"O jubilate! somebody's coming!" gasped Katrine. "Let's shout again! Oh, the angel!"
It was Mr. Freeman, sketching paraphernalia in hand, who stepped round the corner of the dovecot—a guardian angel in tweed knickers, smoking a most unangelic briar pipe. He looked about to see whence the noise proceeded, and, spying the girls, waved his hand.
"We're in an awful fix!" called Katrine. "We're locked into this room. Will you please climb in through the vestibule window—it's open—and let us out?"
"All right! I'll be up in half a jiff," replied Mr. Freeman, laying his painting traps on the dovecot steps.
In a few minutes they could hear him tramping up the stairs. He soon picked up the handle, fitted it in its socket, and opened the door. He regarded the girls with an amused smile of accusation.
"It strikes me you young ladies ought to be at school instead of exploring old houses on your own," he ventured in reply to their overwhelming thanks.
"We're going back now, and a jolly scrape we shall get into if we're not quick about it," said Gwethyn. "The Great Panjandrum will jaw us no end."
"Is your teacher capable of scolding?"
"Rather! You should just hear her!"
"She doesn't look it."