“We shall have to go,” she said sadly, rounding up her guests. “I shouldn’t dare to tell him that we were too busy playing hide-and-seek. Besides, I’m hungry, for one. Betty will hear us all in there together, and know we’ve given her up and come out. Let’s all shout together ‘We give up’!”
So the big house echoed to their chanted “We give up,” and then they repaired to the yellow drawing-room, where Babe sat on a carved oak throne and poured tea, from a wonderful silver pot wreathed with dragons, into cups so fragile that you could have crushed them as you would a flower. There were muffins and crackers and sweet sandwiches and nuts and ginger, all of which tasted very good to the hungry “hiders.” And in the midst of tea there was an excitement, in the shape of a telegram summoning Mr. Morton, Senior, to a conference on board a train that would reach this station in less than ten minutes.
“Have to miss dinner, I suppose, but I’ll be back to-night sure,” he grumbled as Babe pulled on his coat, John found his gloves and hat, a valet packed his bag, in case of emergency, and the butler rang for the chauffeur to bring around a limousine. “Where’s Miss B. A.?” he demanded as the car appeared. “Hasn’t she come out yet? Well, if the rest of you have any gumption, you’ll take her dare and find her. I say, Watson, you know how a house is built, and you know that Miss B. A. is worth finding——”
“Train’s whistling, dad,” broke in John.
“Then the automobile speed limit has got to go smash again,” said Jasper J. Morton resignedly, jumping into the car. “Find her, Watson. She’s worth it,” he called back, waving his hand spasmodically as the car shot round a curve and out of sight.
Most of the young people had gathered in the hall to see Mr. Morton off, but little Helen Adams, feeling rather shy and out-of-place, had crept back into the drawing-room, which, lighted only by the fire and the candles on the tea-table, seemed so rich and dim and lovely that to be alone in it made her give a long deep sigh of joy and satisfaction and wonder at the idea of plain little Helen Chase Adams spending the week-end with a gay house party in such a splendid place.
She had just seated herself in a great cushioned chair by the fire to enjoy it all—Helen was one of the people who must be alone to drink their pleasures to the full—when she heard a little tap on the wall so close to her that it made her jump. But in a minute she settled back again comfortably. “Mice or a bit of loose plaster,” she decided. But an instant later there came a little low moan—an eery sort of muffled cry—and this time she screamed and jumped quite out of her chair. The door had just been shut after Mr. Morton, and Babe came running in, followed by all the others, and at a respectful distance by the stately butler, to ask what the matter was.
“Why, I don’t know,” said Helen anxiously. “Something or somebody cried out in another room, and it sounded so near me and so queer, some way, that I screamed. I’m sorry I frightened all the rest of you too.”
“Mamie the parlor-maid always gives a heartrending shriek when she breaks one of my favorite wedding presents,” suggested Babe mournfully. “It was probably Mamie—only why should she be dusting and breaking things at this time of day?”
“Why indeed?” demanded Madeline scornfully. “Did it sound like a pathetic parlor-maid, Helen?”