e proceedings began as they usually did when
Polly Parsons arrived. Subcommittees took cheerful and happy possession
of the most comfortable locations they could find, and Constance Joy
walked Ashley Loring out through the side porch.

"There's a very cozy and retired seat in the summer-house," she
informed him. "I wish to have a tete-a-tete with you on a most
important business matter."

"You may have a tete-a-tete with me on any subject whatsoever," laughed
Loring. "I suppose it's about those Johnny Gamble attachments, however."

"It's about that exactly," she acknowledged. "What have you learned of
the one for fifty thousand dollars which was attempted to be laid
against Mr. Gamble's interest in that hotel property yesterday?"

"Very little," he confessed. "It is of the same sort as the one we
discussed the other day."

Constance nodded. "Fraudulent, probably," she guessed.

"I think so myself," agreed Loring. "Trouble is, nobody can locate the
Gamble-Collaton books."

"Perhaps they have been destroyed," mused Constance.

"I doubt it," returned Loring. "It would seem the sensible thing to do;
but, through some curious psychology which I can not fathom, crooks
seldom make away with documentary evidence."

"Who is helping Mr. Collaton?" asked Constance abruptly after a little
silence.

"I do not know," answered Loring promptly, looking her squarely in the
eye.

"Some one of our mutual acquaintance," she persisted shrewdly. "Twice,
now, attachments have been served on Mr. Gamble when the news of his
having attachable property could only have come from our set."

They had turned the corner of the lilac screen and found a little
summer-house occupied by Sammy and Winnie, and the low mellow voice of
Winnie was flowing on and on without a break.

"It's the darlingest vanity purse I ever saw," she babbled. "Sister
Polly bought it for me this morning. She's the dearest dear in the
world! I don't wonder you're so crazy about her. How red your hand is
next to mine! Madge Cunningham says that I have the whitest and
prettiest hands of any girl in school--and she's made a special study
of hands. Isn't that the cunningest sapphire ring? Sister Polly sent it
to me on my last birthday; so now you know what month I was born in.
Jeannette Crawley says it's just the color of my eyes. She writes
poetry. She wrote some awfully sweet verses about my hair. 'The regal
color of the flaming sun', she called it. She's dreadfully