“What—what are you afraid of, Dorothy?” she whispered excitedly.
“Not a thing, silly. But there may be watch dogs—and I want to get some idea of the people who live in that dump before I ask ’em for hospitality. I’ve got myself into trouble before this, going it blind. I know it pays to be careful. If you must come with me, you must, I suppose. But walk behind me—and don’t say another word.”
She stalked off through the orchard with Betty close at her heels.
As they neared the house, which seemed to be badly in need of repair, it was plain that the light came from behind a shaded window on the ground floor. Dorothy stopped to ponder the situation. A shutter hanging by one hinge banged dully in the wind and a stream of rain water was shooting down over the window from a choked leader somewhere above. She felt a grip on her arm.
“Let’s don’t go in there,” whispered Betty. “It’s a perfectly horrid place, I think.”
“It doesn’t look specially cheerful,” admitted Dorothy. “But there may not be another house within a couple of miles. There’s a porch around on the side. Maybe we can see into the room from there.”
Together they moved cautiously through the rank grass and weeds to the edge of the low veranda. There was no railing and the glow from two long French windows gave evidence that the floor boards were warped and rotting. The howl of the wind and driving rain served to cover the sound of their movements as they tiptoed across the porch to the far window. Both shades were drawn, but this one lacked a few inches of reaching the floor.
Both girls lay flat on their stomachs and peered in. Quick as a flash, Dorothy clapped her hands over Betty’s mouth, smothering her sudden shriek of terror.
Chapter II
TO THE RESCUE
The cold, wet wind of late September howled around the house. Dorothy wished she had brought a revolver.