AMATEUR DETECTIVES
While Cynthia was bending over her desk during study-hour, struggling
with a hopelessly entangled account in Latin of Caesar and his Gallic
Wars, her next neighbor thrust a note into her hand. Glad of any
diversion, she opened it and read:
This afternoon for the B. U. H. How much pocket-money have you?
J.
Cynthia had no difficulty in guessing the meaning of the initials, but
she could not imagine what pocket-money had to do with the matter, so
she wrote back:
All right. Only thirty cents. More next week.
C.
She passed it along to Joyce at the other end of the room, and returned
to Caesar in a more cheerful frame of mind. Joyce, she knew, would
explain all mysteries later, and she was content to wait.
Almost a week had passed since the first adventure of the Boarded-up
House, and nothing further had happened. Joyce and Cynthia were healthy,
normal girls, full of interests connected with their school, with
outdoor affairs, and with social life, so they had much to occupy them
beside this curious quest on which they had become engaged. A fraternity
meeting had occupied one afternoon, dancing-school another, a
tramping-excursion a third, and so on through the ensuing week. Not
once, however, in the midst of all these outside interests, had they
forgotten their strange adventure. When they were alone together they
talked of it incessantly, and laid elaborate plans for future amateur
detective work.
"It's just like a story!" Joyce would exclaim. "And who would ever have
thought of a _story_ in that old, Boarded-up House. And _us_ in the
midst of it!" Cynthia's first question that afternoon, on the way home
from high school, was:
"What did you ask about pocket-money for? I'm down pretty low on my
allowance, but I don't see what that's got to do with things." Joyce
laughed.
"Well, I'm lower yet--ten cents to last till the month's out! But hasn't
it struck you that we've got to have _candles_--plenty of them--and
matches, and a couple of candlesticks at least? How else can we ever get
about the place, pitch-dark as it all is? And if we tried to get them
from home, some one would suspect right away."
"Ten cents' worth of candles ought to last us quite a while," began the
practical Cynthia; "and ten cents more will buy a whole package of
safety-matches. And for five cents we can get a candlestick, but we'd
better stop at _one_ for the present, or we won't have a cent left
between us! Let's get them right now." While they were making their
purchases, Cynthia had another idea.
"I'll tell you what, Joyce, I'm going to take along a dust-cloth and
clean up around the window where we get in. My sweater was just black
with dirt and cobwebs last time, and Mother _almost_ insisted on an
explanation. Fortunately she was called away for something, just then,
and afterward didn't think of it. I've washed the sweater since!"
"Good idea!" assented Joyce. "Momsie wanted to know how I'd torn mine
and got it so mussy, too. I told her I'd been chasing up Goliath,--which
was really quite true, you know."
"I never _can_ think of things to say that will be the truth and yet not
give the whole thing away!" sighed the downright Cynthia. "I wish I were
as quick as you!"
"Never mind! You've got the _sense_, Cynthia! I never would have thought
of the dust-cloth."
Getting into the Boarded-up House this time was accompanied by less
difficulty than the first. Before entering, Cynthia thoroughly dusted
the window-ledge and as far about it as she could reach, with the result
that there was less, if any, damage to their clothes. Armed as they were
with plenty of candles and matches, there were no shudders either, or
fears of the unknown and the dark. Even Cynthia was keen for the quest,
and Joyce was simply bursting with new ideas, some of which she
expounded to Cynthia as they were lighting their candles in the cellar.
"You know, Cyn, I've been looking at the place carefully from the
outside. We haven't seen a third of it yet,--no, not even a _quarter_!
There's the wing off the parlor toward your house, and the one off the
dining-room toward mine. I suppose the kitchen must be in that one, but
I can't think what's in the other, unless it's a library. We must see
these to-day. And then there's all up-stairs."
"What I want to see most of all is the picture you spoke of that hangs
in the parlor," said Cynthia. "Do you suppose we could turn it around?"
"Oh, I'd love to, only I don't know whether we ought! And it's heavy,
too. I hardly think we could. Perhaps we might just try to peep behind
it. You know, Cynthia, I realize we're doing something a little _queer_
being in this house and prying about. I'm not sure our folks would
approve of it. Only the old thing has been left _so_ long, and there's
such a mystery about it, and we're not harming or disturbing anything,
that perhaps it isn't so dreadful. Anyhow, we must be _very_ careful not
to pry into anything we ought not touch. Perhaps then it will be all
right." Cynthia agreed to all this without hesitation. She, indeed, had
even stronger feelings than Joyce on the subject of their trespassing,
but the joy of the adventure and the mystery with which they were
surrounding it, outweighed her scruples. When they were half-way up the
cellar steps, Joyce, who was ahead, suddenly exclaimed:
"Why, the door is open! Probably we left it so in our hurry the other
day. We must be more careful after this, and leave everything as we find
it." They tiptoed along the hall with considerably more confidence than
on their former visit, pausing to hold their candles up to the pictures,
and peeping for a moment into the curiously disarranged dining-room.
