Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Rick Morris, Rod Crawford, Dave Morgan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net _The Famous_ JUDY BOLTON _Mystery Stories_ By MARGARET SUTTON _In Order of Publication_ ------------------------------------ THE VANISHING SHADOW THE HAUNTED ATTIC THE INVISIBLE CHIMES SEVEN STRANGE CLUES THE GHOST PARADE THE YELLOW PHANTOM THE MYSTIC BALL THE VOICE IN THE SUITCASE THE MYSTERIOUS HALF CAT THE RIDDLE OF THE DOUBLE RING THE UNFINISHED HOUSE THE MIDNIGHT VISITOR THE NAME ON THE BRACELET THE CLUE IN THE PATCHWORK QUILT THE MARK ON THE MIRROR THE SECRET OF THE BARRED WINDOW THE RAINBOW RIDDLE THE LIVING PORTRAIT THE SECRET OF THE MUSICAL TREE THE WARNING ON THE WINDOW THE CLUE OF THE STONE LANTERN THE SPIRIT OF FOG ISLAND THE BLACK CATâS CLUE THE FORBIDDEN CHEST THE HAUNTED ROAD THE CLUE IN THE RUINED CASTLE THE TRAIL OF THE GREEN DOLL ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration: JUDY GLANCED AT JASPER CROSBY; HE WAS WATCHING HER LIKE A CAT. _The Yellow Phantom_] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ =A JUDY BOLTON MYSTERY= THE YELLOW PHANTOM BY MARGARET SUTTON GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK ------------------------------------------------------------------------ COPYRIGHT, 1933, BY GROSSET & DUNLAP, INC. _All Rights Reserved_ _Printed in the United States of America_ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ _To My Mother and Father._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A MYSTERIOUS TELEGRAM 1 II IRENEâS DISCOVERY 11 III A DARING SCHEME 22 IV HOW THE SCHEME WORKED 27 V THE TEST 32 VI THE NEW YELLOW GOWN 40 VII EMILY GRIMSHAW SEES THINGS 46 VIII THE MISSING POEMS 53 IX SUSPICIONS 61 X DEDUCTIONS 67 XI WHILE THE ORCHESTRA PLAYED 72 XII IRENEâS BIRTHDAY 79 XIII WAITING 87 XIV THE IMMORTAL JOY HOLIDAY 93 XV FALSE ASSURANCE 98 XVI OVER THE RADIO 107 XVII THE ONLY ANSWER 116 XVIII IN THE TOWER WINDOW 121 XIX LIKE A FAIRY TALE 127 XX THE SCENT OF ROSES 135 XXI ANOTHER JULIET 145 XXII TRAPPED 154 XXIII TO THE RESCUE 163 XXIV PREMONITION 171 XXV THE HAPPY ENDING 178 XXVI HER MAJESTY ARRIVES 187 XXVII WHO TOOK THE MANUSCRIPT? 198 XXVIII DALEâS HEROINE 202 ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER I A MYSTERIOUS TELEGRAM âGoodbye, Judy! Goodbye, Irene! Donât like New York so well that you wonât want to come home!â âDonât keep them too long, Pauline! Farringdon will be as dead as so many bricks without them. Even the cats will miss Blackberry. Make him wave his paw, Judy!â âDonât forget to write!â âGoodbye, Pauline! Goodbye, Judy! Goodbye, Irene!â âGoodbye! Goodbye!â And Peterâs car was off, bearing the last load of campers back to their home town. Judy Bolton watched them out of sight. They were taking the familiar road, but she and Irene Lang would soon be traveling in the other direction. Pauline Faulkner had invited them for a visit, including Judyâs cat in the invitation, and they were going back with her to New York. A long blue bus hove into view, and all three girls hailed it, at first expectantly, then frantically when they saw it was not stopping. It slowed down a few feet ahead of them, but when they attempted to board it the driver eyed Blackberry with disapproval. âCanât take the cat unless heâs in a crate.â âHeâs good,â Judy began. âHe wonât be any troubleâââ âCanât help it. Companyâs rules.â And he was about to close the door when Judyâs quick idea saved the situation. âAll right, heâs _in a crate_,â she declared with vigor as she thrust the cat inside her own pretty hatbox. The hats she hastily removed and bundled under one arm. The driver had to give in. He even grinned a bit sheepishly as the girls took their seats, Pauline and Irene together, âBecause,â Judy insisted as she took the seat just behind them, âI have Blackberry.â The other passengers on the bus were regarding the newcomers with amused interest. A ten-year-old boy brought forth a ball of twine and rolled it playfully in Blackberryâs direction. An old lady made purring noises through her lips. Everyone seemed to be nodding and smiling. Everyone except the serious young man across the aisle. He never turned his head. Judy nudged the two friends in the seat ahead of her and confided a desire to do somethingâanything to make him look up. âWhy, Judy,â Irene replied, shocked. âIâve been watching that man myself and heâsâheâsâââ âWell, what?â âAlmost my ideal.â âSilly!â Judy laughed. âIâd like to bet he wouldnât be so ideal if I did something to disturb those precious papers that heâs reading.â âI dare you!â Pauline said. Sixteen or not, the dare tempted Judy. It was an easy matter to let Blackberry out of the hatbox in her arms and down into the aisle. The catâs plumelike tail did the rest. The man looked up. But, to Judyâs surprise, he looked up with a smile. Irene, all contrition, hastened to apologize. âNo harm done,â he returned good-naturedly and began collecting his scattered papers. Soon he had them rearranged and resumed his reading. There were a great many typewritten sheets of paper, and he seemed to be reading critically, scratching out something here and adding something there. âYou were wrong,â Irene said, turning to Judy. âSee how nice he was.â âI should have known better than to dare a girl like you,â Pauline put in. âIt was horrid of me,â Judy admitted, now almost as interested as Irene in the strange young man. Not because he was Judyâs idealâa man who wouldnât notice a cat until its tail bumped into himâbut because the papers on his lap might be important. And she had disturbed them. The man, apparently unaware that the accident had been anybodyâs fault, continued reading and correcting. Judy watched her cat carefully until the stack of papers was safely inside his portfolio again. âThatâs finished,â he announced as though speaking to himself. He screwed the top on his fountain pen, placed it in his pocket and then turned to the girls. âNice scenery, wasnât it?