The Mystery off Old Telegraph Road

were right behind her, their usual older-brother pose of maturity abandoned.
    The Bob-Whites took turns getting out of the car to put up the arrows. At one point, Trixie took a piece of poster board with her and ran ahead to the next point, trying to work off her nervous energy.
    By the time the last arrow was up, it was time for everyone to go to their assigned rest stops to wait for the cyclists.
    The abandoned house looked totally unmysterious once again as the station wagon pulled into the driveway. No one would ever believe that, until last night, this house hid a ring of counterfeiters, Trixie thought. She shuddered as she remembered how close she’d almost come to tragedy the night before. For a moment, she wondered if she should have taken Brian’s suggestion and traded assignments with Di or Honey so that she wouldn’t have to spend any more time at the house.
    Soon, however, the clearing was filled with happy, noisy cyclists, and Trixie had no more time to think about her brush with danger. She checked off each cyclist’s name and helped Jim and Brian serve punch and sweet rolls, which Tom Delanoy had dropped off earlier.
    Then it was time to load everything into the station wagon and drive to Mr. Maypenny’s.
    “Can’t we follow the bike route over there?” Trixie begged. “I want to see how many cyclists are still riding.”
    “There’s enough traffic on the highway as it is, Trixie,” Jim said. “Even with the police escort the cyclists have, I don’t feel that we should add to it. We’ll have to go back along Glen Road the other way and wait for the bikeathon to get to Mr. Maypenny’s.”
    Wait, wait, wait, Trixie thought. That’s all 1 ever do. At least today I’m waiting for something pleasant, instead of waiting to he loaded into a van and—and disposed of. She shivered.
    The something that Trixie was waiting for turned out to be very pleasant indeed. All but two of the cyclists had made it to Mr. Maypenny’s. The other two had had bike trouble.
    “I took them home,” Tom Delanoy told the Bob-Whites. “I know all about cars, but those ten-speed bikes are a mystery to me. I couldn’t fix them.” Trixie thought about how disappointed the two cyclists must be. Still, they’d both made it past Mrs. Vanderpoel’s, which meant they’d earned quite a bit of money for the art department. And nobody had to drop out because of injury, she added to herself. That’s wonderful!
    Most of the cyclists clustered excitedly around Mr. Maypenny, who stirred the batch of hunter’s stew, tasting it every now and then. Mr. Maypenny’s gaunt, weather-beaten face fairly glowed from the heat of the steam rising from the kettle and from all the attention he was getting from the young people.
    “Isn’t he adorable?” Honey said to Trixie in a low voice.
    Trixie nodded. “You know he must have gotten up at dawn to get the fire going and start chopping all the vegetables for the stew. I’d be positively growly by now, but he’s having the time of his life!”
    Nick Roberts stood apart from the group. He had a large sketch pad and a charcoal pencil, and he was making quick, bold sketches of various scenes from the picnic, which he gave out to the cyclists as souvenirs.
    Ben Riker stood close to Nick, watching the young artist sketch. “I’d give anything to be able to draw like that,” Ben told Nick after he’d watched him at work for a while.
    Nick darted a quick glance at Ben to see if he was being taunted.
    “I really mean it,” Ben added hastily. “I’ve always enjoyed sketching—oh, nothing good like these things of yours, you understand. I just do little doodles on my notebook covers or on the message pad by the phone. I was always too afraid that I’d be teased if I took it seriously, so I’ve never really worked at it. Watching you draw, I really wish I had.”
    “You’re never too old to learn,” Nick said, turning the sketch pad to a fresh page and handing the pad and pencil to Ben. “Try drawing that group of people over there.” He pointed to two boys and a girl who were chattering happily over their bowls of stew.
    Ben’s usual composure vanished, and he looked flustered, but he took the pad and pencil and began to draw. Nick looked on critically, giving Ben an occasional bit of advice. When the sketch was finished, Nick studied it for a long time, while Ben looked on anxiously.
    “I’d say you have some talent,” Nick said. “You should think about taking an