She agreed, however, that it probably would be safe for Nancy to stay, but cautioned her to be extra careful.
While the housekeeper prepared supper, Nancy hurriedly wrote a note to the publisher of “Song of the Wind.” Then she went to make Effie comfortable. The maid was feverish and declared her arm itched dreadfully. When she finally dropped off to sleep, Nancy tiptoed away to see that Susan was all right.
The little girl looked up and said, “A bad spider bit Effie. She told me all about it.”
Nancy was provoked to learn the maid had told the story to Susan, but she merely smiled. “That’s right, Susan, but only good spiders live around here. The bad one is dead now.”
To get the child’s mind off the unfortunate subject, she told her about the funny antics of the jumping spiders and the flying variety.
“Some of them are just like trapeze performers in a circus,” Nancy explained. “They spin a thread and then let the wind carry them through the air. Sometimes they go all the way from shore to a ship at sea.”
“Oh, that kind of spider would be lots of fun to watch!” Susan remarked, her fears gone now.
Hannah Gruen brought up a tray of food for the little girL Nancy decided that while Susan was eating supper, Mr. March might sit with her, and she would drive Hannah home. When they reached the Drew house, Bess and George were just leaving.
“Where in the world have you been, Nancy?” George remonstrated. “We thought something had happened to you. How about having dinner at my house and telling us about your new mystery?”
Nancy thanked her, but explained why she could not accept the invitation. Bess exclaimed in horror when she heard about the black widow episode.
“You’d better stay out of that place,” she advised.
“I’ll be careful. Don’t worry,” Nancy replied. She told the girls to climb into her car and she would drop them off.
Nancy left her friends at George’s house and went on. After stopping to buy a flashlight battery, she drove to the March estate and was in time to tuck Susan into bed. The little girl looked up at her wistfully.
“I wish you’d always stay with me,” she confided. “You’re my best friend.”
Nancy leaned down and kissed her. “I’m going to be here for a while,” she promised. “Suppose we pretend each day is a year.”
Susan liked this game, and soon she went to sleep happily. Nancy joined Mr. March on the first floor, where he was listening to the radio. As they ate supper together, he told her more about his family.
“I guess my son Fipp came by his musical ability naturally,” Mr. March said. “My mother wrote songs for the sheer joy of it. They were composed only for the family though, and never got beyond manuscript form. My son used parts of the melodies in his work. The piece called ‘Song of the Wind’ was based in part on one that my mother wrote years ago.”
Nancy pounced eagerly on this bit of information. It might prove to be good evidence in case of a lawsuit!
“What became of your mother’s old songs?” she asked quickly.
“I couldn’t say. A few of the pieces may have been put away in the attic. I’m sure Fipp didn’t have them. The old melodies had been hummed to him so many times he knew them by heart.”
The clue was sufficient to start Nancy on another intensive search. As soon as she washed the dishes, Nancy put the new battery in her flashlight and went to the attic. She began poking around in boxes. One of these was filled with interesting newspapers, some of which dated back a hundred years.
“I’m reading more than I’m working,” the young detective scolded herself with a laugh. “I’d better get on with the hunt.”
Going hurriedly through the remaining papers, Nancy came at last to the bottom of the box. Her gaze fastened upon a ribbon-tied roll of parchment.
“This may be the very thing I’m after!” she thought excitedly.
Unwrapping it, she discovered the sheet contained the music and words of a song! She hummed the first few bars. They were not familiar.
She started to investigate another box which stood nearby. As Nancy eagerly plunged her hand down, something sharp buried itself in her finger. With a sinking heart Nancy wondered if she might have been poisoned the way Effie had been!
Gingerly she pushed aside the papers, looking for a black widow spider. Then Nancy laughed as she saw what had pricked her finger. Men’s antique shoe buckles!
“What gorgeous ones!” she thought, lifting out several pairs of the old silver ornaments. They were studded with semiprecious stones, one of which had a sharp prong on it.