â âIt was,â Judy replied, laughing, âbut you didnât seem to be paying much attention to it.â âIâve been over this road a great many times,â he explained, âand one does tire of scenery, like anything else. Passengers in the bus are different.â âYou mean different from scenery?â âYes, and from each other. For instance, you with your ridiculous cat and your golden-haired friend who apologized for you and that small, dark girl are three distinct types.â Judy regarded him curiously. She had never thought of herself or either of the other girls as âtypes.â Now she tried to analyze his meaning. Their lives had certainly been different. Judy and Pauline, although of independent natures, had always felt the security of dependence upon their parents while Ireneâs crippled father depended solely upon her. This responsibility made her seem older than her yearsâolder and younger, too. She never could acquire Paulineâs poise or Judyâs fearlessness. In appearance, too, they were different. Her first vacation had done wonders for Irene Lang. Now her usually pale cheeks glowed with healthy color, and her eyes were a deeper, happier blue. Two weeks of sunshine had tanned her skin and brought out all the gold in her hair. Pauline, too, had acquired a becoming tan which made her hair look darker than ever and contrasted strangely with her keen, light blue eyes. The sun had not been quite so kind to Judy. It had discovered a few faint freckles on her nose and given her hair a decided reddish cast. But Judy didnât mind. Camp life had been excitingâboating, swimming and, as a climax, a thrilling ride in Arthur Farringdon-Pettâs new airplane. The young man beside Judy was a little like Arthur in appearanceâtall, good-looking but altogether too grown-up and serious. Judy liked boys to make jokes now and then, even tease the way her brother, Horace, did. Peter teased her, too. âQueer,â she thought, âto miss being teased.â This stranger seemed to like serious-minded people and presently changed the conversation to books and music, always favorite topics with Irene. Then Judy spoke about the work that he was doing but learned nothing except that âfinishedâ in his case meant that he had succeeded in putting his papers back in their original sequence. âAnd if you girls were all of the same type,â he added, âI doubt if I would have forgiven you your prank.â âI guess he doesnât care for my type,â Judy whispered to the other two girls a little later. âMine either,â Pauline returned with a laugh. âAt least he wouldnât if he knew I dared you.â âDo you suppose,â Irene asked naÃ¯vely, âthat he cares for my type?â She looked very pathetic as she said that, and Judy, remembering Ireneâs misfortunes, slid into the seat beside her and put a loving arm about her shoulder. âI care for your type,â she said. âSo why worry about what a stranger thinks?â âIâm not,â Irene said, belying her answer with a wistful look in the strangerâs direction. He was still absorbed in the mountain of typewritten pages that he held on his knee. It seemed that his work, whatever it was, engrossed him completely. He was again making corrections and additions with his pen. Judy noticed a yellow slip of paper on the seat beside him and called the other girlsâ attention to it. âIt looks like a telegram,â she whispered, âand he keeps referring to it.â âTelegrams are usually bad news,â Irene replied. The young man sat a little distance away from them and, to all appearances, had forgotten their existence. Girl-like, they discussed him, imagining him as everything from a politician to a cub reporter, finally deciding that, since he lived in Greenwich Village, he must be an artist. Irene said she liked to think of him as talented. A dreamer, she would have called him, if it had not been for his practical interest in the business at handâthose papers and that telegram. It was dark by the time they reached New York. The passengers were restless and eager to be out of the bus. The young man hastily crammed his typewritten work into his portfolio and Judy noticed, just as the bus stopped, that he had forgotten the telegram. She and Irene both made a dive for it with the unfortunate result that when they stood up again each of them held a torn half of the yellow slip. âJust our luck!â exclaimed Irene. âNow we canât return it to him. Anyway, heâs gone.â âWe could piece it together,â Pauline suggested, promptly suiting her actions to her words. When the two jagged edges were fitted against each other, this is what the astonished girls read: DALE MEREDITH PLEASANT VALLEY PA CUT ART SHOP ROBBERY STOP FIFTY THOUSAND IS PLENTY STOP ONE MAN MURDERED INTERESTS RANDALL STOP DISCUSS TERMS MONDAY EMILY GRIMSHAW Irene was the first to finish reading. âGood heavens! What would _he_ know about robbery and murder?â she exclaimed, staring first at the telegram in Paulineâs hand and then at the empty seat across the aisle. âWhy, nothing that I can think of. He didnât seem like a crook. The telegram may be in code,â Pauline mused as she handed the torn pieces to Judy. âI like his nameâDale Meredith.â âSo do I. But Emily Grimshawâââ âAll out! Last stop!â the bus driver was calling. âTake care of that cat,â he said with a chuckle as he helped the girls with their suitcases. They were still wondering about the strange telegram as they made their way through the crowd on Thirty-fourth Street. