“Can it be Vermont?” said Bob to himself, hardly believing his own eyes.
Still nearer came the light.
“He is climbing the stairs, as sure’s I’m alive,” said Bob, almost overcome with joy.
In the trap door was a small knot hole, about an inch and a half in diameter. Through this opening the light now shone distinctly, and it was most welcome to the eyes of our young detective. A pressure was now brought to bear upon the door from the under side, but it only yielded so far as the fastening would allow.
“Is that you, Vermont?” whispered Bob through the knot hole.
No answer was given.
Herbert Randolph had never considered himself in any degree superstitious. But what could this be but Bob Hunter’s spirit?
“Don’t be afraid,” said the young detective, who imagined Herbert would find it difficult to realize that he was there. “It’s Bob Hunter. I ain’t got no card with me, or I’d send it down to you.”
This remark sounded so much like Bob that young Randolph no longer doubted his own senses.
“Bob Hunter!” exclaimed he. “How in the world came you here, and what are you doing?”