The Marshland Mystery

that she wasn’t angry any longer. Mart always felt better when he and Trixie were on good terms, though it was almost always his fault when they squabbled.
    “I suppose I should go tell her I’m sorry,” Trixie said grumpily.
    “We’ll give her a bunch of those yellow violets and a couple of the extra blue flags,” Honey suggested. “You know, as a tribute to her genius or something.”
    “Great!” Trixie giggled. “She’ll eat it up!”
    “Women!” Brian said with a sad shake of his head and a side wink at Jim.
    Jim grinned in reply, but before he could add his comment to Brian’s, they all noticed a tall, broad-shouldered figure hurrying toward them down the driveway. It was Regan, the head groom. Regan was the friend and confidant of all of them and, when it came to stable behavior and duties, their boss. He was always good-natured, except when one of them became a bit slack in grooming a horse or was careless taking care of the gear.
    Regan’s broad smile was missing as he came up to them. “Glad I found all of you before you broke up,” he said in an unusually serious voice. “Sergeant Rooney wants to talk to you up at the house.”
    “Goodness! Why?” Trixie asked in surprise.
    “Because he hopes one of you can give him a lead on where Miss Gaye has disappeared to!”
     

Missing ● 7
     
    GAYE? GONE?” Honey gasped, her hazel eyes wide with shocked surprise.
    “Looks like it,” the groom answered soberly. “We’ve just about turned the place upside down looking for her and that little white pooch of hers. No luck.”
    “She’s probably hiding,” Trixie suggested quickly.
    But Regan shook his head. “Don’t know where. That clubhouse of yours is locked, isn’t it?”
    Jim spoke up. “I’m the last one who left there this morning, and I tried the door before I turned away.” Regan was disappointed. “Well, that’s about the last hope we had—the clubhouse. I guess we’d better mosey up to the house and let the sergeant talk to you kids.” Jim, Mart, and Brian walked ahead with Regan, while Honey and Trixie brought up the rear. There was an uneasy silence between the two girls until the others had gone beyond hearing distance. Then Honey, with a worried frown puckering her brow, said, “I hope she didn’t go far into our woods. There’s the lake, you know.”
    “Hmph!” Trixie wrinkled her small nose. “She’s probably a champion swimmer. The lake wouldn’t be big enough for her to condescend to go swimming in it!”
    “I suppose she does know how to swim, at that,” Honey agreed, relieved.
    “What I think is that she’s hiding under the bed to worry her aunt, if she was as angry as Jim says she was when she got dragged away to practice.”
    “Or in a closet in one of the guest bedrooms,” Honey suggested.
    “Wherever she is, I’m sure she’ll show up for dinner!” Trixie predicted lightly.
    “But I wonder why they sent for the police.” Honey looked worried.
    They were in front of the huge Wheeler mansion now, and the boys were waiting on the steps for them.
    Mart met them with a grin. “You dolls be sure to clam up,” he hissed, pulling at an imaginary moustache. “Don’t let on we’ve got her bound and gagged in the old icehouse.”
    They both giggled, and Trixie pushed Mart out of the way as they hurried up the steps after Regan.
    Sergeant Rooney of the Sleepyside Police satisfied himself that none of them could throw any light on the whereabouts of the famous young violinist. He was very much inclined, Trixie guessed from his offhand manner, to think that this was all much ado about nothing.
    Miss Trask, the Wheelers’ efficient housekeeper, had assured him that no one belonging to the household had seen the child since midmorning.
    Honey’s mother had been in her room resting all day and could add nothing to that.
    Trixie and Honey told a straightforward story about their expedition to the marsh. “We knew Gaye had to practice,” Trixie said, “so we didn’t wait for her to come with us.”
    Miss Crandall, mopping tears from her eyes, admitted that she had had a slight disagreement with her niece about practicing. “Nothing serious, of course,” she assured the officers. “The dear child is high-strung, like all great talents. A little firm discipline now and then is the only answer.” Her lips made a thin line as she concluded, and Trixie felt suddenly sorry for Gaye, wherever she was. Moms was right, she reflected. Gaye did