The Mystery of the Millionaire

satisfaction at having solved the problem—then gasped and clapped her hand to her forehead as she realized that she hadn’t solved the problem at all. She ran to the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed Honey’s number with a trembling finger.
    When Honey answered, Trixie blurted, “Have you seen the census taker?”
    “Wha-a-t? What are you talking about, Trix?” Honey asked, obviously bewildered.
    Trixie took a deep breath, forcing herself to slow down and explain the situation clearly. “The man in the green car was just here, pretending to be a census taker,” she said, dealing out the words as if from a deck of cards, one by one. “I didn’t see the car until after he left, so I answered all his questions. One of them was whether we had any houseguests staying with us. I’m sure he asked that question because he wants someone to identify Laura for him.”
    Honey’s gasp came through the receiver. “Mr. McGraw told us detectives have sneaky ways of getting information. This is one of them, all right,” she said.
    “Have you seen a census taker at your house?” Trixie repeated.
    “I haven’t,” Honey said. “But I’ve been in my room most of the morning. This house sprawls so, I don’t even hear the doorbell most of the time.”
    Trixie let out a frustrated groan, then snapped her fingers as a new hope occurred to her. “He can’t have been to your house yet, Honey. If he had been—I mean, if he’d been there and someone told him about Laura, he wouldn’t have bothered to come here. So I’m sure we’re safe. Just go, right now, and tell everyone in the house that he’s a fake. But tell them to answer his questions if he comes around. Otherwise, he’ll know we’re onto him. Just tell him you have no houseguests, and keep Laura out of sight!”
    “I will,” Honey promised. She said good-bye and hung up.
    Trixie headed back to the kitchen to get her iced tea. Her heart was still pounding with excitement, but she felt confident that Frank Riebe’s detective would not get the information he was after.
    “It was a narrow escape, though,” she told herself. She took a soothing swallow of the tea.
    “Getting away from this case isn’t as easy as I thought it would be,” she concluded as she turned to go back to her room.

    On Friday morning, Trixie was summoned from the garden, where she was picking yet another basketful of tomatoes, to the telephone.
    “Can you come over right away?” Honey’s voice demanded urgently.
    “What for?” Trixie asked.
    “Mark McGraw is here. We told him about the census taker. He wants to talk to you, to get a description of the man,” Honey told her.
    Trixie’s heart leaped at the thought of Mark McGraw’s asking to see her. Then she remembered her pledge not to get involved in the case. “Tell Mr. McGraw that the man was young and thin and had a pencil behind his ear. That’s all I remember.”
    “Trixie!” Honey’s tone was both impatient and pleading. “You must remember more than that. You’re the only one who’s seen and talked to him.”
    “I’m off the case, remember?” Trixie asked stubbornly.
    “Oh, no, you’re not,” Honey countered. “You said the only thing that could get you back on the case would be Mr. McGraw’s asking for your help. Well, now he’s asking.”
    “That’s true,” Trixie said slowly. She felt a curious mixture of excitement and apprehension. It was good to know that McGraw now seemed to need her. On the other hand, there was still something she didn’t like about the case—and about Laura Ramsey!
    Finally, Honey Wheeler took matters into her own hands. “Get here as fast as you can,” she said, and she hung up.
    Trixie stared at the receiver in surprise. Then she put it back in its cradle and went to tell her mother that she was going to Manor House.
    Laura, Honey, Jim, and Mark McGraw were once again gathered in the library when Trixie arrived. Coming, as she had, directly from the garden, she felt even more disheveled than usual next to Honey and Laura. The fact that the detective was wearing the same ill-fitting suit was small consolation.
    Without any introductory small talk, the detective flipped open his notebook and held his pencil poised above a blank page. “Tell me what you know,” he demanded.
    The gruffness of McGraw’s voice made Trixie’s mind go blank for a moment. “He—he was young,” she stammered.
    “How young?” McGraw asked.
    Trixie cleared her throat and