The Mysterious Visitor

posing as Mrs. Lynch’s long-lost brother?"
    "But," Honey objected, "if he isn’t Mrs. Lynch’s brother, how did he know she ever had one?" Trixie shrugged. "He could have read about the Lynches in a newspaper or heard about them from a friend who lives in Sleepyside."
    Tom parked the station wagon beside the steps leading to the Beldens’ terrace. As Trixie and her brothers climbed out, he said, "I gather the Uncle Monty you kids are talking about is the little guy who arrived up at our place on Saturday morning in a limousine?"
    "Yes, Tom," Honey said. "Mr. Montague Wilson. Did you get a chance to talk with him?" "Not this Saturday, I didn’t," Tom said. "But a couple of Saturdays ago, I did."
    "But that’s not possible, Tom," Honey said. "He only arrived ten days ago. On a Monday night."
    "It was on a Saturday, two weeks ago," Tom said emphatically.
    "What?" Trixie cried, almost shouting.
    "Tell us about it," Mart said as he and all the others crowded around the car window.
    "It was in the afternoon—at the station," Tom continued. "You see, I was waiting there for Mr. Wheeler, who’d gone in to his New York office that morning. I was driving the blue sedan, and I guess your friend Mr. Wilson thought it was a taxi." Tom chuckled. "I was parked practically in the hack stand space. Anyway, he comes up to me and says, ‘Two-ninety-one Hawthorne Street, my good fellow,’ with an English accent, and I say, ‘Sorry, sir. This is a private car.’ He had his hat pulled down over one eye, and that’s what made me look at him so closely. Because, unless you’re trying to hide your face, you don’t wear your hat down over the upper half of it." The young chauffeur laughed. "Take me, for instance. I’ve got nothing to hide so I wear my cap on the back of my head."
    "Hawthorne Street," Brian said. "I never heard of it. Are you sure he gave that address, Tom?" "I never heard of it, either," Tom said. "That’s how come I happened to remember it. I thought I knew every street in this town, so, being as curious as Trixie, I made a mental note of the address and decided I would look it up someday." "Did you?" Trixie asked.
    "No," he said, "and don’t you go looking it up, either, Trixie Belden."
    "Why not?" Trixie demanded.
    "Because," he said, "I asked a friend of mine, who’s a cop, about it. Webster. You Belden kids must know him. Webster’s the cop who used to be on duty in front of the grade school."
    They all nodded. "Spider" Webster was one of the most popular policemen in town.
    "He’s on night duty now," Tom continued. "On the outskirts of town where Main Street merges with the main highway. Anyway, he says Hawthorne Street is the worst street in town. Most people call it Skid Row. Nothing but ramshackle houses where bums live when they’re not in jail. And two-ninety-one has the worst reputation of them all. It’s a crummy hotel run by a shady character named Olyfant." Tom leaned out of the car window to shake his finger at Trixie wamingly. "Sleuth around in your imagination all you like, Trixie Belden. But if you know what’s good for you, steer clear of Hawthorne Streetl’

Bad Sews • 10

    IT DOESN’T MEAN a thing," Honey said firmly. "And you know perfectly well the boys agree with me. Tom was mistaken, that’s all."
    It was a warm, sunny morning, and right after a late breakfast, the girls had met at the clubhouse so that Honey could measure the windows for the curtains she planned to make.
    "I don’t care what the boys think," Trixie said. "They’re not always right. I’m as sure as sure can be that Tom was not mistaken." She placed the stepladder beside one of the windows and, with one hand on each side of the ladder, steadied it as Honey climbed up.
    "But Tom admitted himself," Honey said, "that the man he saw at the station two weeks ago wore his hat pulled down so that his face was halfhidden. Tom also reported that he spoke with an English accent, which Uncle Monty definitely doesn’t."
    "He doesn’t really speak with a western accent, either," Trixie said. "Did you notice how he pronounced rodeo? Well, out west, Honey, it’s always pronounced ro-day-o, never rodeo."
    "Both ways are right," Honey argued.
    Trixie ignored her. "And all that podner stuff. It’s phony. Everything he knows about ranches he got out of books."
    "That’s where you get your own information," Honey pointed out. "So how can you consider yourself a good judge?"
    "I don’t pretend to be," Trixie replied.