The Mystery of the Missing Heiress

enough to remember it.”
    Jim bristled. “That was a great line to take. Just great. Then what?”
    “Then he asked me if you ever had an aunt by the name of Betje Maasden. Did you?”
    “Not that I ever heard of. The only relative I ever knew was my great-uncle, James Winthrop Frayne.”
    Mart whistled. “He was worth half a dozen other relatives, too. He left you Ten Acres.”
    “Which promptly burned to the ground,” Trixie said.
    “And,” Mart went on pompously, “he left you half a million dollars. Nobody would sneeze at that kind of money.”
    “No,” Brian said, “and Jim promptly salted it all away to build a school for runaway boys as soon as he’s through college. I’m going to be his doctor.”
    “We all know that,” Trixie said, somewhat impatiently. “Let’s get back to Betje Maasden. The name somehow rings a bell. Didn’t you ever have an Aunt Betje, Jim?”
    “Nope,” Jim answered. Then he sat up straight. “Say, wait a minute. My mother had an older sister —lots older. But she was Aunt Betty. I never saw her. Her maiden name was Vanderheiden, the same as my mother’s.”
    “ ‘Betty’ could be ‘Betje,’ ” Honey said thoughtfully. “Lots of old Dutch names have turned into more modem ones.”
    “That’s right,” Jim said positively. “My own mother was Katje, but my father always called her
    Katie. I never did hear the name Maasden, though, as far as I can remember. Did you tell that guy off who got so smart on the phone, Trixie?”
    “No, I didn’t. He slammed down the receiver after he said he’d find out some other way—that he had to know right away.”
    “You said the name Betje Maasden rang a bell with you, Trixie. It does with me, too, sort of. Betje Maasden, Betje Maasden.” Jim’s forehead wrinkled.
    “I have it!” Trixie shouted triumphantly. “It’s the name that was in that story in the newspaper.”
    “What story? What newspaper?” Jim asked, amused at Trixie’s excitement.
    “You know—the story Daddy read to us at dinner last night when we told him about those men we saw at the marsh. I guess nobody paid much attention. Our heads were so full of our new car. I’m sure I remember the name Betje Maasden, though. Where is the Sleepyside Sun? Is it up at your house, Honey?”
    “Now, it just happens—” Mart said, rolling up his shirt sleeves and extending his hands as a magician does. “See? Nothing up my sleeves!” He reached in his hip pocket. “It just happens,” he repeated, “that I have a copy of the little newspaper with me. There’s an advertisement in it that I intend to bring up at our meeting, as soon as Trixie forgets about Betje Maasden and gets down to business.”
    “Read it first!” Trixie begged. “First read the story about the marsh, Mart. Please!”
    “Okay. It has a local dateline.

“The International Pine Company, of Montreal, Quebec, Canada, plans to build a million-dollar furniture factory in Sleepyside. It will offer employment to several hundred men and women.
“The factory is to be built on the strip known as Blue Heron Marsh, lying west of our city, along the Hudson River. Representatives of the Canadian company have been at work surveying the strip for reclamation.
“The land is appraised at one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Work will begin as soon as title to the land is established. The last name to appear on the abstract as owner of the land is Betje Maasden. No address is given. Research is under way now to locate Betje Maasden.

    “Well, that’s that!” Mart said and folded the newspaper. “Now let’s get down to business.
    “Oh, Mart,” Trixie said, “can’t you see this is business—that we have to find out who Betje Maasden is?”
    “No, I don’t see it, Trixie. I think it’s none of your business or ours. However—” Mart gave a great sigh—“I might just as well resign myself to watching you and Honey go into action. The Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency is about to take over the Bob-Whites of the Glen again. I can see that.”
    “Have a heart, Mart,” Brian said. “After all that excitement on the Mississippi River towboat, how do you think we can settle down to any routine? I’m for Trixie and Honey—and Betje, too. What’s the next move, Trix?”
    Trixie smiled gratefully. “Well, if anybody in this whole countryside knows anything about anyone called Maasden, it’s sure to be Mrs. Vanderpoel. I suggest we pay her a visit.”
    Mrs. Vanderpoel had