Nancy was happy over the find. The buckles would bring a nice sum of money for Mr. March. After wrapping them carefully in paper, she put the buckles in her pocket.
At that instant the flashlight which Nancy had laid on the floor rolled away and clicked off. As she leaned forward to pick it up, something landed with a soft thud against her hand.
Out of nowhere floated a few eerie notes of music like the faint strumming of a harp.
CHAPTER VIII
The Strange Secret
NANCY, in the pitch-black attic, kept perfectly still. She hardly breathed. Chills ran up and down her spine.
The music had ceased, but from nearby came the sounds of stealthy footsteps. These were followed by muffled rapping sounds.
“There isn’t a harp or a piano here,” Nancy told herself, trying to regain her composure. “Maybe this is just a trick to keep people out of the attic.”
The rapping had stopped now. Nancy reached again for the flashlight. This time she found it, but to her dismay it would not light.
“The store clerk must have sold me a defective battery,” Nancy said to herself, frowning.
She was too far from the stairway to get there safely in the dark among the maze of boxes and trunks.
“What am I going to do?” Nancy thought.
Suddenly she heard her name murmured. “Naa-ancy! Na-a-ancy!”
“It must be Mr. March,” she concluded as the call became louder. “Thank goodness. Now there’ll be a light.”
She stood up, then froze to the spot as a new thought struck her. If someone really were in the attic, he might harm anyone coming up the steps! Summoning all her courage, Nancy called out loudly:
“I’m in the attic. Don’t come up! Just hold a light for me at the foot of the stairs!”
Nancy had expected a hand to be clapped over her mouth, but nothing happened. In relief she called out again, saying her flashlight was not working.
A few seconds later a light shone up the stairway. Mr. March was speaking to her cheerily.
Nancy gingerly found her way across the attic. Soon she was back on the second floor. Mr. March took hold of her arm.
“You’re white as a sheet,” he said. “Something happened. What was it?”
“Did anyone touch the piano downstairs?” she asked.
“The piano? No. Why?”
“I thought I heard a few notes of music,” Nancy replied.
“You’re not telling me all you know,” the elderly man said. “I want to hear everything. Don’t keep anything back.”
“I’m afraid somebody or something is in the attic,” Nancy admitted. “After my flashlight went out there were all kinds of ghostly noises.”
Mr. March grunted. “I’ll fix him,” he said and started up the stairs. Nancy tried to hold him back.
“I’ve faced the enemy before,” he declared, holding the candle aloft. “And it’s high time I find out about that mysterious attic.”
Nancy followed him. To her chagrin they found no one, nor was there any evidence of a secret entrance through which an intruder might have come. On the floor near the spot where she had stood lay a large toy bear.
“It must have fallen from the rafters,” Nancy decided. She told Mr. March this was one of the strange events that had occurred in the past fifteen minutes. “I guess the bear fell on me,” she added.
“That bear belonged to Fipp,?
?? his father explained. “I haven’t seen it for years.”
Nancy was apologetic for having worried him. She picked up her flashlight and said no more about the incidents. But she knew that she had not imagined the stealthy footsteps, the rapping sounds, and the musical notes. Who and what had made them remained a deep mystery.
“Here’s a surprise for you,” she said, changing the subject. “I located one of the old songs under a pile of newspapers.”
Mr. March scanned the parchment eagerly. Finally he spoke. “Oh, yes, I remember this—‘The Old and the New.’ ” He nodded, humming a few bars of the tune. “My mother composed the tune and Fipp later added to it. It was one of his finest.”
“It’s the best find we’ve made yet,” said Nancy after they had gone downstairs. “If Ben Banks has published a song with this melody, you’ll certainly have a case against him.”
“I hope you receive a reply to your letter very soon,” the elderly man said. He sighed, adding, “This suspense is rather hard on an old fellow like me.”
