The Mystery of the Vanishing Victim

quietest of the Bob-Whites, but he had a lively sense of humor. That was something none of them would have guessed when he had first come to Sleepyside, just at the time the Bob-Whites had been planning their winter carnival. Then he had been sullen and hostile, rejecting the Bob-Whites and clinging t© his friendship with a group of troublemakers from New York City. Remembering that time, Trixie was still amazed, and grateful, for the change in Dan Mangan.
    “It looks to me as though none of you can come up with a good explanation for Mr. Burnside’s mysterious requests,” Trixie said. “So I say it’s a mystery until proven otherwise.”
    “And I say it will be proven otherwise very shortly,” Jim said, switching on the turn signal as he approached Mr. Burnside’s driveway.
    Trixie felt a small flutter in her stomach, which she identified as excitement mixed with disappointment. She was eager to find out what Mr. Burnside’s donation was, but at the same time, she wanted the anticipation to last a little bit longer. It was the same feeling she had just before Christmas, when she wanted more than anything to find out what was in all those brightly wrapped packages under the tree, but knew that much of the excitement would be over when the presents were opened.
    “Whatever Mr. Burnside’s donation is, I bet it will be perfectly perfect,” Honey declared. “And I bet we’ll be really glad that we hurried over here to pick it up.”
    Trixie looked at her friend gratefully. Honey was so tactful that it sometimes seemed as if she must be able to read minds. What she’d just said was the “perfectly perfect” way to make Trixie feel better.
    Jim pulled the station wagon to one side of the circular drive in front of Mr. Burnside’s house and shut off the engine. For a moment, nobody spoke. Everyone stared at the huge, white colonial house and wondered what the surprise was that was waiting for them inside. Trixie realized that, as usual, her friends had been just as excited as she was, even though they had tried to pretend that she was getting carried away.
    The sound of Jim opening the door on his side of the station wagon was so loud in the silence that Trixie jumped. “We won’t find out what Mr. Burnside’s surprise is by just sitting here and wondering about it,” he said.
    With a chorus of “You’re right!” and “Let’s go!” the other young people piled out of the car and hurried up the sidewalk to the house.
    Jim rang the doorbell, and it was only seconds before Mr. Burnside himself opened the door. He looked at the eager-faced Bob-Whites and smiled. “You made good time,” he said. “Come on in,” he added cordially.
    The seven young people crowded through the doorway and walked into the living room. They knew that it would not be polite to seem to be searching the room for the donation; nonetheless, they all stole furtive glances, trying to see something that looked out of place.
    It took Trixie only a moment to decide that nothing was 'ever out of place in this room. It was furnished in beautiful, well-preserved antiques. Every bit of wood gleamed, every pillow was puffed and positioned just so. Each coffee table held just enough odds and ends to be interesting without looking cluttered. And while it was formal, it still looked comfortable and “lived in.”
    “This is a lovely room, Mr. Burnside,” Di Lynch said.
    Mr. Burnside nodded. “Yes, it is. And I can say that without being immodest, because I really had nothing to do with it. Mrs. Burnside is the interior decorator in the family.”
    There was a moment of awkward silence. The Bob-Whites were too preoccupied with thoughts of the promised donation to make small talk, but they were also too polite to hurry Mr. Burnside into handing it over to them.
    Mr. Burnside, on the other hand, seemed to be in no hurry at all to let them know what the donation was. He rocked back on his heels, surveying his living room with pleasure, as if seeing it through new eyes because of Di’s compliment. Finally, he said, “Can I get you young people a soda or something?” The Bob-Whites looked at one another. There was, indeed, something they wanted Mr. Burnside to get them, but it wasn’t a soda.
    Brian cleared his throat as he assumed a take-charge attitude. “Actually, Mr. Burnside, we’re sort of curious about the donation.”
    Mr. Burnside’s face broke into a wide smile. “I’ll bet you are,” he said. “And I think you’ll