join them, so she turned back, feeling strongly tempted to
tell her story to them; but she had agreed with Miss Celia that it was
best not to talk about it until Mr. Whittredge's return, and Belle prided
herself on her ability to keep a secret.

The interest of deciding what view would make the best picture made her
forget the ring for a while; but as they sat on the edge of the dock
waiting to catch a sailboat about to start out, she suddenly said, "Boys,
I believe I saw a detective this morning," and she described the stranger.

"Why do you think he is a detective?" asked Maurice.

"Well, you know they always wear spectacles and try to look like
ministers," she answered confidently.

"Pshaw! they have all sorts of disguises," said Jack.

"I don't care, I'm sure he is one, and I think he is looking for the
ring." Belle pursed up her lips as much as to say she might tell more.

"You are trying to make us believe you know something," remarked Jack,
with brotherly scorn.

"I do. Something I can't tell for--well, for several days."

"Who knows it beside you?" asked Maurice.

"Just Miss Celia."

If Miss Celia knew, it seemed worthy of more respect. "How did you find it
out?" asked Jack.

"I can't tell you. It is a mystery; but, boys, I want to keep an eye on
that man and see what he does," Belle said impressively.

"How about taking his picture?" suggested Maurice.

"Just the thing!" Belle clapped her hands. "Let's go look for him now."

Anything that promised some fun was hailed with delight. It had been a
little dull in Rosalind's absence. When she was with them nobody was
conscious of her leadership, but now she was away they were at a loss.

They waylaid old Mr. Biddle, driving in from the country with a load of
apples, and demanded a ride which he good-naturedly allowed them, and they
drove down the hill in state. When they came within sight of the
post-office, Belle clutched Maurice's arm. "There he is," she whispered.
"Let's get out and wait for him. You have your camera ready."

The obliging Mr. Biddle stopped his horse and let his passenger out. As
for the stranger, if he had known what was wanted of him, he couldn't have
been more accommodating. He came slowly down the steps of the post-office,
and stood within a few yards of the doorway, where three giggling young
persons had taken shelter. Maurice had time for half a dozen pictures if
he wanted them.

"He isn't a detective," whispered Jack, "