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER II IRENEâS DISCOVERY A taxi soon brought the girls to the door of Dr. Faulknerâs nineteenth century stone house. The stoop had been torn down and replaced by a modern entrance hall, but the high ceilings and winding stairways were as impressive as ever. Drinking in the fascination of it, Judy and Irene followed the man, Oliver, who carried their bags right up to the third floor where Pauline had a sitting room and a smaller bedroom all to herself. The former was furnished with a desk, sofa, easy chairs, numerous shaded lamps, a piano and a radio. Here the man left them with a curt, ââEre you are.â âAnd itâs good to have you, my dears,â the more sociable housekeeper welcomed them. Soon she was bustling around the room setting their bags in order. She offered to help unpack. âNever mind that now, Mary,â Pauline told her. âWeâre dead tired and I can lend them some of my things for tonight.â âThen Iâll fix up the double bed in the next room for your guests and leave you to yourselves,â the kind old lady said. As soon as she had closed the door Judy lifted her cat out of the hatbox. With a grateful noise, halfway between a purr and a yowl, Blackberry leaped to the floor and began, at once, to explore the rooms. âHis padded feet were made for soft carpets,â Judy said fondly. âHow do you suppose heâd like gravel?â Pauline asked. âOh, heâd love it!â Judy exclaimed. âYou know our cellar floor is covered with gravel, and he sleeps down there.â âIs this gravel in the cellar?â Irene asked, beginning to get an attack of shivers. Pauline laughed. âGoodness, no! Itâs on the roof garden.â She walked across the room and flung open a door. âNothing shivery about that, is there?â âNothing except the thought of standing on the top of one of those tall buildings,â Irene said, gazing upward as she followed Pauline. The view fascinated Judy. Looking out across lower New York, she found a new world of gray buildings and flickering lights. In the other direction the Empire State Building loomed like a sentinel. âI never dreamed New York was like this,â she breathed. âIt grows on a person,â Pauline declared. âI would never want to live in any other city. No matter how bored or how annoyed I may be during the day, at night I can always come up here and feel the thrill of having all this for a home.â âI wish I had a home I could feel that way about,â Irene sighed. The garden was too alluring for the girls to want to leave it. Even Blackberry had settled himself in a bed of geraniums. These and other plants in enormous boxes bordered the complete inclosure. Inside were wicker chairs, a table and a hammock hung between two posts. âThis is where I do all my studying,â Pauline said, âand you two girls may come up here and read if you like while Iâm at school.â âAt school?â Judy repeated, dazed until she thought of something that she should have considered before accepting Paulineâs invitation. Of course Pauline would be in school. She hadnât been given a holiday as the girls in Farringdon had when their school burned down. Judy and Irene would be left to entertain themselves all day unless Dr. Faulkner had some plans for them. Judy wondered where he was. After they had gone inside again, that is, all of them except Blackberry who seemed to have adopted the roof garden as a permanent home, she became curious enough to ask. âOh, didnât I tell you?â Pauline said in surprise. âFather is away. A medical conference in Europe. Heâs always going somewhere like that, but heâll be home in two or three weeks.â âThen weâll be alone for three weeks?â Irene asked, dismayed. âWhy not?â Pauline returned indifferently. âThereâs nothing to be afraid of with servants in the house.â But Irene was not used to servants. Ever since her father became disabled she had waited on herself and kept their shabby little house in apple-pie order. The house was closed now and their few good pieces of furniture put in storage. All summer long there would not be any rent problems or any cooking. Then, when fall came, she and her father would find a new home. Where it would be or how they would pay for it worried Irene when she thought about it. She tried not to think because Dr. Bolton had told her she needed a rest. Her father, a patient of the doctorâs, was undergoing treatments at the Farringdon Sanitarium. The treatments were being given according to Dr. Boltonâs directions but not by him as Judyâs home, too, was closed for the summer. Her parents had not intended to stay away more than a week or two, but influenza had swept the town where they were visiting. Naturally, the doctor stayed and his wife with him. Judyâs brother, a reporter and student of journalism, had gone to live in the college dormitory. Thus it was that both girls knew they could not return to Farringdon no matter how homesick they might be. They had the cat for comfort and they had each other. Ever since Irene had come to work in Dr. Boltonâs office these two had been like sisters. Lois, Lorraine, Betty, Marge, Paulineâall of them were friends. But Irene and Honey, the other girl who had shared Judyâs home, were closer than that. Judy felt with them. She felt with Irene the longing of the other girl for something to hold fast toâa substantial home that could not be taken away at every whim of the landlord, just enough money so that she could afford to look her best and the security of some strong person to depend upon. âWill your school last long?â Irene was asking the dark-haired girl. âNot long enough,â Pauline sighed, revealing the fact that she too had troubles. âThen youâll be free?â Irene went on, unmindful of the sigh. âWe can go places together? Youâll have time to show us around.â Pauline shrugged her shoulders. âDonât talk about time to me. Time will be my middle name after I graduate. There isnât a single thing I really want to do, least of all stay at home all day. College is a bore unless youâre planning a career. What do you intend to do when youâre through school?