The Mystery of the Emeralds

Jim—it’s just got to be in here!” she said breathlessly. She took careful hold of the vase and tucked it under her arm. “Easy, now. Let me down,” she said, almost in a whisper.
    She put the beautiful little porcelain urn on the bench, reached inside, and drew out a small red velvet bag. She didn’t say a word as she untied the drawstring and took out a heavy gold locket in the shape of a heart.
    “Jim,” she said urgently, “there’s something engraved on the face of it. Let’s go over by the door. It’s too dark back here to make it out.”
    Quickly she stepped across the little room. Then, catching the light over her shoulder, she read, slowly and distinctly, ““To RSF, with love. Christmas, 1861.’”
    “Open it, Trix,” Jim whispered. “This is it—the clue Ruth left for Helen!”
    “Oh, Jim,” Trixie moaned, “you try it. My fingers are all thumbs. I can’t manage it!”
    Jim took the locket from her shaking hands, and in a moment he had discovered the secret—a little knob on the side of the locket, which, when pressed, released the hidden lock. It opened easily, and without saying anything, he handed it back to Trixie.
    There were two sections in the locket, the one in front holding a picture of a young man and woman. In the middle frame was a delicately woven ring of hair, mingled dark brown and gold.
    “That must be Ruth and her husband,” Trixie said, looking intently at the faded picture. “RSF stands for Ruth Sunderland Fields—and look, Jim! She’s wearing a necklace! I’ll bet it’s the emeralds!”
    When she turned to the back part of the locket, she saw, in the space where ordinarily there would have been another picture, a small bit of folded paper. She was about to take it out, when a shadow fell across the door and the silence was shattered! “Okay, you grave robbers! Hand it over!”
    “Jim! It’s Neil!” Trixie shouted. She clutched the locket tightly in her hand. “Get him out of here!”
    “Oh, no, you don’t!” the boy cried, lunging toward Jim, and before Trixie knew what was happening, the two were grappling, each trying to push the other far enough away to land a blow. Neil was about the same height as Jim, and, while he wasn’t quite as heavy, he was wiry and strong. Trixie watched spellbound for a minute or two, and then, fearing that Jim might be in trouble, she dashed outside. Running a few steps toward the house, she gave the Bob-White whistle loud and clear, repeating it several times in the hope that it would bring help—and quickly.
    When she got back to the mausoleum, Jim and Neil were still fighting savagely. Neil freed himself just long enough to level a blow at Jim’s head, but Jim saw it coming and ducked in time to avoid it. Then, seeing Neil off-balance, Jim dealt him a thumping wallop on the shoulder that sent him spinning around and down. Too late, Trixie tried to grab the urn from the bench. As Neil sprawled over the seat, the beautiful vase shattered.
    “Now, get going!” Jim barked as Neil pulled himself slowly to his feet and sidled past them. Without a backward glance, the boy ran through the cemetery, jumped the fence, and made off in the direction of Rosewood Hall. At the same time, Trixie saw the Bob-Whites racing toward her. Seeing Neil, they were about to follow him, but Trixie signaled for them to come to her.
    Turning her attention to Jim, she asked, “Are you all right?”
    “I seem to be all in one piece,” he said, shaking his head and bending his legs. “Nothing hurts, but I’m sure winded!”
    “What’s the idea, Trix?” Brian asked. “That was Neil, wasn’t it? We could easily have caught him.”
    “I know you could,” Trixie answered, slipping into her loafers, “but I think he may be more valuable to us if we let him go this time. It’s Jenkins we should worry about more than Neil.”
    “How do you figure that?” Honey asked. “It seems to me Neil’s the one who has been acting suspiciously all along.”
    “I know, I know,” Trixie said, an edge of impatience in her voice. “It looks as though he were up to no good, I’ll admit, but for the time being I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.”
    “But why ?” Mart asked. “I don’t think you’re being your usual logical self, dear sister.”
    “It’s not a matter of logic,” Trixie said, too engrossed in the analysis of her own feelings to resent Mart’s criticism. “It’s more a feeling I have about Neil.” She paused,