orchard Secret
Mystery of Jockey Hollow
Missing at Marshlands

COPYRIGHT, 1934, BY
A. L. Burt Company

Mystery of Jockey Hollow

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE [I Fleeing in Alarm] 7 [II The Ghost Mansion] 20 [III Arden Wonders] 30 [IV Seeing the Dead] 42 [V Baffled] 53 [VI Introducing Granny] 61 [VII Trial by Jury] 68 [VIII The Ghost of Patience] 75 [IX A Warning] 86 [X The Missing Man] 91 [XI Callahan Collapses] 98 [XII A Strange Discovery] 103 [XIII Betty and the Books] 113 [XIV How Did It Happen?] 120 [XV Jim Doesn’t Know] 130 [XVI A Surprise] 140 [XVII Some Real Investigating] 148 [XVIII The Figure in Red] 157 [XIX Santa Claus] 168 [XX Harry Hears Something] 178 [XXI Rift in the Clouds] 185 [XXII Arden’s Idea] 193 [XXIII Mistletoe] 205 [XXIV A Strange Woman] 214 [XXV The Christmas Party] 223 [XXVI Two Ghosts] 230 [XXVII Frightened Screams] 237 [XXVIII Falling Stones] 243

CHAPTER I
Fleeing in Alarm

The proud old house rang with excitement. Nor was there any attempt to suppress it. When no one but the three girls, the faithful Moselle, and her daughter Althea were in it, there seemed no reason to go all the way up to Sim’s room when a lusty shout up the stairs would answer the same purpose. So Terry Landry stood with one foot on the bottom step, leaned against the banister, and again tried to make Sim hear her above the blatant music coming from the radio in the library where Arden Blake was supposed to be listening, but Arden, instead, was curled up in a big chair reading a book of ghost stories.

“Oh, Arden! Will you please turn off that radio just a moment while I call Sim?” Terry spoke in those evenly spaced, overly quiet tones sometimes effectively used to prevent one’s temper from taking flight.

“Hu—u—um!” came from the library as the radio was switched off. “What’s the trouble?”

“No trouble at all. Only I’ve shouted three times for Sim to come down and get this letter. But she must be asleep or something.”

“Letter? Let’s see!” Arden reluctantly closed the book she had been reading, uncurled herself from the depths of the chair, and came out in the hall to Terry, who said:

“It just came, and it’s postmarked New York. Look at the size of the envelope. I wish Sim would answer!” Terry repeated peevishly.

“Of course, you could go up, you know,” Arden suggested with a superior air.

Terry did not answer but tapped her foot impatiently, bringing into play a shining black patent-leather opera pump that was vaguely reflected in the polished floor beneath. Terry wore lovely shoes.

Arden took the letter and was examining it, front and back, feminine fashion. A leading jurist once said that if a woman was given a letter or any piece of paper she would, without fail, turn it over and look on the other side. Arden, however, was rewarded, for on the reverse, in large red letters, was the name “Rita Keene.”

“It’s from Dot’s mother,” exclaimed Arden. “I suppose it says Dot can’t come. But I should think she’d be glad to have her daughter visit such lovely girls as we are.” Premeditated sarcasm here.

“Are we lovely girls?” inquired a voice from the stair landing above. “Seems to me I heard a little shouting.”

“Sim! Where were you? I’ve been shouting for ages!” Terry announced.

“I know. I was phoning. I just called Ellery’s. I thought we could go for a ride through Jockey Hollow. It’s such a nice day, and we have the marketing done and everything.” Sim, a rather small light-haired girl, already dressed in riding clothes, was descending the stairs as she spoke.

“Open this letter first. It’s addressed to you. From Dot’s mother.” Terry handed over the missive as Arden made this demand on Sim.

“You could have opened it,” suggested Sim, carefully inserting a tiny shell-pink nail under the flap, in no hurry at all.

“It says,” she began, “‘My dear Miss Westover: I shall be most happy to have Dorothy spend the Christmas holidays with you. I am rehearsing in a new play and would have very little time to give her. I know you will enjoy yourselves. Cordially, Rita Keene.’ That’s all. Oh, no, it isn’t, either. It says, also, that Dot will get here tomorrow on the eleven o’clock train. We’ll meet her,” Sim concluded.

“Will you ask her, in due time, of course, to take her turn at doing the marketing?” Terry wanted to know.

“A good thought,” murmured Arden.

While Sim’s parents were spending Christmas in the South, Arden, Terry, and Sim had been entrusted with the running of the big town house. Arden and Terry were Sim’s guests over the holidays until it should be time to return to Cedar Ridge College, where they were freshmen. A last-moment idea had been to invite Dot Keene, also a freshman, to make one of the house party. Now, it appeared, Dot was coming.

Although Arden and Terry had their own fine homes in Pentville, not far removed from the Westover residence, they thought it much more fun to come and live with Sim and help her manage over the Christmas vacation. Like all girls, they were sure they could do it if once given the chance. So when Mr. and Mrs. Westover decided to go South, and when it was impracticable, because of the projected length of their stay, to take Sim with them, they agreed to let the three girls try housekeeping.

