The Mystery of the Emeralds

Mr. Carver,” Trixie assured bin. “Just tell us where the cemetery is, and we’ll come back tomorrow and see if we can find any clues.”
    Edgar Carver wheeled himself over to a French door that looked out over a wide expanse of lawn to a clump of trees in the distance.
    “Beyond those cryptomeria trees, close to the fence between Green Trees and Rosewood Hall, you’ll find it,” he said, pointing out the stately, tall evergreens.
    “What kind of trees?” Mart asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that name before.”
    “Cryptomeria,” Mr. Carver repeated. “I’ve often wondered if they were called that because they are frequently planted in cemeteries, where there are crypts.”
    “It could be,” Mart said with interest. “I’ll look it up when I get home.”
    “Now, when you get here tomorrow, I shall have the key to the vault for you,” Mr. Carver continued. “The door hasn’t been opened since my father’s funeral, many, many years ago, so it may give you some trouble.”
    “We’ll stop in town and get a can of penetrating oil,” Brian said. “That’s sure to work.”
    “What in the world is penetrating oil?” Honey asked.
    “It’s a special kind of oil for loosening up metal parts that have stuck or rusted,” Brian explained. “I couldn’t get along without it, working on parts for my old car.”
    “How is it different from just plain old oil?” Di asked.
    “I know the answer to that one,” Mart broke in eagerly. “Penetrating oil has a different molecular structure, so it can get into microscopic openings in the metal, where ordinary oil won’t go.”
    “I can see Brian is the practical member of your team, and it looks as though Mart were the scientist.” Mr. Carver laughed. “Am I right?”
    “Well, actually, Brian is going to be a doctor,” Honey said proudly, “but when he isn’t reading medical books, he’s usually working on his old jalopy. He can do anything with a motor.”
    “And there’s no telling what Mart will turn out to be,” Brian said, giving his brother a poke in the ribs. “He says he wants to be a farmer, but the way he throws big words around, we re sure he’ll be a famous author. Then the next minute we’re convinced his future lies with the circus. He’s a real clown!”
    “And my guess is that he’ll end up running a restaurant.” Trixie giggled. “He loves food better than anything else in the world!”
    Edgar Carver saw the little group to the door and suggested that when they returned the next day, they come directly around to his study. “I’ll be there or in my studio,” he added, “and it will save me going all the way to the front of the house if you use the side door.”
    It was only after the Bob-Whites were in the station wagon and had started back to Williamsburg that Trixie brought up the subject of Neil. It had been bothering her all afternoon, but she had pushed it to the back of her mind during the visit with Edgar Carver.
    “Now I’m sure,” she began. “It was Neil I saw that day at the filling station, and he wasn’t going to Texas. He was coming right here to Cliveden!”
    “But how would he have known anything about Rosewood Hall or the necklace?” Di asked innocently. “Didn’t you say you told Miss Julie to keep it a secret?”
    “Oh, Di, I wish I were as trusting as you are,” Trixie said. “Of course we pledged her to secrecy, but remember, she’s ninety years old. Besides, she adores Neil, and if he got wind of anything we told her, you can bet he’d wheedle the whole story out of her.”
    “And who knows?” Honey added. “Maybe after we left, more details came back to the old lady, and she told Neil things she didn’t even remember when we were there.”
    “That’s a possibility,” Trixie said thoughtfully, ‘Taut one thing’s certain. Neil can’t possibly know where the necklace is hidden, because we have the diaries and he’s never laid eyes on them.”
    “But now we’ll have to be extra careful that he doesn’t find out anything more,” Jim said. “Maybe we should have warned Mr. Carver about him.”
    “I thought of that,” Trixie said, “but I didn’t want to upset him until we knew more about what’s up.”
    “Where do you suppose that Jenkins character fits into the picture?” Brian queried.
    “I don’t think he fits into any picture,” Mart replied. “I think he’s been a misfit from birth—a real misanthrope, I’d say.”
    “Well, you would