The Marshland Mystery

hay.
    “Gaye?” she called, her voice making echoes. “Are you in here? It’s me, Trixie Belden, Gaye! I’ve come to take you home.”
    There was no answer from the shadowy depths of the barn. A faint light from a dust-and-cobweb-covered window high in the loft failed to show any details of what lay ahead. Trixie stood her ground in spite of an impulse to run.
    “Gaye!” she exclaimed impatiently, her voice breaking in spite of her. “I know you’re here! Answer me right now!”
    But there was only silence. If Gaye was there, she had no intention of answering.
    But if Gaye wouldn’t answer, perhaps the poodle puppy would. Trixie stuck two fingers into her mouth and gave a shrill whistle. While it still echoed, she called, “Here, Mr. Poo! Come get a nice big bone!” The mention of a bone always brought Reddy. But apparently bones were not on the elegant dog’s diet. There was no answering bark.
    Trixie stepped farther into the barn, well out of the patch of sunlight that had followed her inside. Now she could see the outline of an old-fashioned buggy against the far wall. Above it, a shallow loft stretched the width of the barn. A rickety ladder, minus a lower rung, leaned against the loft. Up there, Trixie could make out the ends of a couple of leather trunks and some barrels piled against the side wall. Musty hay swayed in the breeze from the open door behind Trixie.
    She could be hiding up there, Trixie thought, but she dismissed the idea as she moved closer and saw the cobwebs that were everywhere. Not our delicate little Miss Gaye of the concert stage, she told herself. A spider would panic her! Trixie heard a sudden small rustle in one of the stalls. She tiptoed over and popped around the corner of the partition, expecting to find Gaye and the little dog hiding there.
    Instead, something white rose up out of the musty hay and flew at her, wings flapping wildly.
    Trixie gave a shriek and ducked out of the way as an old setting hen flew past her, clucking loudly, and took a perch high in the rafters.
    Trixie expected to hear a giggle, but there wasn’t a sound. Suddenly it seemed very spooky in the old barn. Trixie turned around and fled out into the pale spring sunshine, closing the door hastily behind her.
    She went slowly around toward the front of the cottage. Two things she knew: It was Bobby’s bike in the ditch, and the missing child was the only one who could have left it there. The mystery was where Gaye had gone.
    And it had been Mr. Poo’s hysterical bark she had heard. She had heard enough of it yesterday afternoon not to forget it so soon. But it hadn’t seemed to come from inside the house. Maybe she had decided that mistakenly. Perhaps he was in a back room and the windows were closed. That would make his bark sound far away.
    For the first time, she felt a little shiver of fear. The thought came back to her that maybe Gaye had been hurt badly when she fell off the bike. That could have been why there had been no answer to her knock a few minutes ago. Maybe the old lady had gone for a doctor.
    Trixie made up her mind to get inside and find out.
    She hurried to the front door again. This time she fairly pounded on the door. I'll wait two minutes, and if I don't get an answer then, I'm going to try the door. I don’t care if it is illegal to walk into people’s houses without being invited. I’ve got a very good reason, and I’m sure I couldn’t be arrested.
    But this time, no sooner had she pounded on the heavy oak door than she heard light steps coming from beyond the door.
    Gaye, she thought. She must have decided to show herself.
    But it was not Gaye who flung the door open and stood facing her with an angry frown. It was a wiry little old lady with white hair parted in the middle. And the face was the one that had stared out at her and Honey from between parted curtains this morning.
    Trixie was so startled that for a moment she couldn’t speak.
    The little old lady snapped angrily, “Who are you, and what do you want? Can’t you take a hint when a person doesn’t answer the door when you knock? And what were you doing prowling around in my barn, young lady?”
    “I—I’m sorry.” Trixie found her tongue. “I was looking for a friend of mine.”
    “Well, don’t look for him around here. This is private property.”
    “It isn’t a him. It’s a her,” Trixie said hurriedly. “A little girl with long yellow curls. She plays the violin.”
    “I don’t care if