Nancy spoke a few words of encouragement and showed him the valuable old shoe buckles. Then she said good night. That weekend she was kept busy with the housework, and had no chance to go to the attic. But she took time on Saturday to run into the business section of River Heights to see Mr. Faber.
The dealer gave her a good price for the buckles. Mr. March was overjoyed at the encouraging news.
“How wonderful!” he exclaimed. “Oh, Nancy, I’ll never be able to repay you for your kindness.”
Nancy brushed aside the comment modestly. She knew that the money she had been able to acquire was still not sufficient to take care of Susan or the house expenses indefinitely.
By Monday Effie was able to assume the duties of the household once more, and Nancy returned to her own home. Mr. Drew greeted her cheerily.
“Well, I’m glad to see my daughter again,” he said affectionately. “I believe I should take the day off and celebrate.”
Knowing she was being teased, Nancy asked, “Are you taking a holiday?”
“I’m on my way to see Mr. Booker,” her father replied.
Nancy queried him about what progress he had made in clearing up the mystery of the stolen formula for creating the lovely silk material.
“Absolutely none,” Mr. Drew confessed. “Men have been shadowing the Dight plant ever since you were there, but they haven’t seen Bushy Trott go in or come out of the building.”
“Maybe he lives there. Would you like me to go back to the factory and find out?” Nancy asked.
“Not yet, but I may call on you later. Mr. Booker is so sure his process is being imitated that whether or not Trott is there, he wants me to start suit against Lawrence Dight.”
“Will you do it?”
“Not until I have a little more evidence,” the lawyer replied. “One has to be mighty careful when accusing a person of Mr. Dight’s standing. Up to now Mr. Booker hasn’t explained much about how he makes the special silk material, so I’m on my way to find out. Want to go with me?”
“You won’t have to ask twice!”
“Then we’ll be on our way. Later, if one of us gets into the secret section of the Dight plant, we’ll be able to compare the two methods.”
Nancy and her father were welcomed cordially by Mr. Booker, who was eager to conduct the Drews through his plant.
“First I’ll show you the Gossamer Garment Room,” he declared, leading the way.
The Gossamer Room contained several bolts of filmy white silk material like that used in the scarves Nancy had seen. Others were in various colors, while a few were patterned with artistic and unusual designs.
“They’re beautiful!” Nancy exclaimed.
Clever designers had fashioned some of the materials into attractive dresses, which hung row upon row in dustproof glass cases.
“I’ve never seen anything so lovely!” Nancy said. A pale-yellow evening gown caught her eye. “What a stunning dance dress!”
In texture it was unlike anything she had ever seen before. “The material is strong,” she said, “yet it looks delicate enough to dissolve at a touch of the hand!”
“That’s why we call it gossamer,” Mr. Booker said proudly. “I’ll show you how it’s made. You must promise, of course, never to reveal my secrets!”
“You can trust us!” said Mr. Drew.
The factory owner unlocked a heavy metal door and led his callers into a room where two men sat at tables, engaged in a most unusual occupation.
“This is my spidery,” Mr. Booker explained. “Here I breed orb weavers under glass. They provide me with the silk threads I need for my material.”
“You actually use spiders!” Nancy gasped.
“Yes.” Mr. Booker smiled. “They are very useful to man when one understands how to put them to work.”
Nancy watched curiously. One of the men was holding a spider in a pair of forceps. The little insect was exuding a filmy thread from its spinneret. With his other hand the man was winding the silk onto a spool.
“The spiders work fast,” Mr. Drew remarked.
“One of them can spin a web half a yard across in less than an hour,” Mr. Booker revealed. “Now I’ll show you how we make the thread strong enough to be woven into cloth.”
Nancy and her father were escorted to the room where the secret chemical formula was mixed. Not only did Nancy look at the solution in the various tubes, but she took particular note of the peculiar scent it produced.
“I’d be more likely to recognize the odor than anything else. If this chemical is being used at the Dight factory, maybe I can identify it that way,” Nancy thought.
