The Mystery at Saratoga

library back in Sleepyside? If someone’s grown up poor and afraid, they’ve also built up a lack of faith in people that’s hard to overcome. You and I tend to trust people, because our experience tells us that most people are good and kind and will believe us when we tell them the truth. Regan’s only had that experience since he took the job with your parents. He still has a lot of mistrust to overcome. If your parents try to contact him—or worse yet, if they decide to bring the police or the racing association in on the case—Regan will run again. I’m sure of it.”
    “I know all that,” Honey said. “But I know, too, that Regan’s chances of clearing himself aren’t helped by his own fear of being recognized. And our chances of clearing him are pretty dim; we’re fourteen-year-old girls who’ll be going up against some very tough customers.”
    Trixie leaned her head against the back of the seat and closed her eyes. “People always think detective work is just a matter of finding out what the truth is,” she said mournfully. “But in this case, we have more truths than we need. The problem is trying to figure out how to deal with them.” She lifted her head and looked at Honey resolutely. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “We’ll keep working on the case until this so-called vacation is over and it’s time for us to go back to Sleepyside. If nothing has fallen into place by then, we’ll have another discussion about telling your parents. How’s that?”
    “I guess it’ll have to do,” Honey said reluctantly as the taxi pulled up in front of their hotel. “But from now on, I’m going to keep my fingers crossed whenever I make a promise.”
    At the hotel desk, the girls found another note from the Wheelers. Honey waited until they were in their room before she unfolded it and scanned it quickly. “Oh, no,” she moaned.
    “What is it?” Trixie asked. “Is something wrong?”
    “Not exactly,” Honey replied. “At least, I’m sure Daddy didn’t think so when he wrote this note. He’s arranged another surprise for us: We’re to have dinner tonight with Mr. Worthington, Mr. Stinson, and Mr. Stinson’s daughter, Joan.”
    “Oh, woe.” Trixie looked stricken. “Honey, I can’t stand it. Let’s think of some excuse for not going—let’s say we’re both sick or something. I simply can’t sit around a dinner table, tonight of all nights, and make small talk with the two men Regan suspects of trying to frame him.”
    “We have to, Trixie,” Honey said. “For one thing, it’s our duty as detectives. We have to be there to listen to what Worthington and Stinson say, in case they drop any information. And we also have to be there to keep them from dropping one specific piece of information.”
    “Gleeps!” Trixie cried, following Honey’s thoughts. “Regan’s name! Why didn’t I think of that before? If Stinson mentions Regan in front of your parents, like he did in front of us yesterday, the whole story will come out. If your parents find out Regan used to work for Worthington Farms, they’re sure to realize that Regan left the Manor House the same day Mr. Worthington came to visit, and they’ll probably decide that he ran because he was guilty. Regan might lose his job. They might even call in the police. Oh, woe!” She slumped despondently on the bed.
    Honey nodded, her face solemn. “I wasn’t worried before, because I know that Daddy feels very strongly about respecting other people’s privacy. He wouldn’t volunteer the story of Regan’s disappearance to someone he doesn’t know very well, like Mr. Worthington, because he’d feel that it wasn’t his story to tell. Carl Stinson obviously doesn’t feel that way, since he told us all about Regan the first time we ever met him. So we have to be there tonight, Trixie.”
    “We might as well start getting ready,” Trixie said. “At least tonight, I’m too worried about everything else to care how I look.”

    By the time the dessert was served at the restaurant that evening, the girls realized that they could easily have left the Wheelers alone with Carl Stinson without worrying about what he might say. The trainer was in a silent, sullen mood. Aside from answering a few questions with a yes or a no and giving the waiter his order, Stinson had not spoken all evening. His daughter, a pretty, intelligent young woman, had tried to fill in the awkward gaps in the conversation, but she had grown