The Mystery of the Midnight Marauder

was called “Greensleeves.”
    “There’s a tiny music box set inside the lid,” she explained to Honey as they listened, enchanted.
    Grandpa set the last box back in its place and closed the cabinet door. “I don’t care what anyone thinks,” he announced, “this collection is worth plenty.”
    Trixie frowned and thought that Grandpa was probably right. The collection was worth plenty— but only to Grandpa, not to anyone else. Or could there be another person...?
    “Did someone offer to buy it?” she asked.
    “Pah!” Grandpa replied, sounding angry. “Sonny wanted me to get rid of the whole lot several weeks ago. He called in someone from New York —some antique dealer—a woman who didn’t know what she was talking about.”
    Trixie thought of the dark-haired woman she had seen only the previous day in Crimper’s Department Store. “Was it Margo Birch?” she asked.
    Grandpa nodded his white head. “That’s the fool woman. She told Sonny the collection was practically worthless. She offered me fifty dollars for the lot. When I found out about it, I told her I wouldn’t sell any of it for even fifty thousand dollars. She came back twice to try and get me to change my mind.”
    “She must have wanted the collection badly,” Honey remarked.
    “She said she’d found a buyer who was willing to take it off my hands,” Grandpa said briefly, leading the way back to the kitchen. “She made it sound as if she was doing me a favor. Fool woman!”
    From the expression on Honey’s face, Trixie could tell that she thought fifty dollars for Grandpa’s sorry-looking collection was probably more than fair.
    His son, who had heard the last part of his father’s conversation, obviously thought so, too. “Now, Dad,” he said sharply, “Margo Birch is a fine woman. She was trying to be neighborly, that’s all.” He glanced at Trixie. “She lives a few doors down from us, you see, and she thought Dad would be pleased—”
    “Well, she was wrong,” Grandpa broke in angrily.
    Trixie was still thinking about old Mr. Crimper five minutes later, as she and Honey scrambled once more into the cab of the small truck.
    This time it was young Mr. Crimper who had insisted, to Trixie’s relief, on driving them home. Honey’s bike was safely stowed in the back. Trixie’s bicycle had been left behind in the Crimper’s garage. The bike, she had been assured once more, would be returned to her as soon as it had been repaired.
    “Don’t worry,” young Mr. Crimper told Trixie, guessing her thoughts as he pulled carefully out of the driveway, “I’ll see to it that Dad won’t get his hands on it once it’s been fixed.” He smiled. “In spite of what you might think, I’m glad my father’s enjoying himself. It’s just that I don’t want any harm to come to him.”
    Trixie nodded. “I guess I’d feel the same way if I were in your position.”
    Privately, she couldn’t even imagine Peter Belden, her banker father, ever indulging in the kind of eccentric behavior that Grandpa Crimper did.
    Gazing idly out of the truck window, she noticed how much damage the storm had done. Although the air smelled fresh and clean, the many fallen branches made the woods look ravaged. It was as if the branches had been torn off by some giant, ungentle hand.
    Soon they were back on Glen Road. Then, as they drew level with the path that the Bob-Whites had named Harrison’s Trail, Trixie’s tongue felt dry and her heart skipped a beat.
    Sergeant Molinson’s police car was parked at its entrance. It probably had been there when they had passed the same spot before, although that time, Grandpa Crimper had been driving the truck so fast that Trixie hadn’t noticed it.
    Now she guessed that the sergeant and his men were still searching for clues around the old shed in the woods. She also guessed that Brian, Mart, and Jim were still with them.
    At the sight of the police car, young Mr. Crimper slowed almost to a stop. Then he frowned and muttered, “No, I won’t wait now. I’ll talk to the sergeant later, on my way home.”
    Startled, Trixie glanced at him. “Has something happened, Mr. Crimper?”
    Even as she asked the question, she had a sudden hunch what his answer was going to be.
    He nodded his head slowly. “I wasn’t going to tell anyone,” he answered, “except the police, that is. And I certainly don’t want my parents to hear about this. It would worry them both.”
    He removed one hand from the