“The key that opens the front door,” cried Frank in despair. “He must have thrown it out.”
For a moment or two he stood helpless, unable to move; then, recalling the fact that the man would have to run round to the front door, he darted out of the room, bounded down the staircase, reached the hall door, and with hands trembling from the great excitement in which he was, he slipped the top and bottom bolts.
“Hah!” he ejaculated; “the key won’t open them.”
Then, darting to the top of the stairs leading down to the housekeeper’s room, he ran almost into the old servant’s arms.
“Oh, Master Frank, was that you whistling, sir?” she cried.
“No; that man upstairs.”
“What man upstairs, my dear?”
“Hush! Don’t stop me. Have you a fire there?”
“Yes, my dear; it is very chilly down in that stone-floored room, that I am obliged to have one lit.”
“That’s right. Go away; I want to be there alone. And listen, Berry; I have bolted the front door. If any one knocks, don’t go.”