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Updated: May 21, 2025
They crowded around so eagerly that nobody could read. "Here, I'll read it aloud," said Clifford, picking up the paper and holding it close to the lamp. Here is what he read: "I will bring Old Stanlock along the foothill pike. Will slow up in the sand stretch. Be there ready to grab him. Jake."
"Maybe there is somebody at home," Lieutenant Larkin suggested. "Let's ring the bell first" "Well, come on," said Mr. Stanlock. "We'll soon find out if there's anyone in the house." He led the way up the weather-beaten but fairly well preserved steps and pulled the knob of the old fashioned doorbell.
Stanlock called up the police station and asked the lieutenant in charge to come over and begin work on a new angle of the strike developments. "One of the girls has disappeared, and we are afraid that something serious has happened," he told the officer over the telephone. The latter soon drove up to the house in an automobile and was admitted by Mr. Stanlock.
"Some queer stories have been told about this place," he said; "and I'm wondering if now is not the time to put them to a test. They are pretty wild stories, almost as wild as haunted house yarns, but there may be thing to them." "I've heard something about them myself," said Mr. Stanlock. "You refer to the stories about the building of this house over an old mine, I suppose?
Hooray for Marion Stanlock! Hooray for Flamingo Camp Fire." The cheers, shrill on the sharp winter air, now in unison, now in confusion, came not from the assembled Camp Fire Girls, although from nearly as many voices. Out from the timber thicket to the west of the campus rushed a small army of khaki-clad figures. There were a few screams among the girls, but not many.
"I can run a hundred-yard dash in thirteen seconds," said Ernestine; "and that's better than lots of boys can do it." "I can throw a ball like a boy," said Helen Nash. "So can I" this from Marion Stanlock. "Oh, several of us can do that," Katherine declared. "We've played ball with the boys. But now you're getting close to what I was driving at. We'll proceed to gather a supply of ammunition."
All of the thirteen members and the Guardian of Flamingo Camp Fire, Marion's mother, sister, and brother were present at this scene in the big living room of the Stanlock home. Mr. Stanlock covertly watched the faces of his auditors and was pleased to note that his bandying words were rapidly bringing the tension back to normal.
"That's Jake, my driver; it's his handwriting I'm certain. What did be want to do that for? He must be in league with the worst element of the strikers. Probably they paid him well for this, or promised him a tempting bribe." Mr. Stanlock mused thus aloud as he studied over the note. The situation puzzled him. What ought he to do?
They continued the watch for fifteen or twenty minutes, until the lights of the automobile, which pierced the darkness far ahead, indicated that he had proceeded between one and two miles without interference. Perhaps it were better not to attempt to describe with faithfulness of detail the reception given Mr. Stanlock by his wife and family on his return home shortly before 9 o'clock that night.
The nervous strain of the apparent certainty, by this time, that the disappearance of Marion and her guests portended serious developments had compelled Mrs. Stanlock to take to her bed and summon a physician and a nurse. The call from the searchers in the neighborhood took Mr.
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