â âI hadnât planned,â Irene said, âexcept that I want time to read and go ahead with my music. Of course Iâll keep house somewhere for Dad. It will be so nice to have him well again, and I love keeping house.â âWhat about your work for my father?â Judy asked. Ireneâs eyes became troubled. âHe doesnât really need me any more. I know now, Judy, that you just made that position for me. It was lovely of you, but IâIâd just as soon not go back where Iâm not needed. Your father trusts too many people ever to get rich and he could use that money heâs been paying me.â âDonât feel that way about it,â Judy begged. Ireneâs feelings, however, could not easily be changed, and with both girls having such grave worries the problem bid fair to be too great a one for even Judy to solve. Solving problems, she hoped, would eventually be her career for she planned to become a regular detective with a star under her coat. Now she confided this ambition to the other two girls. âA detective!â Pauline gasped. âWhy, Judy, only men are detectives. Can you imagine anyone taking a mere girl on the police force?â âChief Kelly, back home, would take her this very minute if she applied,â Irene declared. Pauline nodded, easily convinced. This practical, black-haired, blue-eyed girl had helped Judy solve two mysteries and knew that she had talent. But Pauline didnât want to meet crooks. She didnât want to be bothered with sick or feeble-minded people and often felt thankful that her father, a brain specialist, had his offices elsewhere. Pauline wanted to meet cultured people who were also interesting. âPeople, like that man we met on the bus,â she said, âwho read and can discuss books intelligently. Iâd hate to think of his being mixed up in anything crooked.â âYou canât _make_ me believe that he was,â Irene put in with a vigor quite rare for her. âCouldnât you just see in his eyes that he was real?â âI didnât look in his eyes,â Judy returned with a laugh, âbut you can be sure Iâll never be satisfied until we find out what that mysterious telegram meant.â In the days that followed Judy learned that the mere mention of the strangerâs name, Dale Meredith, would cause either girl to cease worrying about a home or about a career, as the case might be. âItâs almost magical,â she said to herself and had to admit that the spell was also upon her. Perhaps a dozen times a day she would puzzle over the torn papers in her pocketbook. But then, it was Judyâs nature to puzzle over things. It was for that reason that she usually chose detective stories whenever she sat down with a book. That hammock up there on the roof garden was an invitation to read, and soon Judy and Irene had finished all the suitable stories in Dr. Faulknerâs library. They had seen a few shows, gazed at a great many tall buildings, and found New York, generally, less thrilling from the street than it had been from the roof garden. Pauline sensed this and worried about entertaining her guests. âHow would you like to go and see Grantâs Tomb today?â she suggested. âFor Heavenâs sake, think of something a little more exciting than that,â Judy exclaimed thoughtlessly. âIâd rather find a library somewhere and then lie and read something in the hammock.â âSo would I,â agreed Irene, relieved that Judy hadnât wanted to see the tomb. âWell, if a libraryâs all you want,â Pauline said, âwhy not walk along with me and Iâll show you one on my way to school.â âA big one?â Judy asked. âNo, just a small one. In fact, itâs only a bookshop with a circulating library for its customers.â Judy sighed. It would seem nice to see something small for a change. She never recognized this library at all until they were almost inside the door. Then her eyes shone. What an interesting place it was! On the counters were quaint gifts and novelties as well as books. The salesladies all wore smocks, like artists, and had the courtesy to leave the girls alone. Pauline had to hurry on to school but left Judy and Irene to browse. Before long they had discovered a sign reading MYSTERY AND ADVENTURE. That was what Judy liked. Rows and rows of new books, like soldiers, marched along the shelves. âWhat a lot of flying stories,â Irene said, absently removing one of them from its place. âAnd murder mysteries,â Judy added. âItâs always a temptation to read them. _Murders in Castle Stein_....â She started back as her eye caught the authorâs name. It was Dale Meredith! ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER III A DARING SCHEME Thrilled by her discovery, Judy removed the torn pieces of telegram from her purse and began unraveling the mystery, bit by bit. Irene looked on, trembling with excitement. ââCUT ART SHOP ROBBERY STOP FIFTY THOUSAND IS PLENTY STOP....â _Art Shop Robbery!_ That sounds like a title! And someone wanted him to cut it to fifty thousand wordsâjust a nice length for a book. That must have been what he was doing on the bus, cutting down the number of words on those typewritten pages.â âWhy, of course,â Irene agreed. âI always knew you were gifted, Judy, but can you explain this?â She pointed. ââONE MAN MURDERED INTERESTS RANDALL....â Easy as pie! Another title and a publisher.â Judy tossed her head with a self-satisfied air of importance. Every one of their questions might be answered in the classified directory. They found a telephone booth near by and a directory on the shelf beside it. Promptly turning to the list of publishing houses, Judyâs finger traveled down one complete page and half of another, but no Randall could she find. With a sigh of disappointment she turned to look again at the telegram: âDISCUSS TERMS MONDAYâ âEMILY GRIMSHAWâ What sort of person was she? A relative? No. Relatives didnât discuss terms with authors. Wives and sweethearts didnât either. They might discuss his books, but not terms. Anyway Irene hoped that Dale Meredith had no wife or sweetheart, certainly not a sweetheart with a name like Emily Grimshaw. That name sounded as harsh to the ears as Dale Meredith sounded musical. Flipping the pages of the directory, Judy came upon the answer to their question: âAUTHORâS AGENTS (_See_ Literary Agents).