Moselle and her daughter Althea were there, of course, and would remain to do the housework. Moselle had been in service with the Westover family ever since Sim’s baby days, and Althea, blacker, if possible, than her mother, was learning the ways of a parlormaid and waitress. Henry, husband of Moselle, was driving Sim’s parents South in the big car. A small roadster had been left for Sim’s use.

“I don’t know,” spoke Sim in response to the suggestion of Terry and its seconding by Arden, “I think I’ll have to wait until we are a little better acquainted with Dot before suggesting marketing to her. I wouldn’t like to embarrass her so soon. Which reminds me—what did you order for lunch, Terry?”

“Lamb chops, baked potatoes, peas, salad, and some of Moselle’s special lemon meringue pie,” Terry answered practically, licking her lips in appetizing anticipation.

“Good!” exclaimed Arden and Sim in unison. And it was good.

“Did you make a date to ride today, or did I imagine it?” Arden next asked, getting back to the original subject.

“I nearly forgot. Yes, I did. For half-past ten. You two hurry and change while I get the car out.” Sim was already starting out of the front door, while her companions, murmuring about Sim’s habit of letting things go until almost the last minute, dashed up the stairs to the bright pleasant room they shared in Sim’s home.

It did not take them long to get into riding clothes; warm woollen underwear (for the weather was cold), heavy gloves, and hats pulled well down. Terry and Arden wore light tan trousers with darker coats, while Sim sported a dark green coat with cocoa-colored trousers. Looking “snappy” was the main idea.

Soon the three were sitting in the little roadster, Sim’s last year’s Christmas present. They soon covered the short distance to the Ellery Riding School.

The girls rode so frequently, every opportunity they had to be away from Cedar Ridge, that their favorite horses were ready for them when they arrived. Dick Howe, the young groom and helper around the stable, opened the door of the car.

“Good-morning,” he greeted them pleasantly and with a smile that displayed to advantage his white even teeth against the background of well tanned cheeks. “Nice day for a ride. How long do you want to stay out?”

“About two hours. What do you say, girls?” Sim asked. “Is that all right?”

“Fine,” answered Arden. “But couldn’t we go a new way for a change?”

“Yes, let’s go by Sycamore Hall,” suggested Terry.

“Sycamore Hall?” questioned Dick.

“Why not? We have time, and I like the hill there. It’s so nice for a canter,” Terry went on.

“Certainly. Whatever you say,” Dick agreed, with just a shade of reluctance, it would seem.

Their horses were led out, and Dick gave each of the girls a “leg up.” Stirrups were adjusted, and away they cantered.

Dick was a very proper young groom. He gave them a little trotting, some walking, and just enough cantering. A good horseman, he sagely observed, never allowed his animal to get overheated, but saw to it that there was the proper amount of exercise for himself and his beast.

Walking the horses, they reached the end of the paved highway and were soon upon the dirt road that wound around through a stretch of woodland into Jockey Hollow, a Revolutionary historic section just outside Pentville, which, though it was so comparatively near, had seldom been visited by Sim and her two chums. It was a lovely wooded place, containing, now and then, a cleared field. With Jockey Hollow in prospect, a pleasant ride was assured the little party, and, though they did not know it, the girls were to begin a strange adventure.

Now well out into the open, the horses suddenly, of their own accord, broke into a trot with Sim and Terry in the lead. Arden followed with Dick. The day was cool for December, and the horses seemed to feel frisky. They liked it.

“Don’t let him get going too fast, Miss Westover,” called the groom as he watched Sim. “We take that left turn.”

Sim pulled her horse up, and Terry also stopped. They looked back at Arden and Dick to make sure of the direction to take next. Dick smiled and pointed to a lane leading down a hill. Sim and Terry went that way but more slowly.

“This is a new way,” Arden said. “Do you know that road?”

Dick smiled slyly as he said, “I ought to. I live down there.”

“In Sycamore Hall?” Arden was surprised.

“No, not in the Hall, but in a little house near it. With my grandmother and sister. The Hall is soon going to be torn down to make way for a new road through this section. Jockey Hollow is going to be made into a national park on account of it being connected in many ways with the Revolution.”

“Oh, it is?” asked Arden, interested. This was news. But the truth of the matter was that though she and her chums knew, in a vague way, about Jockey Hollow, they had been, of late, so wrapped up in college life at Cedar Ridge, they had lost track of local matters.

Arden, suddenly occupied with guiding her horse, which evinced a desire to shy, did not pursue the subject with Dick. Through the trees she now caught a glimpse of the two-hundred-year-old mansion known as Sycamore Hall. There were many stories about it, one or two concerned with the more or less established fact that it still contained certain objects supposed to belong to the descendants of the original owners, whoever they were. No one now lived in the Hall, nor had it housed anyone for some time. In spite of its age, the old mansion, though woefully lacking paint, was well preserved. It was as strong and sturdy as some ancient oak tree.

