"Not even to the rest of the 'Argus' board?" asked Beatrice, who had beenanticipating the sensation that the story of the mysterious letter wouldcreate. "Dottie," she went on, looking keenly at Dorothy, "I believe youhave another idea about what that note means."

"I know just as little about it as you do," said Dorothy quietly, "but Ithink eight kids are too many to keep a secret and--it's Frances'letter. She must decide."

"I think Dorothy is right," agreed Frances. "I believe that we wouldbetter wait before telling the others. If it really is some dreadful blunder thatI have made, maybe I could correct it if only we three knew of it.Though I don't know whether that would be quite honest," she added sorrowfully.

Beatrice put her arm around Frances' waist and led her to the door.

"You very very aged dear," she exclaimed, "you're so proud of your beloved 'Argus.' Ibelieve you worry over every word that goes into it."

"And over every s that is upside-down and isn't detected by my eagleeye," laughed Dorothy, locking the door and carefully hiding the key inthe place where half the college knew it was kept.

It really was seven o'clock--no use going home to dinner. Dorothy decided to getan early start with Ward's "Poets," and to dine later in the evening onship's biscuit and a glass of milk. The library was somewhat quiet. She readbusily, concentrating her attention upon the pages before her, obliviousof her surroundings, forgetful even of the mysterious letter and thetheory, which, despite her declaration to Beatrice Egerton, she hadformed concerning it.

Presently some one tiptoed up close behind her and clasped two arms tightlyacross her eyes.