“Only that there was one, and neither Mrs. Smalley nor my grandfather liked him. They both said he was wicked.”
“He may be up in this tower, ready to spring at us with a gun,” suggested Dot. “That would be worse than a ghost.”
Helen led the way to the third floor of the big old house, and thence to a room which was scarcely more than a closet, with a spiral staircase which ascended to the tower. Linda went up first, followed by Dot, while Helen slowly mounted after them.
It was so dark that had it not been for the flashlight, Linda would never have noticed the door at the top. This opened inward, and she stepped into the tower room. But it, too, was pitch black—a fact which she could not explain when she recalled seeing at least two windows in the tower from the autogiro.
“What a horrible place!” exclaimed Dot, as she too reached the top. “Such a musty smell! And dust!”
“Are you still alive?” came a faint voice from below, and a moment later Helen joined them.
“Better close that door,” advised Linda. “We don’t want to fall down the steps.”
“Where are the windows?” demanded Dot.
“Behind those curtains,” cried Linda, making the discovery as she turned her flashlight upon a heavy drapery which hung over the wall.
“Let’s pull them down and get some daylight,” she suggested. Grasping them with both hands, she gave a tremendous pull, and the heavy curtains fell to the floor in a heap.