Coming Through the Rye by Grace Livingston Hill Page B

you met this other girl”—he looked toward the shrinking Frances—“and all of you stood on the corner until four boys came along. Now, from there, Miss Johnston, will you continue?”
    Sybil Mary’s eyes had been getting less and less bold as he told crisply the tale of her doings, and the other three girls were plainly shaking with fright and looking at one another aghast. Frances put her face down on her arm and began to cry. She did not dare look at her mother. Sybil looked from one to the other of her partners in crime, helplessly, like a wild thing suddenly cornered. Then her eyes glinted hardly, and she tossed up her chin.
    â€œWhy, one of the fellas said his uncle left his car round the corner a little piece and said he might use it for the evening, and he ast us if we didn’t all wantta go fer a ride. Ain’t that so, girls?”
    The girls hurriedly chorused, “Oh, yes. Yes, indeed! That was so.”
    â€œWhich of the boys was it said that?” asked the officer, his keen eyes taking in each girl with surprising understanding.
    â€œOh, I couldn’t say,” said Sybil Mary airily. “I really don’t remember. Do you, Fran? Was it Bob or Timmy? I didn’t pay attention. I just heard the word
ride
, and that was all I cared.” She laughed jauntily.
    â€œIt wasn’t Lawrence Ransom, was it?” quizzed the officer.
    â€œLawrence Ransom?” repeated Sybil thoughtfully. “I don’t think I know him. Mebbe he was one of the strange fellas that was along with Bob and Timmy. I really didn’t pay attention to their names. I never do when I’m introduced. It’s too much trouble. We always give them nicknames anyway.”
    â€œI see,” said the officer, writing something down. “And now, could you just tell me where you went after you got into the car?”
    â€œWhy—” Sybil Mary paused thoughtfully and bit her vivid lips as if she were trying to recall. “Why, I don’t really just remember. We go on so many rides. It mightta ben to the park, and it mightta ben out Fielding Road. It was real dark that night, and I don’t recall.”
    â€œCould it by any possibility have been toward Pine Woods Inn?”
    â€œI—don’t—think—so.” She drew her brows thoughtfully. “I’ve never been there much.”
    Suddenly the interrogator turned to Frances.
    â€œWhich one of the men waited on you at your table that night, Miss Frances? Did they call him Jim or Joe?”
    Sybil was raising her eyebrows at Frances and signaling all sorts of warnings, but the miserable Frances was beyond using subterfuges.
    â€œJoe, I think,” she answered with quivering lips, and then she saw what she had done and, putting her head down, sobbed bitterly to hide the angry glances of her friends.
    â€œThat will be about all, thank you,” he said to Mrs. Judson as he closed his little notebook and put it in his pocket. “I’ll leave your daughter in your hands, Mrs. Judson. I’m sure you know what is best to be done
for the present
, and if all goes well, I hope we sha’n’t have to trouble you again. I shall have to ask these other three girls to take a little ride with me. There is an automobile waiting outside, and it isn’t a dark night tonight.”
    The three girls looked at each other with frightened glances, and Frances stopped sobbing and held her breath.
    â€œOh—I—gotta date—” began Sybil Mary.
    â€œThat’s all right,” said the officer. “This date comes first. Just step right outside.”
    â€œBut my grandmother will worry,” persisted Sybil Mary.
    â€œYou should have thought of that sooner,” said the officer, taking firm hold of the shrinking girl’s arm. “If it becomes necessary, we’ll see that your grandmother is informed where you are.”
    â€œI’ll tell you where Lawrence