“Oh, Linda, suppose!” The tears came to Amy’s eyes, and she added, wistfully, “Isn’t it strange that I can’t remember a thing about Mrs. Fishberry, or anybody else?”
“You will soon,” Linda insisted optimistically. “Things are coming back gradually. Come on, let’s knock at the back door.”
Hand in hand, the girls ran across the field of tall grass and weeds which separated the house from the barn and came to the kitchen, which was built out from the house as a separate wing, two stories in height. But the door was closed and barred, and all the windows apparently were locked up. There seemed to be little doubt that the place was deserted.
“Do you remember it, Amy?” asked Linda, anxiously.
“Yes—but only like something that happened in a dream,” she replied. “It seems to me that I ran barefoot through the fields—and—and—I can sort of remember drowning in the Fox River, and nobody helping me— Yes, it must have been here.”
“Let’s go around front,” suggested Linda, watching Amy’s face all the while.
“Yes, let’s. It’s an ugly house, isn’t it, Linda? So big and gloomy—and—ugh!” A shiver ran through the girl’s body, and she clung to Linda wretchedly. Another memory flashed into her brain.
“Linda,” she sobbed, “there’s a ghost in that tower.”
Linda stepped back and looked up at the roof of the house. As Mr. Clavering had said, there was a tower by which the pilots could identify the house. It rose straight from the flat mansard roof, about two stories in height. It was square, with a small window on each side, but from the ground where the girls stood, it was impossible to see within.
“How do you know?” asked Linda.