Sim and Terry, in the lead, had approached Sycamore Hall and were waiting for Arden and Dick to reach them. The two girls gazed, not without interest, at the deserted mansion. There were evidences about it of some new and strange life. There were dump carts, but no horses, some piles of boards, and, near the drive, an old flivver that seemed impossible of being used.

From within the ancient mansion came dull blows, as of pounding, and out of some open windows floated a fine dust, like smoke.

“Is the place on fire?” asked Arden as she and Dick spurred their horses forward.

“No. But I guess they’ve already started to tear it down. A new road is going right through the old place.” Dick seemed to sigh a little.

“What a shame,” murmured Arden. “It’s too bad such a historic place can’t be preserved.”

“I guess it’s too old to preserve,” Dick said. “Though they are going to make a park of the Hollow and save some of the smaller houses that were used by Washington or Mad Anthony Wayne or some of the Revolutionary folks.”

“How interesting!” exclaimed Arden. “I wonder——”

But she never finished that sentence. Just at that moment something happened.

Two big Negroes, one carrying a crowbar and the other an ax, came fairly leaping out of the open front door of Sycamore Hall. They were mouthing something unintelligible and seemed to be rushing straight for Sim and Terry.

“Oh! Oh!” gasped Arden. “Oh, Dick, what is this?”

Straight for Sim ran the two Negroes, their ragged clothes white with plaster dust. They were still mumbling and waving their hands in a terrified way. This was too much for the nervous horse on which Sim was mounted. He reared sharply, nearly throwing the girl off, though she had a good seat, and then, wheeling, the beast ran wildly up the road past Sycamore Hall.

Terry managed to control her animal, though he too showed a desire to bolt.

“Oh, Dick!” cried Arden again.

“I’ll get her!” shouted the young groom, and spurring his mount he dashed away after Sim. Left to themselves, Arden and Terry looked at each other with frightened eyes. The two colored men ran into the woods across from the Hall, still mumbling in a strange way and showing every evidence of terrible fright.

“Come on, Terry, we’ve got to follow!” called Arden.

They urged their steeds after those of Sim and Dick. When they reached the top of the hill they could see that Sim was safe. Dick had dismounted and was holding her still frightened animal. Sim was soothing the creature with neck-pattings and calming words.

“Heavens, Sim! What happened?” gasped Arden.

“Those men scared Teddy, rushing at him that way, though why, I don’t know. I wonder what the idea was, having them dash out in that wild way? If I had been standing a little nearer they would have run right into Teddy and me! They couldn’t seem to turn off. They were wild with fright. But why?” Sim was a little indignant.

Dick smiled up at her. “Haven’t you heard?” he asked.

“Heard what?”

The other girls listened with interest.

“Why, this old place is said to have become suddenly haunted. Something in Sycamore Hall has stirred up the spirits of the departed owners, and more than once the Negroes and Italians hired to tear it down have been scared away—frightened stiff. A lot have quit. I understand the contractor has continually to get new men. And it looked as if those two who ran out saw something—or thought they did,” Dick concluded. “They probably won’t come back.”

“Haunted!” murmured Terry.

“Ghosts—Revolutionary ghosts,” whispered Sim.

“How thrilling!” exclaimed Arden. “Tell us some more, Dick.”

“Well——” began the groom, but he got no further.

Back up the hill came running the same two Negroes who had but a few minutes before rushed out of the mansion in such a terrified way. Their faces still bore signs of their fright.

CHAPTER II
The Ghost Mansion

Unable to understand what had caused the workmen to act as they had, and sensing the possibility of a further fright to the horses, Arden and her chums were about to wheel and ride away. But Dick called to them:

“Steady; I think it will be all right. These men don’t know what they’re doing. They are just frightened.”

“At what?” asked Arden.

“That’s what I’m going to try to discover,” said the young groom. Then, shouting to the running Negroes, he inquired:

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t ask us, boss,” answered one, dubiously shaking his head. “We sho’ am finished on dat job! I never could abide t’ wuk in haunted houses!”

“Dat goes fo’ me, too!” echoed the other. “I don’t laik ghosts!”

Then they both ran on, disappearing into the woods.

“Ghosts!” laughed Terry after a moment of silence. “They’re just what we need to brighten up our lives.”

“Let’s go in the old mansion and look around,” proposed Arden.

“Have we time?” suggested Sim.

They glanced at Dick for his verdict.

“We have about half an hour,” he said, looking at his watch. “Go on in if you want to.”

When they urged their horses through the overgrown tangle that had once been a front yard and came to a stop near the big broad porch, the pillars of which were tilting, Dick helped the three girls to dismount. Then, leading the horses to a tree with conveniently low branches, he looped the reins so the animals would not stray. Horses in the East are not trained like their Western cousins, to stand if the reins are left to dangle on the ground.

The girls held back a little before going up the four steps at the entrance of the house. It was a combination Georgian-Colonial style, squarely built, with a beautiful fanlight still intact over the center door.

“It is spooky, isn’t it?” asked Sim with a pleased little shiver.

“Did you ever see such a sorrowful house, though?” Arden wanted to know.

“What do you mean, sorrowful? To me it seems very proud and stern,” Terry decided.

