CHAPTER IX A Significant Title

Madge was impatient to tell Anne her new theory regarding the missing formula but it was not easy to get away early that evening. Bill did not return with his load of stone until nearly dark, and Clyde Wendell, who had a habit of being late for meals, failed to appear until supper was nearly finished. Then he lingered over his coffee long after the others had gone outside. When he finally joined them on the veranda, Madge snatched the dishes from the table and had them in and out of the pan in a twinkling.

It was growing dark as she flew to her room for the things she meant to take with her to the island. She wrapped up a small bundle and tucked “Kim” under her arm.

Mr. Brownell and the chemist were arguing about something but they broke off as she crossed the veranda.

“That book must have a fascination,” the former remarked jokingly. “Do you sleep with it under your pillow, Miss Sterling?”

“What book?” Clyde asked.

She pretended not to hear but Mr. Brownell supplied the title.

“‘Kim,’” the chemist repeated. “Did I understand you correctly?”

Madge did not care to be drawn into the conversation nor did she wish to answer questions about the book. Without waiting for Mr. Brownell’s reply, she hastily made her way down to the lake.

Anne was waiting for her when she reached the island and immediately plunged into an account of Clyde’s afternoon visit.

“He made a dreadful scene, Madge. He said he’d give me just two days and if I don’t turn over five hundred dollars by that time, he’ll bring court action. I’m so worried I don’t know what to do.”

“Do nothing,” Madge advised. “He knows he can’t get anywhere if it comes to a legal fight. He’s only trying to bluff you, Anne. Sometimes, I think it wasn’t the money that brought him here at all.”

“So do I. All the time he was talking with me this afternoon, he kept looking around and sort of studying things.”

“Did he seem particularly interested in the library?”

“Why, he asked me if I had considered selling my books as a means of raising money. I told him I didn’t think they would bring much.”

“He didn’t ask you about that Kipling book you loaned me, did he?”

Anne shook her head. “Why?”

Madge lost no time in explaining her theory of the connection between the title and the words Mr. Fairaday had spoken at the time of his death. She half expected Anne to laugh at the idea, but instead, she became excited.

“Madge, you’re nothing less than a genius! Why didn’t I think of that myself?”

“It’s only a hunch. I may be wrong.”

“Everything fits in beautifully. ‘Kim’ was Father’s favorite book. And another thing, he was always interested in codes, secret inks and the like. During the war he worked for the government, deciphering messages which were thought to have been composed by spies. He was especially interested in secret inks.”

“Then we may be on the right track,” Madge declared enthusiastically. “The only way we can tell is to try to bring out the secret writing, if there is any.”

“That’s easy to do. Let’s go to the laboratory right now and see what we can do.”

With high spirits they raced up the stairs to Mr. Fairaday’s workroom. Anne brought out an alcohol lamp which she lighted.

“I don’t know the first thing about heating the pages,” Madge confessed. “Aren’t you afraid we’ll burn them?”

Anne shook her head. She had aided her father with any number of minor experiments and knew how to handle laboratory apparatus. However, she was so excited and hopeful that her hand trembled as she held the first fly leaf above the flame. She moved it slowly back and forth.

“Nothing seems to be coming up,” Madge observed in disappointment.

“We’re only starting.”

Anne worked patiently, heating the blank pages and the front and back of the book. When the final sheet did not reveal the secret, her confidence fell. Madge suggested that they try the margins and they took turns warming the printed pages. At length Anne passed the last sheet over the lamp. They watched with bated breath. Nothing came up.

“Oh, Madge, I’m so disappointed I could cry,” she wailed, sinking down into a chair. “I was so sure we were right.”

“So was I.”

“This book was absolutely our last hope. If Mr. Brownell comes here tomorrow I must tell him the truth. I’ve kept him waiting so long he’ll be justified in feeling I’ve tricked him. Oh, dear! Why did I get into such a position?”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Madge relapsed into thoughtful silence. At length she said: “I think Clyde is trying to sell Mr. Brownell a formula of his own.”

“I suppose he’ll succeed where I have failed. His formula may not be half as good as Father’s, yet if Mr. Brownell learns there is no hope of getting it he may deal with Clyde.”

Madge acknowledged the truth of this. She had hoped matters might work out to Anne’s advantage but luck had never been with her. To admit defeat seemed the only course.

It was nearly midnight and the girls were tired as well as discouraged. They put aside the apparatus and went to their bedroom, leaving the book lying on the laboratory table. Few words were spoken as they prepared for bed. Anne blew out the light and soon was asleep.

Madge rolled and tossed and remained wide awake. Try as she would, she could not take her mind from the perplexing problem of the formula. She had no real hope of working out a solution yet she kept turning the matter over and over in her mind. Then like a flash, the answer came!

“Anne! Anne!” she cried jubilantly, shaking her chum rudely by the shoulder. “I’ve thought of it at last!”