Missing at Marshlands Part 31

"It's gone!" she exclaimed. "The box, the pretty yellow one that I put there myself, is gone!"

Was it a trick that Melissa had played on them? Or had Terry argued so successfully that the girl had actually come to believe she really did possess the box?

"Are you sure you had it?" Arden asked gently. "When did you see it last?"

"This morning I took it out to look at it," Melissa replied slowly.

"What did it look like?" Terry asked, not quite believing that Melissa ever had it now.

"It had a little bird on and the prettiest shiny stones all around the edge," Melissa answered woefully. "Oh, I did like it so much! It was so pretty!"

The girls fell silent. They had met another stone wall. They had neither Dimitri nor the snuffbox. They were as much in the dark as ever.

"But, Melissa," Sim began, "what could have happened to it?"

"I don't know," Melissa replied slowly.

They looked curiously at the bare little room. Poor child, it was not surprising that she loved bright shiny things so much. In a place such as this was, anyone would crave relief from its drabness.

Arden turned to go, and the others were about to follow when they were halted by the sound of heavy footsteps hastening up the wooden steps that led into the house.

The three girls drew together. Serge stepped forward as though to protect them.

"It's Pa," Melissa said, looking fearfully at them.

"What's going on in here?" an angry voice was heard before they saw the owner of it.

Melissa shrank back to the wall between the bed and bureau.

"What are you people doing here? Who let you in here?" It was George Clayton, wildly angry at this invasion of his property.

"We came by ourselves," Terry said, boldly anxious to keep her pledge with Melissa.

"You did! Well, I advise you to go by yourselves before I run you off!"

Clayton bellowed, reaching for a shotgun on the wall.

"Now, see here, Clayton," Serge began, standing fearlessly before the angry man. "Be careful how you handle that gun. You don't want to do anything you might be sorry for later."

"I know what I'm doing," Melissa's father insisted. "You people get out of here! This is my property. You've got to get a warrant before you can come snooping around my place!"

"All right, we'll go," Serge said in a low voice. "But you watch your step. I've heard you're not very popular in these parts."

Clayton made an angry motion as though to strike Serge, but with an effort controlled himself and, spluttering and fuming, literally drove them from the shack.

They all piled into the little rowboat and made their way slowly back across the bay, disappointed and defeated, hardly knowing what to say-what to believe.

Serge decided to go at once back to New York.

"Dimitri might have gone to my place. I will get in touch with you tomorrow and let you know," he said and, not going into the house again, he thanked Mrs. Landry, who was anxiously waiting at the small dock and, climbing in his car, drove quickly out of sight.

For a little while there was silence among them. Even Sim, who often could find humor in matters where others could not, had nothing to say.

Mrs. Landry looked at the faces of the girls, and, guessing their thoughts, said:

"Never mind, my dears. It isn't your fault."

"But I did so hope something would come of this," said Terry. "After getting Melissa to admit she had the box, then not to find it!"

"Do you really think she had it?" asked Arden.

"That's hard to answer," Terry replied. "I don't see why she would want to deceive us. She described the cupboard, told how she slipped aboard the houseboat while Dimitri was out in the marsh, painting, and we all know she's crazy about such objects as that bright and beautiful snuffbox."

"And to think it may be gone forever," sighed Sim.

"We're not going to let it be lost forever!" suddenly declared Arden.

"What are you going to do about it?" challenged Terry.

"I'm going to see to it that a thorough search is made of that shack, in spite of George Clayton!" Arden's head went up bravely, and there was a determined look in her eyes.

"How?" questioned Terry.

"With the help of the police or that detective woman, Emma Tash!"

"I think it is time you got the authorities more actively interested, my dears," said Mrs. Landry, who had heard, with some alarm, the actions of the crabber in the matter of the shotgun. "That man must be curbed. He is standing in the way of good to his daughter. If we could get in touch with Emma Tash she might bring some man with her who would proceed in spite of Clayton and his gun. This father of Melissa's may be just 'bluffing,' as the boys say."

"Didn't Miss Tash leave you her address?" asked Arden.

"Yes," Mrs. Landry answered, "she did. But it may take a few days to get in communication with her and get her down here. Instead of her, I would suggest our local chief."

"Rufus Reilly?" asked Sim. "Oh, my goodness, he and his duck that can't fly on one leg!"

"Besides," added Terry, "he claims to have been working on the case, but all he does is to tinker with that old car."

"Still," decided Arden, "I think we should go to him again. It is up to him to do something. If we bring another officer here, he would first go to Mr. Reilly. I believe that is police law. So let's go see our proverb-splitting chief and tell him what happened today. We can say we feel sure the stolen snuffbox is in the shack, and he can get a search warrant if he needs to."

"I am coming around to your way of thinking, Arden," admitted Sim.

"Perhaps, when the chief hears about Clayton's gun, it will stir him up to something like fighting rage, and we'll get some action."

"Well, then, let's," agreed Terry. "It's too late now, but we'll get the chief to go to the shack the first thing in the morning."

However, when morning came, after an anxious night in which no news came of the missing artist, Mrs. Landry decided it might be well to wait for another day.

"Dimitri's brother may learn something in New York," she said, "and that may make it needless to go and beard this Clayton boor in his shack."

"Yes, I suppose waiting another day will do no harm," Arden agreed. "But I don't believe Dimitri is in New York or has his box. He would not be where he is, a free agent, without sending some word to his brother Serge, at least, about himself. No, Dimitri is where he can't get word to his friends."

"And where do you think that place is?" asked Sim.