"What are we to do?" faltered Gwethyn.
Katrine was trying to wedge the handle of her penknife into the empty socket, but the effort was useless. It went in a little way, but would not turn. Her attempt to slip back the catch with the blade was equally futile. The unpleasant truth was hopelessly plain—they were prisoners in the empty house.
The prospect was appalling. The Grange was in such a secluded spot that nobody might come near for days. No doubt they would soon be missed at Aireyholme, but would Mrs. Franklin think of looking for them here? They shouted and called out of the window, but only the birds twittered in reply. They were in the upper story, a good height from the ground, and much too far to jump. The creepers were too frail to offer any adequate support.
They turned to the door again, and tried to break through one of the panels, but the wood was well-seasoned oak and resisted their kicks and blows. Were ever two girls in such a desperate situation? The tears were raining down Gwethyn's cheeks.
"Shall we have to stop here all night?" she sobbed. "I wish we'd never come near the wretched place!"
"We're trapped like rats in a cage!" declared Katrine, pacing distractedly up and down their prison. She paused at the window. "Gwethyn! I do believe somebody is in the garden! The blackbirds are making such a fuss!"
"Perhaps it's a cat or a hawk that's frightening them."
"Perhaps. But let us call in case it's a human being. Even a burglar would be welcome!"
"We're rather like burglars ourselves!" said Gwethyn, her sense of humour triumphing over her tears. "Only there certainly isn't anything here to burgle."
The girls leaned from the window and shouted with all the power of their lungs. Then they waited and listened anxiously. Was that a footstep crunching on the gravel.