The Mystery of the Queen's Necklace

and the Bob-Whites usually assumed that her busy life left no room for romance. Their private opinion was that Mr. Lytell wasn’t anywhere near good enough for her. But then, who could possibly be?
    Trixie had long ago decided that one of the best things about Miss Trask was that, as capable as she was, she seldom interfered with the Bob-Whites’ plans or told them what to do. She seemed to give them credit for being intelligent, practical young people who could manage their own lives. Yet she was always there when they needed her. And I think this might be a day when we’ll need her, Trixie thought to herself.
    By this time, there were quite a few passersby on Marylebone Road. But the Bob-Whites were just about to give up asking directions from them.
    “Misdirections is more like it,” Trixie said plaintively. “Everything is ‘just around the corner.’ I really think they’re all making fun of us.”
    “ ‘Pulling your leg’ is the British expression, I think,” Jim said.
    “Just down at the bottom of the road, old chap,” Mart said in cheery English accents. “Turn left, and keep going till you see a stytioner’s shop. It’s right next to the ironmonger’s —just keep going, and there it is. You cahn’t miss it.”
    Trixie wriggled her toes in the stout walking shoes that Miss Trask had recommended. Back home, they never wore anything on their feet for walking but sneakers—unless it was boots. This was a lot of walking, even for the active Bob-Whites, but as tired as she was, Trixie wasn’t about to admit she’d had enough.
    Honey caught Trixie’s eye and smiled sympathetically. “Why don’t we go in one of these little cafés and sit down a minute?” she asked the boys.
    “You aren’t by any chance intimating that the female pedal extremities are inferior to those of the male, are you?” Mart inquired with an infuriating grin.
    “Not at all,” Trixie retorted. “I notice you’ve been slowing down a bit yourself, Mr. Walking Dictionary.”
    “Or you could say Mr. Limping Dictionary.” Jim’s green eyes twinkled as he winked at Trixie, and her blue eyes sparkled back at him. She always felt so good when Jim was on her side. Of course, you couldn’t expect your brother to be all that gallant. Jim was quieter than her brother, Trixie thought, but he knew a lot.
    “Touché,” Mart admitted with a grin. “ ‘A horse, a horse! My kingdom for a horse,’ as the Bard would put it.” The Bard, as they all knew by now, was another name for Shakespeare.
    “How about a cuppa tea?” Honey persisted.
    “And some of those luscious gatewks we’ve been seeing in the bakery windows,” Trixie chimed in enthusiastically. During the previous hour, she’d been eyeing those gooey little cakes that had various kinds of icing—lemon, chocolate, fruit, butterscotch, whipped cream. They’d looked enticing.
    “Gatewks?” Honey asked doubtfully.
    Mart roared with laughter. “That’s ga -toe, old girl,” he informed his sister. “French for cakes. It’s spelled g -a-t-o-u-x.”
    Trixie turned pink.
    “You should have quit when you were ahead,” Jim told Mart, with another wink at Trixie. “The correct spelling is g -a-t-e-a-u-x. ”
    It was Mart’s turn to blush. Spelling wasn’t his strongest point. “My vocabulary is a mite better than my orthography”, was all he would say. He grinned weakly and stuffed his hands in his pockets.
    “Anyway, how come it’s French?” Trixie asked. “I thought we were in England.”
    “Hey, here’s Baker Street,” Jim said as they came to an intersection. “And look, there’s the house that’s supposed to be 221-B!”
    Mart unslung his camera and moved back for a better picture.
    “What do you want to take a picture of that old building for?” Trixie asked. “It’s just like all the others in the row.”
    “You claim to be a detective, and you don’t know about 221-B?” her brother asked. “Let me introduce you to Sherlock Holmes, only the most famous detective ever, and that’s the famous Victorian flat he and Dr. Watson are supposed to have rented. Only they didn’t, of course, because they’re really just fictitious characters.”
    “Oh, now I remember!” Trixie said excitedly.
    “Look! That must be the bow window Holmes was sitting in when he got shot by his archenemy what’s-his-name—” She paused, searching her memory.
    “Moriarty,” Honey said.
    “Only Holmes didn’t get killed,” Trixie went on,