The Mystery of the Headless Horseman

agreed. She wrinkled her pretty forehead. “I still don’t understand what Harrison was doing here in the first place, but— Why, Brian, what’s the matter?” Brian, with a sudden exclamation, had left them abruptly and was striding toward the couch. He bent over the injured man. “Harrison?” he said urgently. “Can you hear me?”
    A faint smile crossed Harrison’s pale face. The eyes, which had only just closed, now opened and looked at him. “I can hear you.”
    “I’m sure you don’t want to, but I think it’s best if you keep talking to us,” Brian said. “You may have a concussion. It’s very important that you don’t fall asleep.”
    “Are those doctor’s orders?”
    “Yes.”
    “Very well.”Harrison sighed. “I have to admit there is something I would like to tell you.” Trixie had been standing silent, deep in thought. The smell of lavender was even stronger now. What could have happened here? She crossed the room and stood by the couch. She motioned to the others to follow.
    “Are you going to tell us about last night?” she asked gently.
    “Trixie!” exclaimed Di. “I really don’t think we ought to bother Harrison with questions now.”
    “I’m sorry,” Trixie said, startled. “I only thought—”
    “If you don’t mind my saying so,” Di said stiffly, “I think that sometimes you let your bump of curiosity get the better of you. I’m sure there’s nothing mysterious about the happenings of last night.”
    Trixie glanced at her sharply. What was wrong with Di? She had a funny lah-di-dah tone in her voice that Trixie had never heard her use before. It was almost as if—that was it—as if Di were playing a part on the stage.
    And the role she’s playing is Lady Diana of the Lynch estate, Trixie thought. She was not sure she liked it.
    Di was still talking. “I’m sure Harrison had reasons for coming here last night. Those reasons are definitely his own business, and he certainly doesn’t have to tell us anything.”
    Mart laughed easily. “Why, Di,” he said, “there’s no need to sound so defensive. Of course Harrison doesn’t have to let out even one little peep if he doesn’t want to. What made you think we were about to give him the third degree?” Harrison seemed primly amused. “There is really nothing to give me the ‘third degree’ about,” he said. “In fact, what I had on my mind to tell you had nothing to do with the events of last evening.”
    Trixie thought it was funny that Di had been bossy for nothing. She couldn’t help it. She giggled.
    Di flung her an annoyed glance. “Of course, Harrison, if you want to tell us something, that’s quite all right.”
    “I was only going to say that you may count on me for tomorrow’s festivities,” Harrison said mildly. “I will be there, Miss Diana.”
    Brian made a sudden movement, as if he were about to say something. He changed his mind and contented himself instead with watching his patient closely.
    Di leaned toward the couch. “You really mustn’t worry about it,” she said in her normal tone of voice. “All of us just want you to hurry up and feel better.”
    There was an immediate murmur of agreement from the circle of young faces around the figure on the couch.
    Harrison seemed to relax almost at once. Trixie watched the faint color creep back into his cheeks. She heard him take a deep breath and saw him close his eyes, as if with relief.
    Jeepers! she thought. He’s really concerned about the bazaar tomorrow!
    “Harrison!” Brian called sharply. “Don’t fall asleep! Trixie, Mart! All of you! Keep him talking! I’m going to see if there’s any sign of that ambulance.”
    When he had gone, Di looked as though she were trying desperately to think of something to say. All she finally managed was a hesitant “We were very—well—worried about you when you didn’t come home last night.”
    There was no answer.
    The black Persian cat jumped down from the window seat and came and rubbed himself against Trixie’s ankles. She bent down and picked him up, then began to tickle him under his chin.
    “I’ll bet his name is Fluffy,” she said.
    Harrison’s eyes opened. “No, his name is Henry the Eighth. It used to be just plain Henry, but we—that is, his owner and I—think he’s got a lot of wives, you see.”
    “His owner?”
    “Mrs. Crandall. Mrs. Rose Crandall. Henry is her cat. This house belongs to her, too. She—she was called away unexpectedly yesterday.