The Mystery of the Emeralds

answered. “It’s eleven thirty, and you know it only takes a few minutes to drive out there. Besides, I wouldn’t skip lunch for anything.”
    “Not even for the emeralds?” Honey asked.
    “Well, now you really put me on the spot.” Mart laughed. “I guess I could skip one meal if I had to, but that doesn’t mean I’d enjoy it.”
    “I don’t think you’ll have to be put to the test,” Trixie said disconsolately. “It looks as though we’d better forget the emeralds. There always has to be a first time for everything, you know, and this will go down as the Bob-Whites’ first failure.”
    “I refuse to believe it,” Honey said with a toss of her head.
    “What makes you so sure?” Brian asked. “Give me one good reason for optimism, and I’ll treat you to a banana split—triple-scoop king-sized.”
    “Oh, nothing tangible, really. It’s just a hunch,” Honey replied as they approached the restaurant. “But it’s a strong one, believe me.”

“Welcome to Green Trees!” • 8

    THERE WAS only one other car in the driveway at Green Trees when the Bob-Whites arrived.
    Tm glad there isn’t a big crowd,” Trixie commented as they approached the house. “You can see a lot more when there aren’t too many people.”
    Jim had no sooner rapped on the door with the big brass knocker than it was opened wide, and the Bob-Whites had their first glimpse inside. It was a glimpse that gave them all something of a shock, for the man who admitted them was in a wheelchair. His legs were covered by a woolen afghan, so that only the tips of his slipper-shod feet were visible.
    “Welcome to Green Trees. I am your host, Edgar Carver,” he said, lifting his hands in a wide gesture of hospitality. “How nice to see so many young people! Would you like to sign the register there on the table? Then we will join the couple in the next room for the tour.” Trixie thought she had never heard a more delightful voice.
    While Jim and the others were signing, she had a chance to observe their host more closely.
    “Were so glad to be here, Mr. Carver,” she said warmly. “It’s a real experience for us to see a house like this.”
    It was difficult for her to guess his age and equally difficult to believe him a cripple, for his shoulders were broad and strong-looking. His thick hair was quite gray, but there were remarkably few signs of aging in his handsome face. His deep blue eyes were clear and shining.
    “We drove by yesterday, after stopping to look at Rosewood Hall,” Trixie said, “and, I must say, our reception here is a lot more cordial than the one we got from your neighbor!”
    At the words “Rosewood Hall,” Mr. Carver leaned forward, his face sober.
    “How did you know about Rosewood Hall?” he asked gently. “From your accent, I’m sure you’re not from Virginia.”
    “No, we live a few miles outside New York City,” Trixie answered, “but I found a letter, and then I found Miss Sunderland and—well, it’s a long story.”
    “But a story which I should like to hear more about,” Edgar Carver replied earnestly. “I must take these people on the tour now, but will you stay on afterward and tell me of your discovery? You see, my mother was bom in Rosewood Hall, and her
    mother was a Sunderland.”
    “Of course I will,” Trixie replied as Mr. Carver started toward the door. “I’ll tell you everything that’s happened.”
    Although his wheelchair was an old-fashioned one with a high wicker back and large wheels, the man managed it skillfully.
    He must have been crippled for a long time, Trixie thought to herself as she watched him deftly turn it around and guide it through the door into the next room.
    The waiting couple proved to be a friendly middle-aged man and his wife, a Mr. and Mrs. Sellers, who were visiting various out-of-the-way places on their leisurely trip to Florida, where they planned to spend the winter. Mr. Sellers had been an architect before retiring and was interested in old and historic houses. He was likable, but Trixie wished he wouldn’t ask quite so many questions! She was dying to talk further with Edgar Carver. However, she didn’t let her impatience keep her from noting every detail of the beautiful house.
    As they went into yet another room, Mr. Carver explained that not all of Green Trees had been restored. This music room, for instance, was to be the next project of the historical society, but even in its present state of disrepair, it was