The writing stopped at the bottom of the sheet.
One more large piece of paper was written in the childish hand, but contained only a short message. The paper had been wrapped about something, Jannet thought. So Jannetje was another ancestress of the name. She spelled and composed well for a child of ten, Jannet decided.
“Mother sends this,” the message said. “Trupers leave to-day. She thinks that they were only searching for you or waiting for messages from spies. Wait, she says, till she can come to the attick after the Captin goes away.”
This was all. It had happened in Revolutionary times, of course. Jannet’s imagination could supply the missing information, or some of it. Her ancestor had perhaps been visiting his family when the group of British soldiers came upon them too soon for him to escape. Or perhaps he was, indeed, in the work of a spy for General Washington’s troops. Wouldn’t her uncle and Andy be delighted to read these old messages, so yellowed with age! Carefully Jannet put them again inside of the portfolio, though that, too, was ready to fall apart.
Thinking that there might be some further scrap of information somewhere, Jannet began to examine the dusty articles under the shelf or bed. Any bedding that had once been there had probably been removed as soon as the fugitive had found it no longer necessary to stay there. These other things were of no particular value.
But Jannet had scarcely begun to move the round pewter pot from its long resting place when she heard a sound that startled her. She jumped to her feet with a moment’s panic. Suppose Vittoria, for she was almost sure that the ghost was Vittoria, was hiding somewhere and—but a voice assured her, before she was fairly on her feet. There was Cousin Andy’s dear head at the top of the secret stairs and peeping in. “What’s all this?” he cheerily inquired. “Are you trying to burn up the house with a candle?”
“Oh no; I’m ever so careful,—but do look out, Cousin Andy, for those are bad stairs!”
“Would you care, then, if the old wreck got hurt again?”
“‘Old wreck’, indeed! You’re the best first cousin that I’ve got, and I’m proud of your scars, if you have any!”
Andrew Van Meter entered and looked curiously around. “I see that there is a sliding door on this side, too, though Nell did not mention it. She had a telephone message from home, by the way, and left word for you that she was riding over later in the day if she could. She did not know where you were, she said, but when I heard the story I could pretty well guess.”