“I don’t think so. Look at the way the door hangs on its hinges. Ready to fall off if it had a good push. And what lovely hinges they are, too. Hand forged, I’ll bet,” Arden said, going a little closer to inspect.

Sim, quickly sympathetic, fell under the spell of Arden’s imagining. “Poor old place,” she murmured, “I don’t blame it for haunting the workmen. I suppose this house has been the scene of many an exciting adventure. Do you know anything about it, Dick?” Sim turned to the boy, who stood aside waiting for them to enter.

He hesitated a moment before replying and then seemed reluctant to give much information.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “I know a little bit about it. You see this place once belonged to my ancestors.” He looked down at his polished boots and appeared rather bashful.

“Really?” asked Sim. “Tell us, please,” and she smiled disarmingly at him.

Arden and Terry waited hopefully for Dick to continue.

“Suppose we go in and I’ll show you the place,” the young groom suggested.

“How about the ghosts?” Terry asked.

“These ghosts aren’t the common graveyard variety—that is, if the stories are true. They all seem to be spirits of soldiers, farmers, and sometimes there’s the ghost of a lovely girl,” Dick went on. “You see this place was built during the Revolution. The Continental army ‘dug in’ at Jockey Hollow, here, for the winter of 1779.”

Terry, growing bolder, preceded the others into the hall. Rooms very much dilapidated were on either side. One room, probably a parlor, was dominated by an enormous fireplace with a faded picture above it.

“Oh, girls, come here!” Terry called. “Look at this! Is this your girl ghost, Dick?”

They hurried to Terry as she stood before the painting. Terry was in sharp contrast to the charming scene above. Feet planted a little apart, hands clasped behind her back, tall as she was, her head just came to the old, high mantel. The girl in the picture was also in riding clothes, but far different from Terry’s. They looked like a tableau: “The Past and Present.”

Terry wore smart riding trousers and a flaring coat. Her sandy hair was just showing beneath a well blocked hat.

The girl in the picture was dark-haired and tall. Her right arm was thrust through the reins of a black horse. The panniers of her dark-green riding costume seemed to melt into the leafy background of the painting.

The picture girl was staring straight at Terry and perhaps it was not entirely imagination that disclosed something akin in the two girls.

“What a charming picture you make!” Arden remarked, and then, as she saw that Terry was perhaps too delighted at the compliment, she added: “In this dim light we can’t see the freckles.”

Terry turned and, like a small boy, stuck a pink tongue out at Arden.

Dick, in the meanwhile, was looking thoughtfully at the girls. Sim went to him.

“Dick,” she said softly, “I can see that you somehow belong here. Won’t you tell us about it? We’ve been riding with you several seasons now, and we won’t repeat a thing if you don’t want us to.”

“Please,” begged Arden. “You look as sad as this house, Dick. What’s the matter?”

“This place,” Dick began with an including gesture, “once belonged in my grandmother’s family. But the deed, or some necessary paper, has been lost, and now the state claims the estate, and the old house is to be torn down to make way for a road. The march of progress, you know, must not be halted.”

“But has it no historic interest?” Terry asked. “Couldn’t it be preserved as a shrine of some sort? I mean the house, for you said Jockey Hollow is going to be a park.”

“I’m afraid not,” continued Dick. “I guess it’s about the only mansion that George Washington never visited. Besides, the original house has been added to so many times that now it is a combination of three or four periods.”

“What would your grandmother do with this property if she could find the deed?” asked Terry practically.

“Sell it,” answered Dick without any hesitation. “At least it would bring enough money for me to give up this stable job that any half-wit could hold and let me finish at college. Then Betty, she’s my sister, could go to New York and keep on with her work in costume design and interior decoration. She’s really talented,” he added earnestly.

“If this home were mine I should hate to part with it,” Arden announced. “I don’t see how your grandmother can bear to give it up. Isn’t there a chance that she could keep it, Dick?”

“Perhaps, if we could prove title. But even then we need the money its sale would bring. Granny ought to have little comforts, though really she’s been swell about it all. Never complains. And the stories she knows!”

“What does she say about the ghosts?” Sim asked.

“Just laughs. She says she’d sleep here on All Souls’ Eve or any other particularly ghostly time. I guess she likes ghosts.”

“I’d love to meet her sometime. Do you think we might? I wish we could help some way,” said Arden thoughtfully.

“I’ll ask her. I’m sure she would. She leads rather a lonely life,” Dick answered. “And she loves young folks.”

“Say, Dick, who is this girl in the picture? Isn’t it too valuable a painting to be left here?” Terry was studying the painting.

“It’s not worth much. It was probably painted by one of those traveling artists who could do family portraits or barns, whichever might be wanted. Granny has left a few things in here to sort of claim the place, though the claim isn’t recognized. And we live now in a little house behind this one. It used to be the servants’ quarters,” Dick finished bitterly.

The little group fell silent. The girls had stumbled, it seemed, upon something very private, and they felt embarrassed at learning of someone’s misfortune.

“Like finding somebody crying when they thought they were alone,” Terry later remarked.

