“Dorothy!” exclaimed Arden, “do you really think we could have scared away those workmen?”
“Well, if you feel that way, Dot,” began Terry. But she didn’t; she told them so. And once more it was a united party that looked for further evidence of ghosts, real or imaginary.
The inevitable fireplace was built in the wall not far from the suspected bed. An old squat rocker stood lonely and forlorn in the center, and a packing box had gathered dust under a window—that was all. The floor was also dusty, but Dorothy stooped down and, with royal disregard, swept a spot clean with a dainty lace-trimmed handkerchief.
“Look at the floor, girls,” she said. “See how wide the boards are and the pegs to hold them down. They don’t make floors that way any more. All these boards were cut and planed and the pegs made and fitted in by hand.”
“I wish I knew more about such things,” Terry remarked, inspecting the floor. “All I know is that this must have been a fine old house, and I wish it wasn’t going to be torn down.”
“It reminds me of an impending execution.” Sim sighed. “It did its duty, and now it has to give up its life for its country.” That trite remark brought on a giggle, but Sim didn’t mind.
Arden and Dorothy were snooping about, looking through the cracks in the shutters, and even peered under the bed.
“If they succeed in demolishing the Hall, I’m going to try and buy the picture of that girl downstairs,” announced Terry. “She fascinates me! I’d like to find out more about her.”
“Probably Dick’s grandmother could tell you. We must look her up,” said Arden, dusting her hands. “Who’s that?” she asked suddenly as voices in dispute were heard from somewhere.
“Someone downstairs,” Dorothy answered. They listened. One voice, a man’s, seemed just very ordinary, not the least bit ghost-like.