There was no doubt on that score. Every one in the room was sure the noise had come from under the floor.
“But how could it?” asked Walter. “There’s no cellar to the bungalow; is there?”
“None that I ever heard of,” said Mr. Floyd. “I didn’t live here when the bungalow was built, but I’ve always understood it had no cellar.”
“It hasn’t,” Cora affirmed. “At least none that you can find. There are no cellar stairs and the place seems to rest on piles.”
“But the noise came from down there,” and Jack pointed to the floor. “The only way to find out is to take up the boards. May we, Mr. Floyd?”
“Why, yes, I reckon so. We’ve got to get at the bottom of this. It’s better to spoil the floor than to lose the renting of the bungalow by ghosts scaring tenants away. Take up the boards. I’ll get an axe and a crowbar.”
And so, in the middle of the night, for it was close to twelve o’clock, the strange work of looking under the floor of the bungalow for the source of the queer noise was begun.
“Where shall we start?” asked Jack, when Mr. Floyd had brought the implements.
The caretaker considered a moment.
“If there is some sort of cellar, or space under this bungalow, it must be near the center of the floor, I’m thinking. We’ll begin there. Don’t be afraid of spoiling the floor. I’ll take the responsibility.”