No one knew what to say. Dick walked to a window that reached almost from the ceiling to the floor, and stood looking out. Terry, always the first to move, stepped over the fender around the fireplace and peered up the chimney. For no reason except to break the trying silence, as far as she knew.

Barely perceptible at first, gradually a sound impressed itself on the girls. Like footsteps on a stair, far away but coming nearer, the sound approached.

Terry pulled back her head from the dark corner of the fireplace and looked at her friends. They stood like statues staring back at each other, while Dick turned slowly from the window.

“What’s that?” Sim asked, cocking her head like a young puppy as if to hear better.

“Sounds like someone creeping down the stairs,” Arden ventured.

“Perhaps it’s one of the workmen coming back,” suggested Terry.

At this Dick shook his head. “No,” he said. “I happen to know that those two men we saw a while ago were the only ones on the job today, and they left in a hurry,” he finished, grinning.

“Well, then, there is only one explanation left.” Arden was glowing with excitement. “Ghosts!”

“Oh, gosh!” exclaimed Sim. “Let’s go! I like to read about ghosts but I don’t like to meet ’em. Come on!” Without waiting for the others, Sim ran from the room.

“Wait, Sim, wait!” Terry called. And when Sim did not return Terry added: “Arden, we’ll have to go too! I don’t like it, either.” Then she turned traitor to the cause and ran after Sim.

There was nothing left, then, for Arden and Dick to do but follow. But Arden lingered a moment in the hall on her way out and listened.

The measured sound above was slowly coming closer. Heavy steps, as though the feet making the noise were encased in thick boots.

“Thud! Thud! Thud!”

Above the first landing all was in darkness, and even Arden, ghost-loving as she was, decided to wait no longer to find out what might be coming down the long stairs.

With a last fearful look she also fled, calling to Dick for protection and stumbling over a loose floor board in her haste.

CHAPTER III
Arden Wonders

Communing with herself, Arden Blake, as she dashed out of the strange old mansion, was wondering just what it was all about and what, exactly, had happened.

Dick, anxious about the horses and doubtless believing there was no danger to Arden, who had been left to be the last out of the house, did not pause as she called to him.

“She’ll be in the open in another second,” reflected the young groom.

As she hastened out Arden had many conflicting thoughts.

“Another mystery,” she told herself, half whispering. “Can there be ghosts? If ever there was a place made for them, Sycamore Hall is. But ghosts in the daytime! Perhaps those men did it to annoy us for coming around while they are working. But what object could they have in doing that? Oh, if it’s another mystery, I hope it turns out as well as the one in the orchard did.”

At last she was away from the strange big house, and she fairly jumped down the broad steps. With a sigh of relief she saw the girls and Dick.

Outside, the horses were straining at their bridles. With ears laid back and eyes frightened, every now and then one gave a nervous little tap on the hard ground with dainty fore feet.

Sim tried to mount Teddy unassisted, but every time she put her foot in the stirrup the frisky animal wheeled about, leaving her hopping helplessly. At last Dick had to hold him while Sim climbed up. Then helping up Arden and Terry, Dick mounted his own horse with practised ease, and they turned away from the ghost house.

So nervous were the animals that the girls did little talking. They were occupied in keeping them under control. Dick cautioned them about letting the horses bolt. Headed to the stables as they were, once they got going it would be difficult to stop them, and a dash across the heavy traffic streets of Pentville would be dangerous.

Arden did manage, when her horse settled down a bit and danced along beside Dick’s for a stretch, to ask him what had gotten into their usually well behaved mounts.

“They’re frightened at something,” he answered. “They were scared stiff when we came out.”

“So were we all,” Arden admitted. “Do you suppose the horses could feel our fright?”

“Some people claim that a horse feels his rider’s every mood,” Dick answered. “I really don’t know. But I surely believe these horses sensed something, perhaps more than we did. But——” Then Dick’s shining black mare broke into a sudden trot, and he could not finish what he started to say.

But Arden was persistent. She urged her steed forward and was again riding beside the groom while Terry and Sim pranced on ahead.

“Do you believe in ghosts, Dick?”

He hesitated a moment and then slowly answered: “I believe that people often see just what they expect to see in haunted houses, so called, and hear just what they want to hear.”

Arden was plainly disappointed at this matter-of-factness on Dick’s part. She had hoped for something more concrete than this. But remembering Dick’s, or, rather, his grandmother’s, connection with Sycamore Hall, she did not press her point.

“Let’s catch up to the others,” she proposed, and Dick assenting, they were soon close behind Terry and Sim, who were still talking soothingly to their mounts to quiet the restless animals. After a ride of several miles through woodland they reached a straight open stretch of road and broke into a smart canter. The girls were a little breathless when they dismounted at the stables.

“Do you young ladies want to make another date for the end of the week?” asked Titus Ellery, owner of the riding academy, as he came forward on much-bowed legs. He was not an attractive man, but he knew horses. Rather stingy and grasping was his reputation. “How about it?” He was respectful enough but persistent.

Sim spoke up.

“Not just now. We’ll phone.” Telling Dick to “charge it,” she and the girls walked toward the waiting roadster.

