The Mystery of Jockey Hollow Part 1

The Mystery of Jockey Hollow.

by Cleo Garis.

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 l.u.s.ty 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 s.p.a.ced, 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 fas.h.i.+on. 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 sh.e.l.l-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 embarra.s.s 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 antic.i.p.ation.

"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. d.i.c.k 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 d.i.c.k.

"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," d.i.c.k agreed, with just a shade of reluctance, it would seem.

Their horses were led out, and d.i.c.k gave each of the girls a "leg up."

Stirrups were adjusted, and away they cantered.

d.i.c.k 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 a.s.sured 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 d.i.c.k. 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 d.i.c.k to make sure of the direction to take next. d.i.c.k 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?"