â âThat might be it!â She turned to the place and, beginning at the top of the page, both girls searched eagerly through the Gâs. âGreenspan, Grier, Grimshaw....â The name was Emily and the address was a number on Madison Square. Irene was so excited that she declared she could feel her heart thumping under her slip-on sweater. âIâd give anything to meet him again, Judy! Anything!â And suddenly Judy wanted to meet him too, not for her own sake but for Ireneâs. A bold plan began to take shape in her mind. If she and Irene found positions in Emily Grimshawâs office Dale Meredith would never know that it had not been a simple coincidence. It would be such funâthis scheming. It would give them something to do and if Judyâs plan worked it might even solve the problem of Paulineâs career. âOf course Emily Grimshaw may not hire us,â Judy said after she had outlined the scheme and won Ireneâs approval. âBut, at any rate, itâs worth trying. We wonât need to tell her itâs only for a few weeks when Pauline will be there to step right into the position. I wonder how you get to Madison Square.â She stopped a policeman to ask him and found it to be within easy walking distance. âWe might as well go now,â Irene agreed. Perhaps if they thought about it too long they might lose heart and not attempt it. The literary agentâs office was located in an old hotel on the northeast side of the square. The building looked as if it had been unchanged for a century. In the lobby Judy and Irene paused, surveying the quaint furniture and mural decorations before they mustered enough courage to inquire at the desk for Emily Grimshaw. âWhoâs calling?â the clerk asked tartly. âTell herââ Judy hesitated. âTell her itâs two girls to see her on business.â The message was relayed over the switchboard and presently the clerk turned and said, âShe will see one of you. First stairway to the left. Fourth floor.â âOnly oneââ Judy began. âShe always sees one client at a time. The other girl can wait.â âThatâs right. IâIâll wait,â Irene stammered. âBut you wanted the positionâââ âI donât now. Suppose she asked about experience.â âYouâve had a little. You stand a better chance than I do.â âNot with your nerve, Judy,â Irene said. âThis place gives me the shivers. Youâre welcome to go exploring dark halls if you like. Iâd rather sit here in the lobby and read Dale Meredithâs book.â âOh, so thatâs it? Make yourself comfortable,â Judy advised with a laugh. âI may be gone a long, long time.â âNot if she finds out how old you are.â âHush!â Judy reproved. âDonât I look dignified?â She tilted her hat a little more to the left and dabbed a powder puff on her nose. The puff happened not to have any powder on it but it gave her a grown-up, courageous feeling. And she was to have a great need of courage in the hour that followed. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER IV HOW THE SCHEME WORKED The adventure lost some of its thrill with no one to share it. Judy hadnât an idea in the world how to find the fourth floor as she could see no stairway and no elevator. Taking a chance, she opened one of several doors. It opened into a closet where cleaning supplies were kept. Judy glanced at the dusty floor and wondered if anybody ever used them. This was fun! She tried another door and found it locked. But the third door opened into a long hall at the end of which was the stairway. âA regular labyrinth, this place,â she thought as she climbed. âI wonder if Emily Grimshaw will be as queer as her hotel.â There were old-fashioned knockers on all the doors, and Judy noticed that no two of them were alike. Emily Grimshaw had her name on the glass door of her suite, and the knocker was in the shape of a witch hunched over a steaming caldron. Judy lifted it and waited. âWhoâs there?â called a mannish voice from within. âJudy Bolton. They told me at the desk that you would see me.â âCome on in, then. Donât stand there banging the knocker.â âI beg your pardon,â Judy said meekly as she entered. âI didnât quite understand.â âItâs all right. Who sent you?â âNobody. I came myself. I found your name in the classified directory.â âOh, I see. Another beginner.â Emily Grimshaw sat back in her swivel chair and scrutinized Judy. She was a large woman dressed in a severely plain brown cloth dress with sensible brown shoes to match. Her iron-gray hair was knotted at the back of her head. In fact, the only mark of distinction about her whole person was the pair of glasses perched on the high bridge of her nose and the wide, black ribbon suspended from them. Although an old woman, her face was not wrinkled. What few lines she had were deep furrows that looked as if they belonged there. Judy could imagine Emily Grimshaw as a middle-aged woman but never as a girl. The room was, by no means, a typical office. If it had not been for the massive desk littered with papers and the swivel chair it would not have looked like an office at all. Three of the four walls were lined with bookshelves. âIs this where you do all your work?â Judy asked. âAnd why not? Itâs a good enough place.â âOf course,â Judy explained herself quickly. âBut I supposed you would have girls working for you. It must keep you busy doing all this yourself.â âHmm! It does. I like to be busy.