Dick opened the door.

“Don’t let this adventure scare you,” he said in a low voice. “It was probably nothing but those excited men imagining something.” He seemed worried lest they cancel further riding engagements during the holidays, and Dick probably made a little commission.

“Don’t worry,” Terry answered. “We loved it! See you later; and thanks, Dick!”

They were off, Sim driving with a little less than her usual abandon. Arden was the first to notice it.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Scared?”

“No, just thinking.”

“It was queer,” murmured Terry. “I was really frightened.”

“The men were, anyhow,” said Arden. “And when we heard those bumping sounds coming out of an old uninhabited house——” She shivered a little.

“Probably falling plaster!” laughed Sim.

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Arden.

“She’s thinking of what happened in the orchard,” remarked Terry.

“Well, something happened there all right,” Arden responded.

“Let’s forget it a while,” proposed Sim, and she stepped on the gas in her usual manner.

Home again, they were greeted at the door by the smiling Moselle who answered their ring.

“You-all have a nice ride?” she asked cheerfully.

“Grand,” answered Terry. “And we met up with some very fine ghosts, Moselle.”

“Ghosts?” Moselle’s eyes were wide.

“Over by Sycamore Hall,” Terry continued.

“Um—uumm!” Moselle shook her head. “I don’t know what your mother will say, Miss Sim. Chasing after ghosts. You-all ought to keep away from that place. I know it’s dangerous. Plumb full of ha’nts, that what it is.”

“Why, Moselle! Do you know anything about it?” Sim asked, surprised.

“Yes’m, Miss Sim, I sure does! Only las’ night Brutus Jackson tole me he was going to work there ’cause he needed a little change, and ain’t half hour ago he came dashing into my kitchen with Sam Brown and tell me they done quit.”

“He did—why?” Arden frantically signaled Sim to let her continue the questioning of Moselle.

“Why, he say,” went on the colored woman, “a funny old soldier with a bloody bandage around his haid come clumping down the stairs and stood pointing for Sam and him to get out the door and, yes, ma’am, he say they sure did git!” Moselle made unbelieving noises.

Terry turned to Sim. “Gosh, I’m sorry we didn’t stay. What’d you run for, Sim?”

Sim started to reply, but seeing Moselle listening intently said casually, “Oh, I just felt like it.” Then, addressing the curious cook, she asked: “How about lunch, Moselle?”

“Yes’m, Miss Sim, in just a few minutes. You-all got time to change if you like,” she said, quick to realize she was being dismissed.

“Good! Come on then, kids, let’s go up;” and before Arden or Terry could ask any more questions Sim, taking them by the elbows, steered them up the stairs.

By unspoken consent they gathered in Sim’s room.

“Gee, Arden, I was afraid Moselle would get all worked up, and then you know what she’d do? Write to Mother and Dad and get them all excited. She doesn’t miss a thing. And she’s very superstitious.”

“I forgot about her,” Terry admitted pulling a turtle-necked sweater over her head. “Wounded soldier! I guess that’s what we heard. Certainly sounded like footsteps to me. Don’t you love it? What did Dick say, Arden?”

“Not much,” Arden answered. “We were too busy with the horses. Did you notice how scared they were?”

“Say,” interrupted Sim happily, “won’t Dot love this! Bet she won’t want to sit around and play contract now.”

“Oh, contract—who wants to do that? There’s something queer about that place, and I’m going to find out what it is before I have to go back to school,” announced Arden emphatically.

“We’re with you, Arden! You can’t leave us out of any such excitement as that,” Terry decided. “Can she, Sim?”

“I should say not!” Sim said, and striking a dramatic pose sang out: “All for one, one for all! Arden, Terry, and Sim!”

“And Dorothy,” supplemented Arden. “She’ll be here tomorrow. Let’s take her out to see the house in the afternoon.”

“Yes,” agreed Sim. “That will be fun, and maybe we’ll see the soldier.”

At this point in their plans the dulcet tones of the luncheon bell could be heard coming from below, and Terry was obliged to slip her sweater on again. In the end they all ate in riding clothes and talked of subjects far from their minds lest Althea, who was serving, should carry ghost stories back to her mother in the kitchen.

The lamb chops were done to a turn, and the peas were startling in their lovely greenness. The pie, lemon meringue, was a fluffy dainty that disappeared with remarkable quickness when put before the girls.

Everything in its place was their motto; ghosts belonged to Jockey Hollow, and food came under Moselle’s supervision. After a half year of college fare, food was, after all, important.

Arden Blake, Terry Landry, and Sim Westover had been schoolmates and chums ever since they started in Vincent Prep. They were graduated at the same time and went to Cedar Ridge College for their freshman year together. The first term of the college had just ended and they were home for the Christmas holidays.

As told in the first volume of this Arden Blake mystery series, entitled The Orchard Secret, almost as soon as the three freshmen signed in at Cedar Ridge things began happening. There was something strange about the college orchard, where so many gnarled, weird, black trees stretched up their waving branches in the night. And when Arden saw the poster of the missing and rich Henry Pangborn, there was another complication.

