“Why, see!” cried Betty, rummaging in her bag.  “Here’s the piece of newspaper with the society item, or whatever it is, in it that made Ida go away so suddenly this morning.  It’s about her aunt, the great concert singer.  Ida’s gone to meet her where that says,” and she put the piece of paper into Bob’s hand.

“All right,” he said.  “Here’s Markham and Boggs’ place.  You said you were in this store yesterday, Betty.”

“So I was.  Come on, Bobby,” cried the other girl, hopping out of the car.  “I suppose we shall have to go to the manager or the superintendent or somebody.  Dear me! if we don’t find my locket I don’t know what I shall do.”

When Betty and Bobby came out of the store, much disappointed, they found Bob grinning—­as Bobby declared—­“like a Cheshire cat.”

“But never mind the cat,” continued Bobby.  “What is the matter with that boy?  For boys will laugh at the most serious things.  And this is serious, my poor, dear Betty.”

“Indeed it is,” agreed her friend, and so they crossed the walk to the grinning Bob Henderson who had the scrap of newspaper Betty had given him in his hand.

“Say,” he drawled, “who did you say this aunt of Ida Bellethorne is?”

“Mrs. Staples says she is a concert singer—­a prima donna,” replied Betty.

“She’s a prima donna all right,” chuckled Bob.  “Where now?  Oh!  To Stone’s shoe shop?  Well, what do you know about this notice in the paper?” and his smile grew broader.

“What do you mean, Bob?” demanded Betty, rather vexed.  “You can read the paragraph yourself.  ‘The great Ida Bellethorne’.  That means she is a great singer of course.”

“Yes, I see,” replied Bob, giving some attention to the steering of the car.  “But there is one thing about you girls—­you never read the sporting page of the newspaper.”

“What is that?” gasped Bobby Littell.

“This string of items you handed me is torn out of the sporting page.  All the paragraphs refer to racing matters.  That particular one deals with Mr. Bolter’s black mare, Ida Bellethorne.  Cliffdale is the place he was shipping her to far her health.”

“Never!” cried Bobby.

“Oh, Bob!  Is that so?” gasped Betty.

Bob burst into open laughter.  “That’s a good one on you and on your friend, Ida,” he declared.  “If she has gone to meet her aunt up in New York State she’ll meet a horse instead.  How’s that for a joke?”

Betty Gordon shook her head without smiling.  “I don’t see the joke at all,” she said.  “Poor Ida!  She will be sadly disappointed.  And she has lost her position here with Mrs. Staples.  We could see that Mrs. Staples was angry because she went away.”

“Why,” cried Bobby, likewise sympathetic, “I think it is horrid—­actually horrid!  You needn’t laugh, Bob Henderson.”

“Shucks!” returned the boy.  “I can’t cry over it, can I?  Of course it is too bad the girl has made such a mistake.  But our weeping won’t help her.”