But they entered the drawing-room first and stood a long while before
the fireplace, gazing at the picture's massive frame and its challenging
wooden back. A heavy, ropelike cord with large silk tassels attached the
picture to its hook, and the cord was twisted, as if some one had turned
the picture about without stopping to readjust it.
"How strange!" murmured Cynthia. But Joyce had been looking at something
else.
"Do you see that big chair with its back close to the mantel?" she
exclaimed. "I've been wondering why it stands in that position with its
back to the fireplace. There was a fire there. You can tell by the ashes
and that half-burned log. Well, don't you see? Some one pulled that
chair close to the mantel, stepped on it, and turned the picture face to
the wall. Now, I wonder why!"
"But look here!" cried Cynthia. "If some one else stood up there and
turned the picture around, why couldn't we do the same? We could turn it
back after we'd seen it, couldn't we?" Joyce thought it over a moment.
"I'll tell you, Cynthia (and I suppose you'll think me queer!), there
are two reasons why I'd rather not do it right now. In the first place,
that silk cord it's hanging by may be awfully rotten after all these
years, and if we touch it, the whole thing may fall. And then, somehow,
I sort of like to keep the mystery about that picture till a little
later,--till we've seen the rest of the house and begun 'putting two and
two together.' Wouldn't you?" Cynthia agreed, as she was usually likely
to do, and Joyce added:
"Now let's see what's in this next room. I think it must be a library.
The door of it opens right into this." Bent on further discovery, they
opened the closed door carefully. It was, as Joyce had guessed, a
library. Book-shelves completely filled three sides of the room. A long
library table with an old-fashioned reading-lamp stood in the middle.
The fourth side of the room was practically devoted to another huge
fireplace, and over the mantel hung another portrait. It was of a
beautiful young woman, and before it the girls stopped, fascinated, to
gaze a long while.
There was little or nothing in this room to indicate that any strange
happening had transpired here. A few books were strewn about as though
they had been pulled out and thrown down hastily, but that was all. The
one thing that attracted most strongly was the portrait of the beautiful
woman--she seemed scarcely more than a girl--over the fireplace. The two
explorers turned to gaze at it afresh.
"There's one thing I've noticed about it that's different from the
others," said Joyce, thoughtfully. "It's fresher and more--more modern
than the rest of the portraits in the drawing-room and hall. Don't you
think so?" Cynthia did.
"And look at her dress, those long, full sleeves and the big, bulging
skirt! That's different, too. And then her hair, not high and powdered
and all fussed up, but low and parted smooth and drawn down over her
ears, and that dear little wreath of tiny roses! She almost seems to be
going to speak. And, oh, Cynthia, isn't she beautiful with those big,
brown eyes! Somehow I feel as if I just loved her--she's such a
_darling_! And _I_ believe she had more to do with the queer things in
this house than any of those other dead-and-alive picture-ladies. Tell
you what! We'll go to the public library to-morrow and get out a big
book on costumes of the different centuries that I saw there once. Then,
by looking up this one, we can tell just about what time she lived. What
do you say?"
"As usual, you've thought of just the thing to do. I never would have,"
murmured Cynthia, still gazing at the picture of the lovely lady.
Suddenly Joyce started nervously:
"Hush! Do you hear anything? I'm almost certain I heard a sound in the
other room!" They both fell to listening intently. Yes, there _was_ a
sound, a strange, indefinable one like a soft tiptoeing at long
intervals, and even a curious, hoarse breathing. Something was certainly
outside in the drawing-room.
"What shall we _do_?" breathed Cynthia. "We can't get out of here
without passing through that room! Oh, Joyce!" They listened again.
The sound appeared to be approaching the door. It was, without doubt, a
soft tiptoeing step. Suddenly there was the noise of a chair scraping on
the floor as if it had been accidentally brushed against. Both girls
were now numb with terror. They were caught as in a trap. There was no
escape. They could only wait in racking suspense where they were.
[Illustration: They stared with the fascination of horror]
As they stared with the fascination of horror, the partially open door
was pushed farther open and a dim gray form glided around its edge.
Joyce clutched Cynthia, gave one little shriek, half-relief and
half-laughter, and gasped:
"Oh, Cynthia! _It's Goliath!_"