But Arden and her two chums solved the puzzle, much to the benefit of the college swimming pool, which had had to be abandoned because there was no money to repair it. And thus Sim remained at college, for she was determined to become an expert swimmer and diver, and when she had found the swimming pool was so sadly out of commission, she had threatened to leave. But Arden’s success in solving the mystery had made everything all right.

When the three girls had finished lunch in Sim’s beautiful home on the outskirts of Pentville, a few miles from Jockey Hollow, Arden went to the library across the hall and began to scan the shelves impatiently.

“Know anything about these books, Sim?” she asked.

“Yes, of course I do. What do you want to know?”

“I want to find out something about our Revolution. Perhaps we can get a volume that will tell who really lived in Sycamore Hall in Jockey Hollow.”

“That’s a great idea, Arden! At times you seem almost brilliant,” laughed Sim.

“Well, suppose you help me to shine a bit,” Arden proposed.

“Let me help,” begged Terry.

They delved among the books but though they found some American history lore and much about the Revolution, there was nothing on Jockey Hollow or Sycamore Hall.

“I’ll have to try somewhere else,” Arden sighed.

The girls spent most of the afternoon talking over their strange adventure, at times hardly believing it had happened, again with a little thrill of fear mingled with doubt as to what it all meant.

“Well, I’m going to find out something,” finally announced Arden the impetuous.

“How?” drawled Sim.

“I’m going to the library. They ought to have something there about Jockey Hollow. Goodness knows it was important enough!”

“Tell us when you come back,” begged Terry.

“Don’t you want to come with me?”

“No. I’m for a nap. Riding always makes me drowsy.”

“I’m with you, Terry,” announced Sim. “Come on.”

She led the way upstairs, where she and Terry changed from riding clothes to lounging pajamas. But Arden donned a polo coat and low-heeled shoes and started out.

“Don’t you want my car?” sleepily called Sim, lolling on her bed.

“No, I’m going to walk, thank you.”

She was on her way, though she scarcely realized it, to the beginning of another strange mystery.

CHAPTER IV
Seeing the Dead

Arden felt sure there must be some historical books in the town library that would throw light on the legends of Jockey Hollow. By studying these legends, Arden decided, she might strike a clue to the traditions that had built up the Sycamore Hall ghost stories.

Hurrying to the library, determined to get at that angle without delay, she was disappointed when she saw a girl standing at the entrance and shaking the heavy door handle to make sure it was locked.

“That must be Dick’s sister, Betty,” she decided. “He said she worked in the library. But why is she closing it so early?”

Reaching the door, Arden asked about the early closing. The girl, pretty and friendly, explained that lack of funds and the holiday season made it more practical to close early. She was Betty Howe, she admitted, smiling at Arden’s question. And she said her brother Dick had mentioned the girls from the Westover house having gone riding with him.

“I’m sorry, but all the lights are out now,” the girl continued. “We open at nine in the morning, you know,” she smiled, putting away her keys and pulling on her gloves.

“Oh, thank you. Then I’ll come back in the morning.”

“Yes, do. I hope it was nothing important?”

“No, indeed,” Arden answered smiling. “Tomorrow will do nicely.”

But as she hurried along to Sim’s she did feel disappointed.

“Did you find out anything?” Sim promptly asked, while Arden sank down rather wearily.

“No. The library was closed. But I had a nice walk,” Arden tried to persuade herself as well as Sim.

“Well, let’s forget the ghosts,” suggested Terry. “It’s been a long day, and tomorrow we’ll have Dot with us.”

“And so, to bed!” yawned Sim, and those who didn’t yawn certainly felt like it.

Their night was undisturbed by “witches, warlocks or lang-nebbied things,” in spite of what had happened, or was thought to have happened, at the Hall. Not even a bad dream threw its shadow on the healthy girls sleeping serenely at Sim’s.

Perhaps that grand feeling of being able to lie abed as long as they wished was too much for them; at any rate, when Terry breezily wished Moselle a cheery good-morning, the maid made no attempt at hiding her surprise.

“’Mornin’, Miss Terry. You-all sleep well?” she inquired.

“’Morning, Moselle,” Terry replied. “Yes, thank you. And now I’m ready for a big breakfast.”

Moselle grinned her delight. She loved to cook, and nothing pleases a cook more than knowing her art is appreciated.

Arden and Sim were not long behind Terry, and the girls made a pretty picture in their gay dresses against the background of dark paneled walls in the dining room.

It was Arden’s day to do the marketing, but because they were to drive to the station and meet Dorothy Keene, shortly after breakfast, they agreed, “just for this once,” to leave the planning of the day’s meals to Moselle. They were still determined to run the house efficiently and well, on a smaller budget than Sim’s mother had allowed; furthermore, Terry and Arden agreed not to telephone home for advice. Of course, the routine of cleaning and washing went on as before: the girls could not improve on that. So Moselle was instructed to call up the stores and have something very special for the coming guest, whose mother was “in the movies,” which fact thrilled Moselle to the cockles of her heart.

