“That, also, has very little dust on it,” he said, lifting it out.
Then a daring project came into Dorothy’s mind.
“I dare you,” she said, “to dress up as the old soldier—just the coat, hat, and boots—and walk with me, in masquerade, into the room where Granny is telling a ghost story. I’ll put on the red cloak—and this!”
She reached in and lifted from the chest a white kerchief and a sort of tam-o’-shanter cap.
“Let’s be two live ghosts,” she proposed. “It will be a fitting end to the Christmas party, and then—well, you said you thought we were near the end of the ghost trail.”
“I really believe we are. Somebody has been using these garments to create all this ghost atmosphere in the old Hall. Dorothy, I’ll take your dare, and after we have had our fun we will start a new investigation and try to find out who has been responsible for all this.”
“This is going to be good!” murmured the girl, a natural actress, as she threw the red cloak about her shoulders after adjusting the kerchief as it might have been worn in Colonial days, crossed on her breast. With the cap jauntily askew on her head, she looked very like the reputed ghost of Patience Howe.
Harry slipped off his shoes, put on the heavy boots, donned the coat and hat, and they were ready. With flashlights held out in front of them to illuminate the dark hall, they started for the lower room whence faintly floated up the laughter following Granny Howe’s story.
“It’s time we started back,” whispered Dorothy. “They will miss us in another moment.”
They were near the head of the stairs when, suddenly, the door of a room opened slightly and a light gleamed through the crack. It was the room containing the mysterious closet from which Jim Danton had so strangely vanished, to be found in the cellar.