The Mystery of the Queen's Necklace

pouncing on a promising-sounding lead. “Well, the necklace is in your father’s safe at your house. If we show it to you tonight, do you think you’ll remember?”
    “Possibly,” Anne said.
    “But we wouldn’t want to bother your father,” said Honey. “I’m afraid we’ve been such an inconvenience to him already.”
    “Oh, Father,” Anne said a bit crossly. “I’m frightfully sorry he’s been such a bore. He simply hates having to take in guests.”
    “He refused to do it for the longest time,” Gregory said. “But it came down to putting up with the tourists, or selling the family home.”
    “My mother finally persuaded him.” Anne’s face saddened. “That was before she died. She did enjoy doing over the rooms.”
    “They’re so beautiful,” Honey said softly.
    “After she died, Father wanted to go back on his word,” Gregory said, “but we couldn’t let him. The rates kept going up, you know—the taxes.”
    “No wonder your father is so—so sad,” Honey said. Trixie felt awful. Why couldn’t she ever understand why people acted the way they did? Anne shouldn’t have had to explain it.
    No one said anything for a while. It was a beautiful sunny day, with a few cloud-puffs in the sky. Soon the footpath came to an end. There, across the road, was the famous thatch-roofed cottage of Anne Hathaway, surrounded by shrubs, bright flowers, and herbs of every kind.
    “Shakespeare got a lot of his poetry right from this garden,” observed Mart.
    “Please—no more quotations,” Trixie said. “I can’t believe how big this house is! I thought it was just a little cottage.”
    “English cottages aren’t so small,” Miss Trask said.
    She and McDuff had caught up with them, and they all joined the queue of tourists that was filing through the old two-story farmhouse where Will Shakespeare had come to woo Anne Hathaway. The wooden bench on which they were supposed to have sat still stood in the kitchen by the large open hearth. The rough, flagstone floors and raftered ceilings were picturesque, and all the rooms, upstairs and down, were furnished with authentic furniture. McDuff and the Harts took turns pointing out items of interest.
    “The Tweedie sisters live up the road,” Anne told the Bob-Whites after they had finished the tour. “Would you like to drop in on them? They’ve just bought their own place, and they’re as pleased as punch about it.”
    Trixie was delighted at the chance to show off her and Honey’s special English friends.
    “You’ll love them, Miss Trask,” Honey said. “They’re just about your age,” Trixie added.
    Miss Trask didn’t seem to appreciate that remark. “Since I plan to do some research at Oxford University tomorrow, this afternoon is my last chance to do some shopping,” she said tartly. “You children go visit your friends. We’ll see you at dinner.”
    And off she went—with McDuff!
    “Dinglebuckles,” Trixie said, stamping her foot. “There they go again.”
    Gregory burst out laughing. “Jolly good word,” he said. “Where’d you find it?”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Trixie said. “It just seems appropriate right now.”
    “You don’t like the man much, do you, Trixie?” Anne asked.
    “How did you guess?” Mart put in.
    “To tell you the truth, we’ve been wondering where you met up with him,” Anne went on.
    “In London,” Trixie said. “I thought he was in one of those tourist rackets at first—you know, a con man. But it turned out he wasn’t.”
    Gregory and Anne listened attentively to the Bob-Whites’ jumbled report of how McDuff had come to be their guide.
    “Is he registered with the London Tourist Board?” Gregory asked.
    “I don’t know,” Honey admitted. “He just arrived from Canada, but he said he had been a guide before.”
    “Ordinarily, you shouldn’t hire a guide that isn’t registered,” Anne said. “But of course, if he saved your life—”
    “Oh, he did,” Honey said earnestly. “I was practically under that huge bus, and he pulled me out.”
    “I can’t explain why I don’t like him,” Trixie said to Anne. “It’s just that he seems so—so phony!”
    Anne and Gregory looked at each other, as if they didn’t know whether they should say something or not.
    “I think we should tell them,” Anne said.
    Just then, Miss Mary Tweedie came bursting out of the side door of a large thatched cottage that looked just like Anne Hathaway’s.
    “You’ve come to see our