Mr. Drew inquired if this was the department where Bushy Trott had worked.
“Yes,” Mr. Booker replied, “he was in this section. He came to me highly recommended as a chemist. Because he left my employ abruptly, I suspect that he was sent here as a spy.”
Mr. Drew told the manufacturer there was plenty of evidence now against the rival concern.
“We’re still trying to check on Bushy Trott,” he said. “The next step will be to find out how Lawrence Dight is making his silk material’
“If only I could get into his factory again!” Nancy remarked to her father as they drove away from the Booker plant.
“Couldn’t you arrange for another trip with your friend Diane?”
“She’s scarcely a friend, Dad. But I’ll think up a way,” Nancy promised.
After dropping her father at his office, she had an inspiration. If her scheme worked, she would get into the factory!
On impulse she drove directly to the Dight home to put her plan into action. The spacious grounds were located at the edge of the city and were screened from the road by a high, ivy-covered fence. Nancy turned into the winding driveway and coasted to the big white house.
CHAPTER IX
A Blue Bottle
HOPEFULLY Nancy rang the bell at the Dight house. She was eager to carry out her plan. Diane opened the door.
“Have you come to see me?” Diane inquired curtly.
Nancy smiled graciously and replied, “You have a little sister, I believe.”
“Jean’s seven.”
“Then she’s only a little bigger than a girl I know who has very few clothes. Do you suppose your mother would be willing to pass on a few of Jean’s clothes that she has outgrown?” Nancy asked.
“I’ll ask her,” Diane offered with a shrug. “Come in.”
The invitation delighted Nancy. This was her chance to see what kind of art objects the Dights favored. Perhaps they would be interested in buying some of Mr. March’s antiques. If she could obtain something to sell them, she might have a reason for calling on Mr. Dight at his office.
Left alone, Nancy gazed with interest about the luxuriously furnished living room. Against one wall stood a mahogany case with glass shelves. On them was an array of beautiful, unusual old bottles.
“The very thing!” Nancy thought in d
elight.
She went over to examine the collection. One had the face of George Washington etched in it, another that of Dolly Madison. As Nancy stood gazing at a lovely old blue perfume bottle, Diane came downstairs.
“There you are,” she said, tossing a heap of garments onto a sofa. “Mother says to take them all if you like.”
Nancy thanked her for the clothing, and then expressed interest in the bottle collection.
“Oh, that’s Mother’s hobby,” Diane replied indifferently. “She spends a great deal of her time at antique stores trying to pick up bargains. She’d rather have an old bottle than something new.”
“Many old things are far prettier than new ones,” Nancy remarked.
“I don’t think so. And especially bottles. Anyway, it’s my opinion one collector in the family is enough.”
Nancy was tempted to make a retort, but wisely kept still. Diane certainly was a disrespectful and conceited daughter.
“Thank you for the dresses,” she said, gathering them up. “Little Susan will be delighted to have them.”
From the Dight home Nancy drove directly to Pleasant Hedges. She had seen some old bottles in the attic there!
Nancy showed Mr. March the dresses she had obtained for Susan. They were very pretty, and gave no evidence of having been worn.
“Mrs. Dight was good to send my granddaughter such fine clothes,” he said gratefully, “but I can’t accept charity.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“You mean there’s some way I can show my appreciation?” he asked.
“In your attic are several nice old bottles. They’re standing way back under the eaves,” Nancy told him. “Mrs. Dight collects bottles. I’ll see that she gets one, if you like, in return for these dresses.”
“Do that. I remember the bottles, now that you speak of them.”
“May I sell some of them?” Nancy asked.
“Yes, yes. Every penny helps. You might give the blue flowered one to Mrs. Dight.”
Excited that her scheme had worked so far, Nancy went to the attic. Though the sun was pouring in through the one small window, she had to light a candle in order to look in the far corners of the room.