â Judy took a deep breath. How, she wondered, was she to put her proposition before this queer old woman without seeming impudent. It was the first time in her life she had ever offered her services to anyone except her father. âYou use a typewriter,â she began. âLook here, young woman,â Emily Grimshaw turned on her suddenly, âif youâre a writer, say so. And if youâve come here looking for a positionâââ âThatâs it exactly,â Judy interrupted. âIâm sure I could be of some service to you.â âWhat?â âI might typewrite letters for you.â âI do that myself. Havenât the patience to dictate them.â âPerhaps I could help you read and correct manuscripts,â Judy suggested hopefully. The agent seemed insulted. âHumph!â she grunted. âMuch you know about manuscripts!â âI may know more than you think,â Judy came back at her. It was hard to be patient with this irritable old lady. Certainly she would never have chosen such an employer if it had not been for the possibility of meeting Dale Meredith again. Irene had taken such a fancy to him. âLucky she doesnât know that,â thought Judy as she watched her fumbling through a stack of papers on her desk. Finally she produced a closely written page of note paper and handed it to the puzzled girl. âIf you know so much about manuscripts,â she charged. âWhat would you do with a page like that?â Half hoping that the handwriting was Dale Meredithâs, Judy reached out an eager hand. The agent was watching her like a cat and, as she read, a hush settled over the room. Emily Grimshaw was putting Judy to a test. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER V THE TEST The paper that Judy held in her hand was a jumble of morbid poetry written in what could have been a beautiful hand. Actually, it was an almost unreadable scrawl. In some places the rhymes were in perfect sequence, but in others the poet had wandered away from what must have been the theme to play with words that apparently amused her. Finally Judy made out this much: When Love turns thief, grief, sheaf, oh, disbelief âTis memories that sting, ring, cling like anything. When Joy departs, starts, smarts, makes broken hearts ... Too close I kept you, Joy. Should I have shared my toy? Tossed you to human tomcats to destroy? They say youâre dead. They lie! You cannot die! You drifted off in air To share Your hair Your fair white skin, The very dress you wear. ITâS MINE! YOUâRE MINE! Iâll find you if I choke In smoke ... My Joy my toy my Joy my toy my Joy JOY _JOY_ My headâs on fire! âTis memories that burn. Better to crumble in a tower of flame Than sit with ghosts awaiting your return. How could anyone crumble in a tower of flame, Judy wondered. Oh, well, she supposed it was just a lot of melancholy words jumbled together to give the reader the creeps. Certainly she was not going to give Emily Grimshaw the satisfaction of knowing that it had impressed her. âWith the poetâs permission,â she looked up and said, âI would take out a few lines and then type the poem on a clean sheet of paper.â âI have the poetâs permission,â Emily Grimshaw replied shortly. And, after a pause, âWhat lines would you take out?â âHalf of some of them and all of this one.â Judy pointed. âThe words âJoyâ and âtoyâ are repeated too many times.â âThatâs the first thing one notices,â the old lady replied, evidently pleased with Judyâs suggestion. âHow do you like that poetry?â âI _donât_ like it,â the girl replied frankly. âIt sounds as if the writer had a distorted idea of life. It depresses a person just to read it.â âThere are people who like to be depressed.â âI suppose so,â Judy answered wearily. She could see that the conversation was getting them nowhere, and Irene must be dreadfully tired of waiting. Besides, she did not care to stand and argue with as queer a person as Emily Grimshaw seemed to be. Why, she was more peculiar, even, than the matron at camp or the queer old lady who ran the dog and cat hospital. âWould you like me to sit down and type the poem for you now?â Judy suggested. âThen you could see exactly what I mean.â The old lady consented with a wave of her hand, and Judy set to work. The task was not an easy one, and when she had finished cutting out all the queer-sounding lines the poem was about half its original length. Hardly knowing whether to expect praise or criticism, she handed the revised poem to Emily Grimshaw and waited while she read: When Love turns thief âtis memories that sting; When Joy departs âtis memories that burn. Better to crumble in a tower of flame Than sit with ghosts awaiting your return. âThese are the four best lines,â Judy pointed out when she had finished reading. âI took out parts of the first three lines and switched the last three over toward the beginning. Itâs more coherent that way if anyone should ever try to figure it out. But the middle stanza must either stay as it is or be taken out entirely. Which do you think, Miss Grimshaw?â âIâd take it out,â she declared. âThereâs too much truth in it.â Too much truth? A person who could not die! Who drifted off in air! Judy would have said exactly the opposite. It was too impossible. âDidnât the poet explain what she meant when the manuscript was delivered?â she asked. âExplain it! Humph! Jasper Crosby expects me to explain it. Heâs the poetâs brother,â the agent pointed out. âHe brings me the stuff in just such a jumble as this.â The pile before her on the desk eloquently illustrated the word âjumble.â Old envelopes, bills, sales sheets, anything that happened to be about, had been used for the poetâs snatches of verse. âIt must take a lot of time to rearrange them,â Judy ventured. âTime! Thatâs just it. Time and patience, too. But Jasper Crosby cares as much about the value of my time as a newborn baby. He never talks except in terms of dollars and cents. âWhat can you make out of this?â âHow much do we get out of that?â And expects me to rewrite half of it! Itâs trying my patience to the limit, I can tell you. If I werenât so fond of the poet I would have given it up years ago. Her verses used to be of quite a different type. You know _Golden Girl_?