“That’s a good idea of yours,” Dale told Judy just before she left togo to the office. “Have a nice long talk with Her Majesty and I’ll meetyou at noon to see what she says. In the meantime I’ll make some moreinquiries at the bookstore and of people in the neighborhood.”
“Oh, and you might tell them at the police station that we gave a wrongdescription of Irene’s clothes,” Pauline called out to them. She hadjust been to the closet for her hat and school books and had discoveredIrene’s brown suit hanging there. Only the yellow dress and jacket weremissing from her wardrobe.
“It was the same yellow dress that she wore to the dance,” Judyexplained.
“And she wore it that day I discovered you in the office,” Daleremembered. “She certainly looked like the heroine of our popular songthen. Do you suppose there is a chance that _Golden Girl_ was writtenfor her?”
Both girls laughed. “Dale Meredith! How absurd! It was written twentyyears ago.”
But when Emily Grimshaw heard of Irene’s disappearance and made asimilar suggestion Judy took it more seriously. She strained her earsto hear every word the agent said as she rocked back and forth in herswivel chair. Apparently she was talking to herself—something aboutthe spirit world and Joy’s song over the radio.
“Yes,” she went on in a louder tone, “those poems were written for Joy,every last one of them, and she sat right on that sofa while I read_Golden Girl_ aloud. That was twenty years ago. Then all of a sudden Isee her again after I think she’s dead—same starry eyes, same goldenhair, everything the same, even to her dress. Then her mother’s poemsturn up missing——”
“So the poet was Joy Holiday’s mother!” Judy interrupted to exclaim.
“Bless you, yes,” her employer returned. “I thought you knew. She wentstark crazy. Set fire to her own house and tried to burn herself alive.”
“Who did? The poet? How terrible!” Judy cried, starting from her chair.“Why, it seems impossible that I’ve been correcting a crazy woman’sverses without even knowing it. Tower of flame, indeed! So that’s whatshe meant!”
Emily Grimshaw laughed dryly. “Don’t ask me what she meant! I’m noauthority on crazy people. The asylum’s the place for them, and, if itweren’t for that mercenary brother of hers, Sarah Glenn would be thereyet. He arranged for her release and managed to get himself appointedas her guardian. Handles all of her finances, you see, and takes careof the estate. The poet’s pretty much of a recluse. I haven’t seen herfor years.”
This was beginning to sound more like sense. Hopefully, Judy ventured,“But you have seen her daughter?”
“Seen her! Seen her!” she cried. “That’s just it. I see her in mydreams. Ordinarily people don’t see spirits and that’s why it gave mesuch a turn the other day. And Joy did come back! Her mother said so inthe last poem she ever wrote. Jasper brought it in only this morning.”
“He did!” Judy exclaimed. “What did you tell him about the missingpoetry?”
“Nothing. And I intend to tell him nothing. If it becomes necessary totell anyone we’ll tell the poet herself. Her address is on thisenvelope. Keep it, Miss Bolton, you may need it. The poem I mentionedis on the other side.”
Judy turned it over and read:
LINES TO ONE WHO HAS DRUNK FROM THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
Death cannot touch the halo of your hair Though, like a ghost, you disappear at will. I knew you’d come in answer to my prayer ... You, gentle sprite, whom love alone can kill ...
She shivered. “Spooky, isn’t it? And,” she added, “like all of herpoems, utterly impossible.”
“Hmmm, you think so—now. But you’ll see. You’ll see.” And the old ladykept on nodding her head as if the gods had given her an uncannysecond-sight.
As far as Judy was concerned, the conversation closed right there. Shehad learned nothing of importance. In fact, she had learned nothing atall except that her employer believed in spirits. Someone, twenty yearsago, had probably looked like Irene. But that wouldn’t help find Irenenow.