It was strange that Winnie was not hurt, but she was not; and before the astonished artist could quite comprehend what had happened, she had picked herself up, scampered back into our room, and we had closed the door behind her, and were fastening it to the best of our ability by tying the knob to Adelaide’s trunk by means of a piece of clothes-line which had formerly served to cord the commissary.
At first we laughed long and merrily over the adventure, but by degrees its serious aspects were appreciated.
In the first place, Milly suggested dolorously that the commissary had fallen into the hands of the enemy, while Cynthia Vaughn drew attention to the fact of the broken lock.
“However you girls will explain that to Madame is more than I know,” she remarked maliciously.
“You girls!” Winnie repeated indignantly, “as if you were not as much concerned in it as any of us.”
“Indeed,” Cynthia exclaimed scornfully, “if I remember rightly, it was Milly who brought the commissary from its retirement, Tib who balanced it so judiciously, and Winnie who dawned so unceremoniously on that strange man in the other room. I had absolutely nothing to do with the affair.”
“You were the instigator of it all,” I retorted hotly. “If you had not dared Winnie to do it she would never have tried to look in.”
“That is like you, Tib,” Cynthia replied icily, “to get into a scrape and then lay the blame on some one else.”
“I take all the blame,” Winnie exclaimed loftily. “If inquisition is ever made into this affair, I and I alone am responsible,” and then she uttered a little shriek and scampered into her own bedroom, for some one was knocking at the door, which we had just attempted to fasten.
“Who is there?” I asked, with as much boldness as I could muster; “and what do you want?”