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to Honey’s and dig it out and—”
    “And Miss Trask will want to know what we’re up to,” Trixie interrupted. “She won’t let Honey come back with us anyway, and since were already here...
    “What now?” Brian prompted.
    Trixie was jotting names on the pad. “If we could find out where the last check was stolen,” she said thoughtfully, “maybe we could discover who or what scared the thief into getting rid of the evidence.”
    “But Sergeant Molinson said—”
    “I know what he said,” Trixie stated. “But there must be some reason why the thief threw the checks away. Drive down Glen Road, slowly, while I check the names on the mailboxes.”
    “Okay,” Brian said. “The others won’t be expecting us back right away. I hope.”
    As Brian drove along Glen Road, Trixie called out the names on the mailboxes. Frequently the name didn’t sound familiar, but that could be because there was no reason for it to be recalled. Not every mailbox received a Social Security check each month. Still, there were a number of older people living in the area.
    Another mailbox came into view. “Charles Hartman,” Trixie said, checking it off the list. “His was the first envelope we found floating in the lake.”
    The next mailbox, around a turn in the road, was Mrs. Elliot’s. Brian drove on by it. In about a quarter of a mile, they passed another box. The name wasn’t on Trixie’s list, and neither of them remembered it from the checks. Two more mailboxes, side by side, came into view. Trixie read the names aloud.
    “I know the last one doesn’t belong on the list,” Brian said. “Their son is a classmate of mine. No old folks living in his home.”
    “It’s not just older people who get Social Security checks,” Trixie said. “Disabled people and widows—”
    “Both parents are alive and healthy,” Brian said. He squinted at the other box. “I think there’s an older couple living across the road.” He pointed toward a little house set back among the trees. “I’ll see if I can find out anything.” Brian parked the station wagon beside the road and got out. Trixie could see him talking first to an elderly woman at the door, then to an old man who joined them.
    When Brian returned to the car, he looked thoughtful. “Their check wasn’t stolen, but it could have been. It sat in the box for hours before one of them came down to get the mail. And they told me they‘ve got friends up the road a bit, and none of them had their checks stolen!”
    Trixie stared at him. “That can only mean one thing,” she declared. “The thief didn’t get beyond Charles Hartman’s box.”
    “Or,” Brian suggested, “maybe he did get as far as Mrs. Elliot’s. Maybe you are right—she saw him and scared him off. That might explain yesterday’s arson attempt!”
    “Let’s go back to Mrs. Elliot’s,” Trixie urged.
    Brian was already turning the station wagon around. At Mrs. Elliot’s cottage, Max Elliot came to the door in response to Trixie’s knock.
    “She isn’t here,” he said, when Trixie asked for Mrs. Elliot. “She drove into town.”
    Trixie hesitated. “Maybe you can tell me what I wanted to know.”
    Max waited. Trixie took a deep breath and continued. “Did anything... uh, unusual happen ten days ago? June third? It might have been in the early afternoon, right after the mail was delivered. Did Mrs. Elliot—”
    “She wasn’t here,” Max interrupted. “She was down in White Plains, delivering an order of flowers.”
    “Oh.” Trixie paused. Max eyed her curiously. “Max, did you go down to the box to get the mail that day? Maybe you saw—”
    Max shook his head. “I wasn’t here either. I drove her to White Plains.”
    “Oh,” Trixie repeated.
    Max looked puzzled. “What are you trying to find out?”
    Trixie sighed. “The Social Security checks were stolen on Glen Road only as far as Charles Hartman’s box, the one before yours. We thought that maybe Mrs. Elliot, or you,