When the train pulled into the suburban station, the three girls, with the car parked as close as possible to the platform, had no trouble in finding Dorothy. Although Terry, perched on the car top, which was folded down, had thought she could see better from that vantage point and locate her chum more quickly, Dorothy, it developed, was the only passenger who alighted at Pentville. So they saw her at once. She was wearing a smart fur coat cut on swagger lines and a ridiculously small hat pulled over one eye. She waved a greeting.

“Hello, Dot!” Sim ran to meet her. “Awfully glad you could come.” They hugged affectionately. “We’re having specially nice weather just for you.”

“Sim dear,” the girl replied, “and Terry and Arden, it’s great to see you. I’ve been in a penthouse in New York with a lot of stage-struck people, and I feel a bit struck myself,” she laughed. “This lovely country and you kids are just what I need,” declared the visitor.

They walked toward the car, each trying to show her own particular brand of pleasure at Dot’s arrival.

“And we need you, too,” Arden put in with a little tug at Dot’s arm. “Don’t we, girls?”

“Now, look here!” and Dot pulled them all to a sudden halt. “You are up to something, I’m sure. What is it? Any new mysteries thrusting themselves upon you?”

“Dot, my child,” Arden answered, “you are positively psychic! That’s exactly what we’re bursting to tell you!”

“Ghosts! Nice hundred-year-old ones! All hoary and bloody, with pointing fingers!” Terry supplied.

“And a poor old lady and two orphan grandchildren,” grunted Sim, as she tried to turn the wheel of the car. All four were in the front seat, a feat accomplished by Sim, Arden, and Terry squeezing into a row and Dot sitting on Terry’s lap. That Dot’s head was much higher than the windshield and unsheltered from the wind bothered them not at all. With so much to say, they simply couldn’t split up the group by using the rumble seat. Dot’s grips were there, anyway, and for the two weeks of her visit she would be well supplied with clothes—at least, judging by the size of the bags.

“Go on, my dear Watsons,” chuckled Dot laughing. “Isn’t there a nice-looking young man any place in this mystery?”

“Of course there is,” replied Terry, “and a girl, too.”

“But the house, Dot—it’s perfect! We heard the ghostly footsteps ourselves, and in broad daylight, too!” Sim surprisingly stated.

Dorothy shook her head. “You’re all sleeping idiots! Well, I won’t arouse you. I suppose country people must have some amusement.”

“Country people!” Three voices sang out together. It never failed. A suggestion that they in Pentville were not as metropolitan as their New York chum was always a disputed point.

“A ghost couldn’t live in New York,” Arden said sarcastically. “You have to get out where there is some room for ghosts. Like Pentville or Jockey Hollow.”

“Don’t you believe us, Dot?” Terry asked. Dot just smiled.

“We’ll show you. What do you say, girls—shall we go over to Jockey Hollow before we go home? The bags will be safe. Our ghost isn’t a thief.” Sim slowed down at the junction where one road led to the Hollow, which they would pass as they went to Sim’s house, though at some distance.

“Yes! Let’s go, Sim. If you’re not afraid of the car on those roads,” Terry said, plainly anxious to go back to Sycamore Hall.

Sim needed no urging, and going into second she turned the wheel and very carefully started down the narrow dirt road. On the brow of the hill she stopped and pointed out the faded stone walls of the house which could clearly be seen through the bare trees.

“That’s it, unbeliever,” Sim told her guest. “We’ll take you inside, if we can get in, and show you things your eyes have never before beheld.”

“Lead on MacDuff,” Dorothy laughed. “Whom have you hired to jump out on me and cry ‘Boo’?”

“Word of honor, Dot,” Arden insisted, “it isn’t a joke. You’ll see! Go on, Sim,” she prompted.

Bouncing and rolling from side to side, the little roadster neared the house. The old lane that once approached prosperous farm lands, but was now overgrown and stony, led almost to the door. But knowing she must turn around again to go home, Sim stopped so they could back out.

Shutting off the motor, she turned to her friends.

“I hope he shows up,” Sim whispered to Arden and Terry.

“Who?” asked Dot.

“The old soldier with a wounded head, all bandaged in bloody rags. He wears very heavy boots and was hidden and sheltered from the British in this old house during the Revolution,” Terry guessed facetiously.

“But how did you find out all this?” Dot was plainly interested but also a little incredulous.

“We were riding here in Jockey Hollow yesterday,” Sim explained, “when our horses were frightened, and we were, also, by some Negro workmen rushing out of the place, crying, ‘Ghost!’ Oh, it was startling!” and she related, in her most convincing way the details of their strange adventure.

“Oh!” said Dorothy after a little pause. “Oh!” That was all.

The four sat in the car, no one speaking for a while. Their own imaginings had gotten the best of them, evidently, though no one would admit it.

Then, suddenly, the quiet and peace surrounding the old Hall was broken, by the loud squeaking of ancient nails being pulled from hundred-year-old wood, and the shrill sounds were like the shrieks of frightened women. It startled the girls into activity.

“The workmen are back!” Arden said disappointedly. “I guess the ghost won’t dare come out.”