Both girls stood motionless and listened. A dull, rasping noise reached their ears, which continued with monotonous regularity, now and then changing to a squeak.
“The ghost!” breathed Dot.
“No,” replied Linda. “It’s some animal—or possibly a human being. We better knock on the door before I start to pick the lock. If Mrs. Fishberry is here, she’d jump at the chance to have us arrested.”
Raising her hand, Dot thumped loudly on the door. A reply instantly came to them.
“Linda! Oh, Linda!” a girl’s voice screamed.
“It’s Amy—I mean Helen!” exclaimed Linda, breathlessly. “Just what I was afraid of! That woman locked her in!”
“But what could be the point of torturing the child?” demanded Dot.
“I don’t know. That’s for us to find out.” She lifted her voice. “Amy!” she cried, at the top of her lungs.
“Here I am—around the back!” yelled the girl.
In excited haste Linda and Dot ran down the steps and around the side of the house. There at the kitchen window, from whose panes the glass had been broken, stood the girl, patiently cutting away at the woodwork with a dull carving knife.