â âYou mean the popular song? Of course I do.â âWell, she wrote that twenty years ago. Itâs just recently been set to music.â Judy was becoming interested. As well as holding a promise of many new and charming acquaintances for herself and the other two girls the work was sure to be fascinating. Emily Grimshaw seemed pleased with the changes she had made in the poem, but it was best not to hurry her decision. Judy could see that she needed an assistant, but to make the agent see it also would require tact and patience. In the course of another half hour Emily Grimshaw had made up her mind. Judy was to report at her office the following day. No mention had been made of Irene as Judy knew her chances of holding the position were slim enough without asking an additional favor. But she felt sure that her new employer would not object to the presence of both girls in the office after she had grown accustomed to the idea of being helped. âAnd if she does object,â Irene said cheerfully, âIâll apply for a position with Dale Meredithâs publisher.â Eager to tell Pauline of their adventure, they walked toward the subway entrance and arrived just as the school girls were coming home. âWe found out who that man we met on the bus is,â Judy announced the moment she saw Pauline. âHeâs an author and has written stacks and stacks of books. We bought one to read in our spare time.â âReally?â âItâs the honest truth,â Irene declared. âI read ten chapters today while I was waiting for Judy. And what do you think? She has accepted a position in Emily Grimshawâs office.â Pauline stared. âThe woman who sent that telegram? Who on earth is she and where did you find out?â âIn the classified telephone directory,â Judy confessed. âSheâs Dale Meredithâs literary agent, though why he should pick such a crotchety old woman to sell his stories is beyond me. I thought, at first, she was going to bite my head off. But she found out she couldnât frighten me so she decided to hire me. When she calms down a bit sheâll probably let Irene help her, too.â âImagine!â Irene exclaimed, still bubbling with enthusiasm, âour own spending money and an opportunity to meet the most interesting peopleâââ âYou mean Dale Meredith?â Did Judy imagine it or was there the smallest trace of bitterness in Paulineâs voice? âWell, perhaps I do,â Irene replied. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VI THE NEW YELLOW GOWN In spite of the opportunity presented, a whole week passed by without a sign of the handsome young author. Judyâs suggestion that Irene might help in the office had been flatly ignored, but she was still hoping that Emily Grimshaw would change her mind. In the meantime Irene occupied herself with Dale Meredithâs books and Paulineâs piano. Little by little Judy became accustomed to her employerâs eccentricities, and meeting unusual people was an everyday occurrence. Jasper Crosby, of all the people she met, was the only one who seemed to resent her presence in the office. He came in, bringing an old shoe box stuffed with more poetry by the author of _Golden Girl_. The box was poked full of tiny holes. Judyâs curiosity got the better of her and she asked the reason. âSo the verses can breathe, simpleton,â he replied. Then he turned to Emily Grimshaw, âWhatâs the idea of this upstart in your office? Getting old, eh? Work too much for you?â âIf you bring in any more of this stuff,â the agent retorted, âit will be too much for both of us. This girl is clever. Sheâs the only person I ever met who can revise your sisterâs poetry as well as I can.â Now Jasper Crosbyâs hawk eyes were fixed on Judy. He studied her for a moment while she met his gaze unflinchingly. âHuh!â he grunted. âWatch your step, now. It takes queer people to revise queer poetry, and, mind you, this stuff has got to sell. Bring it out in book form. Jazz it up! Make it popular, and the public will eat it. That so, cutie?â He gave Judyâs cheek a playful pinch as he turned to leave. âThe nerve of him!â she expostulated. âHeâs the most repulsive person I have ever seen.â âQuite so,â the agent agreed. âQuite so and, strange to say, his sister was once the most charming. You can see it yet in some of her verses. I would be more enthusiastic about this book of her collected poems if I had any assurance that the royalties would go to her.â âWhy wonât they?â Judy asked. âBecause he tells me that her health is failing. Years ago I was witness to her will, and the entire estate goes to that scoundrel, Jasper Crosby.â As Judy busied herself typing and correcting the poetry this thought kept recurring to her mind. Nevertheless, the work itself fascinated her. She conceived the idea of grouping the verses with a sub-title for each group. Miss Grimshaw beamed her pleasure. âA fine idea, Miss Bolton, a really constructive idea. It will take considerable time but donât try to hurry. Better keep the manuscripts on your own desk and have the thing done right.â âCould I take them home?â Judy ventured the question and immediately wished she had not asked it. The agentâs eyes snapped. âIndeed not! Donât you realize, young lady, that original manuscripts are sometimes very valuable? This poet is well known, and plenty of people would be glad to buy them or, whatâs worse, steal them.â Judy had not considered this. It had simply occurred to her that Irene might help arrange the poems. She liked to hear her read in her low, musical voice. She would make the poems live and catch hidden meanings between the lines. Judy tried to explain all this to her employer. She felt that she must excuse her own thoughtlessness. âWell, if you are so anxious to have your friend help you, bring her here,â the old lady said with a sudden show of generosity. Irene was thrilled when Judy told her. âI feel as if this is a real occasion and I ought to dress up for it,â she declared. âA package came this morning from Farringdon, and Iâve been suspecting all the time that itâs a new dress. My birthday isnât for another week, but do you think Dad would mind if I opened my present now?