“Why so?” asked Cora.

“Well, he’s been hanging around the garage for several days past, and numbers of times I’ve ordered him away.  I heard him asking one of the men, the other day, how to throw in a clutch on a car like Jack’s, and that made me suspicious.”

“But what could his object be?” asked Ed, rubbing one arm, that was strained from his exertion in stopping the car: 

“I believe him to be in the pay of some one,” declared Paul with flashing eyes, “and I believe his object was to get me into trouble.  As I told you, there stood in front of the garage a valuable new car belonging to the Blends.  Their chauffeur was about to take it out for a run.  If Jack’s car, started by Lem, had smashed into it I would have been blamed, for I ran the car out of the garage, for their chauffeur.  Then I would have lost my position here, and probably would not get that new one in New City, for the garage people would have blacklisted me.”

“Oh, mercy!” gasped Belle.  “Wouldn’t that have been dreadful!”

“Bad for me,” admitted Paul with a smile.  “But I’m sorry Jack was hurt.”

“Thank goodness it’s no worse!” exclaimed Cora.  “But, Mr. Hastings, whom do you think paid Lem to do such a mean thing?”

“I’d rather not say,” answered the young garage manager.  “But I shall keep my ears and eyes open, and if I find out what I suspect to be true—­well, there’ll be trouble for somebody.”

He spoke with flashing eyes, and Cora looked at him admiringly.

“Well, since we know how your brother is, I think we’ll be going, Cora,” said Bess, and she and her sister took their departure, followed by Paul and Ed.

“I wonder why Lem Gildy did that?” asked Cora of herself as she went to her room that night.  “Who is urging him on?  Did he want to injure Jack, as well as make trouble for Paul?  Well, I’ll have to give up thinking of it now,” she finished, “but, like Paul—­I suppose I ought to say Mr. Hastings—­I’m going to keep my eyes and ears on the alert, too.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE GARDEN FETE

It was a perfect evening—­the very last of the perfect June days.  Chelton lay like a contented babe in Nature’s lap—­contented, but not asleep, for it was the evening of the masked garden fete.

The bright-colored lanterns throughout the spacious grounds of the Kimball home flickered like eager fireflies, and the splendid dancing platform, erected on the broad lawn, fairly glistened with its coat of wax under the strings of tiny electric lights that canopied the pavilion.

It was not deemed necessary to have any one at the gate.  In Chelton there were not many strangers and suppose some urchins did enter, Cora said, it would be a pity to deny them a glimpse of the pretty sight.

A tall Antonio, in a garb of the most somber black, strolled about, hoping to find his Portia.  Priscilla was there, in her collar and cap, but where was John Alden?  Would the dainty little Bo-peep, who looked like a bisque doll, ever find her straying sheep?