Miss Dimple and the Slightly Bewildered Angel by Mignon F. Ballard Page A

the others about what happened at the library that afternoon. Although the prowler acted suspiciously, he or she hadn’t actually broken any law, and for all she knew, it might have been some poor creature frightened by the sudden frenzy. Still, she felt uneasy about the situation and was glad Bobby Tinsley had promised to keep an eye on the place.
    Unable to sleep, she sat alone by the dying fire in the parlor with one of Agatha Christie’s recent Miss Marple mysteries, The Moving Finger. Tomorrow was a school day and she needed her sleep. Perhaps reading would make her drowsy.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here,” Augusta said from the doorway. “I was going to bank the fire for the night, but I hope you’ll join me for a cup of tea?”
    â€œThank you. That would be delightful,” Miss Dimple said, closing her book.
    Augusta had left the kettle on a boil, so Dimple sat, warmed by the fire, as amber embers winked on the hearth, and she had almost nodded off when Augusta returned with two steaming mugs and a small plate of thin spice cookies she had made that afternoon.
    Miss Dimple said she didn’t usually eat sweets before bedtime, but found she’d consumed at least three of them before she even realized it.
    â€œMiss Dimple, is anything wrong?” Augusta asked, sitting across from her in the small mahogany side chair, its flowered needlepoint seat now beginning to fade. “You seem as if something is bothering you.”
    Dimple sipped her tea. Not as good as her lemon-ginger brew, she thought, but hot and soothing just the same. She sighed. She really didn’t know this newcomer well at all, and thought it a bit forward of her to ask such a personal question. Why should she unburden herself to a stranger?
    But the words were out of her mouth before she even realized it. “I have to send a telegram,” she said, and told Augusta of her concerns about Henry.
    â€œTell me about him,” Augusta said, giving the fire a poke. And Dimple spoke with pride of her brother’s work at the Bell Bomber Plant near Marietta. “I know he’s doing something important for the war effort,” she said, “but Henry doesn’t talk about it.”
    Augusta nodded. “That’s where they build the aeroplanes, isn’t it?” She pronounced the word in a peculiar manner, as if she wasn’t accustomed to using it, and Dimple hid a smile.
    â€œThat’s right,” she said. “My brother helps to design them. He’s an engineer, a special kind of engineer.” She remembered how proud she had been to contribute part of her small teacher’s salary to help with young Henry’s expenses at Georgia Tech, and it had been worth every dollar and then some.
    Augusta just smiled and nodded, as if she knew all about flying. What a strange little bird, Dimple thought.
    â€œI suppose you’ve tried to reach him by telephone,” Augusta suggested, and was told he was never there when Dimple called, and Henry’s wife apparently had forgotten to relay her messages.
    â€œHazel—that’s my brother’s wife—told me he’s been out of town a good bit lately,” Dimple confided. “She thinks he’s working on a special kind of project, but of course she doesn’t know what it is, except that it seems to be important.”
    Augusta shifted in her seat, giving her skirt a twitch. Its colors of turquoise, gold, and rose seemed to blend in the fire’s glow. “He must be at home sometime,” she said. “Do you know when he goes in to work?”
    â€œEarly. Very early. I’ve thought of calling then, but I don’t want to wake the entire household.”
    â€œWhy not?” Augusta said, and Dimple examined her companion’s serene countenance and thought to herself, Why not indeed?
    â€œThen I’ll phone in the morning.” Dimple stifled a