â Without waiting for a reply, Irene ran to get the box her father had labeled, _For My Little Girlâs Seventeenth Birthday_. When she pulled off the wrappings the folds of a shimmering yellow satin dress fell into her hands. She stood up, holding it for Judy and Pauline to admire. âGorgeous!â Judy exclaimed. âLook at the puffed sleeves and high waistline! Why, itâs the very newest thing!â âBut itâs a party dress,â Pauline objected. âReally, itâs not at all the thing to wear in Emily Grimshawâs office.â âFor once,â Irene announced, âIâm going to wear exactly what I want to wear whether itâs proper or not.â Judy smiled at her independence. She had often felt that way herself. After all, what difference did it make? And Irene was breathtakingly lovely in the new dress. She stood before the long mirror in Paulineâs room while Judy pinned her hair in soft, bright curls at the back of her neck. Then she walked back a little distance, surveying the effect. âYouâre beautiful!â Judy exclaimed. âThat dress fits in with your complexion as though you were part of a picture. Youâre prettier than Lois or Honey or Lorraine. Donât you think so, Pauline?â She admitted it. âPrettier than Lorraine?â Irene repeated wonderingly. Lorraine Lee had always considered herself the prettiest girl in Farringdon and dressed accordingly, while Ireneâs faded blues and browns had never flattered her. But in the new yellow dress she was transformed. There was a tiny jacket to go with it, also of yellow but more delicately golden, matching slippers and, in the very bottom of the box, a gold locket. Irene, delighting in her own recklessness, wore them all the next morning. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER VII EMILY GRIMSHAW SEES THINGS Emily Grimshaw often came in late, but as Judy had her own key this affected her work very little. In fact, she usually accomplished more when alone. Thus she was not surprised to find the office vacant when she and Irene arrived. âItâs every bit as queer as you said it was,â Irene whispered as they unlocked the door and she examined the brass knocker. âShe must trust you, Judy.â She smiled into her friendâs honest gray eyes. âAnd who wouldnât?â The girls seated themselves at either end of the long sofa in Emily Grimshawâs office. With the pile of handwritten poetry between them it was easier to help each other decide into which group certain verses belonged. âSome of them are rather horrible,â Judy remarked as she hunted through the pile. âIâll sort out the worst ones, and you can read the others.â âOh, no! Let me read the horrible ones,â Irene begged. Judy laughed. âEveryone to his own notions. I donât mind, if you feel like giving yourself the shivers.â There was a long table just back of the sofa, and it came in handy for the completed groups of papers. Judy removed a vase of flowers and a few books and made a clear place for the different piles. â_Golden Girl_ goes at the top of the list,â she remarked, as she took a yellowed slip of paper in her hand. âMiss Grimshaw says itâs valuable.â âIs it the song?â âIt is,â Judy replied. âThis poet wrote it. Imagine! And then turns to such morbid things as that one I fixed up; you remember, about the tower of flame?â She broke off suddenly as the telephone on Emily Grimshawâs desk jangled imperiously. Both girls were buried in papers, and the telephone rang a second time before Judy was free to answer it. âThe switchboard operator says itâs Dale Meredith!â She turned away from the mouthpiece and gave out this information in an excited whisper. Irene let a few of the papers slide to the floor. âOh, Judy,â she cried, âour scheme did work after all!â Judyâs answer was a glance of triumph, but her voice over the wire sounded very businesslike. âTell him to come up and wait. Miss Grimshaw will be in shortly.â In the moment before he mounted the stairs Irene had time to smooth her hair and powder her nose. Then she picked up the fallen papers and was about to place them on the table. âNever mind the work now. Iâll straighten things,â Judy told her. âYou just sit there and look pretty when Dale Meredith comes in.â The handsome young author greeted them with a surprised whistle. âWhoever expected to find you here!â he exclaimed, smiling first at Judy who stood beside the open door and then at Irene. âWhy, the place looks like a palace with the princess enthroned on the sofa. Whatâs happened to Her Royal Highness?â âYou mean Miss Grimshaw?â Judy asked, laughing. âShe will be in presently.â âNot too âpresently,â I hope,â Dale replied, seating himself beside Irene. âBefore we talk business I want to hear what happened to you girls. Iâve been scolding myself ever since for not finding out your names. The truth of the matter is, I was so dog-goned interested in that _Art Shop Robbery_âââ âThe title of your new book?â Judy ventured, and his nod told her that she had reasoned correctly. âYou see, it was a rush order,â he went on to explain. âThere seems to be a big demand for mystery stories. Most people like to imagine themselves as sleuths or big time detectives. I do, myself. The trouble is, there arenât enough mysteries in real life to supply the demand for plots, and what there are make tales too gruesome to be good reading.â âYou do write gruesome stories then?â Irene asked anxiously. He studied her face for a moment before
{'title': 'The Yellow Phantom by Margaret Sutton', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}