The Mystery of the Midnight Marauder

exasperated voice scolding his father. She guessed that the mangled bicycle had just been discovered.
    Trixie and Honey glanced at each other.
    “Is anything wrong?” Mrs. Crimper asked, glancing in the direction of the angry voices.
    When Honey had finished explaining what had happened, Mrs. Crimper looked horrified.
    “Oh, my dears!” she exclaimed. “Whatever must you think of that old rascal of mine? Lately, if it isn’t one thing, it’s another. And Sonny—I mean, Earl Junior—gets so worried about his father.”
    She had a worried frown on her face as she told the two girls that Grandpa had worked hard all his life. “But now that he’s retired,” she remarked, sighing, “it’s almost as if he hasn’t got enough to keep him busy. So he looks around for something to do—and usually finishes up getting into mischief. I often think he’s gone back to being a small boy again.”
    Trixie couldn’t help wondering if Grandpa’s “mischief” could include vandalism. She had had no chance to compare the scrap of material in her pocket with the tear in the old man’s shirt. Before she left this house, however, she was determined to do so.
    Mrs. Crimper insisted on making sure that Trixie’s injuries were nothing more than bruises. Then she sat both girls at the kitchen table and placed a huge slice of chocolate cake and a tall, frosty glass of milk in front of each of them.
    Trixie felt guilty as she accepted Mrs. Crimper’s hospitality. What would this nice grandmotherly woman say if she knew Trixie suspected her husband of being a thief?
    Honey was apparently having problems with this same thought, because she seemed unable to finish her piece of cake.
    “Aren’t you hungry, girlie?” a voice roared at Honey from the doorway.
    Grandpa strode into the room. A moment later, his son followed him. Judging from the expression on young Mr. Crimper’s face, he was still angry.
    “The girls are probably still in shock from the accident, Dad,” he announced, the color still high in his cheeks. “Trixie, we’ll see that your bicycle is fixed at once.”
    “Pah!” Grandpa said, seating himself at the kitchen table. He eyed the chocolate cake and then cut himself an enormous slice of it. “I don’t see why you’re making such a big fuss about nothing, Sonny,” he remarked with his mouth full. “I already told you. Trixie Belden was speeding—and the other girlie, too. It was a good thing I came along when I did. If I hadn’t, they both might’ve broken their fool necks.”
    As Honey opened her mouth to protest this outrageously unfair statement, Trixie threw her a warning glance.
    “I’m sure you’re right, Grandpa,” she said meekly. “But for now, when you’ve finished eating, why don’t you show Honey your jewelry boxes?” Then, as her friend looked puzzled, she explained, “Grandpa’s been collecting them for years. Some of them are very old.”
    The jewelry boxes were also in a sad state of disrepair, as Honey discovered later, when she and Trixie followed the old man into the large living room of the old house.
    It was obvious that Grandpa Crimper didn’t think so. As he opened the door of the glass-fronted cabinet, where each jewelry box was proudly displayed, he lovingly fingered each one before handing it on to one or the other of the girls.
    “Some of these boxes,” he said, “have quite a history.” He reached out for a small black japanned box whose wooden lid was almost cracked in two. “This one, for instance, was once owned by a president’s wife.”
    “Martha Washington?” Trixie asked, hazarding a guess. “Dolly Madison?”
    “Nellie Murphy,” Grandpa answered promptly. “Her husband was once the president of Sleepy-side’s Businessmen’s Club.”
    Honey’s face fell. She looked politely at the row of small boxes, some with peeling paint on their exteriors, some with tarnished silver lids. Only one caught her eye, as Trixie had known it would. “Oh,” she said, reaching out to touch it with a gentle hand, “but this one is beautiful.”
    Made of delicate bone china, the small container was decorated with china rosebuds and tiny bunches of forget-me-nots. On its lid, a small ballerina wearing a white lace dress, with china arms uplifted, held a graceful pose.
    When Grandpa lifted the beautiful box from the shelf, Trixie heard once more the tinkling tune she remembered from early childhood. Mart, who had once listened to it with her, had said it