After more journeys upstairs, and more bangings, and essays with keys, and even attempts at lock-picking, Hilda announced that George's room must be besieged from its window. A ladder was found, and interested visitors went into the back-entry, by the kitchen, to see it reared and hear the result. Edwin thought that the cook in the kitchen looked as guilty as he himself felt, though she more than once asseverated her belief that Master George was safely in bed. The ladder was too short. Edwin mounted it, and tried to prise himself on to the window-sill, but could not.
"Here, let me try!" said Ingpen, joyous.
Ingpen easily succeeded. He glanced through the open window into George's bedroom, and then looked down at the upturned faces, and Ada's apron, whitely visible in the gloom.
"He's here all right."
"Oh, good!" said Hilda. "Is he asleep?"
"Yes."
"He deserves to be wakened," she laughed.
"You see what a foolish girl you've been," said Edwin affectionately.
"Never mind!" she retorted. "You couldn't get on the window. And you were just as upset as anybody. Do you think I don't know? Thank you, Mr. Ingpen."
"Is he really there?" Edwin whispered to Ingpen as soon as he could.