But such an explanation was too absurd to be possible. It couldn’t be Corinne—she was at that dance with Ned Mason. But it might be Harry Grant, searching for that precious possession of his aunt Mattie’s—that ruby necklace, if the gypsy was correct.... But, no, Mary Louise did not believe it was Harry—or any man. Something about the motion of the figure, the touch of its hands, proclaimed it to be feminine.... She thought of that ghost Hannah had described, the spirit of dead Mrs. Grant, looking for the hidden treasure, and she shuddered.
The tearing and ripping was becoming more pronounced. Mary Louise listened more intently, still twisting her hands about in an effort to free them.
She heard a chair being moved away from the window, and the screen being taken away.... She twisted her hands again.... Her right hand—was free!
In spite of her terror, Mary Louise almost sang out with joy.
The next sound she heard was a dear, familiar noise, a sound that sent a thrill through her whole body. It was the infuriated bark of her little dog Silky from the cellar.
Mary Louise lost no time in freeing her other hand and in untying the knot about her chin which fastened the bag over her head. She was free at last—as far as her limbs were concerned. But she was still locked securely in Miss Grant’s closet.
Through the crack of the door she perceived a streak of light; the intruder had not worked in darkness. But in a second it was extinguished, and she heard a noise at the window.
Then—utter blackness and silence again!
Mary Louise raised her voice now and screamed at the top of her lungs. She was rewarded by the sound of hurrying footsteps and the incessant bark of her dog, coming nearer and nearer. In another moment she heard the girls in the room and saw the gleam of a flashlight through the crack.
“I’m locked in the closet!” she shouted. “Let me out, Jane!”