"Some dark clothes, much moth-eaten, more likely," said Bob. "But I'm with you for the opening. The late Mr. Bittenbender announces his early winter opening—so does Crestville to-day, for that matter! Say, Gretta, he is 'the late,' isn't he?"
"What is?" asked Gretta, puzzled into a relapse into the vernacular.
"The late; he is dead, isn't he?" asked Bob.
"Oh, yes; of course he is," said Gretta. "He died three or four years ago somewhere down country where he came from in the first place."
"Well, from all accounts of him, that seems to be a good thing," said Bob cheerfully. "Wouldn't you like to open that trunk and see what your grandfather-in-law—no, your step-grandfather left behind in that venerable, partly bald receptacle?"
"I don't mind; yes, I should like to open it," said Gretta, "but I think we ought to speak to Miss Bradbury first."
"Aunt Keren won't object, but of course you're right; we should have to ask her," said Happie. "Bob, suppose you go down and get all the trunk keys there are in the house, and bring up the hammer and chisel in case none works, and at the same time ask Aunt Keren's permission to break and enter?"
"Neat way of making sure you don't have to go yourself. I see through your dark wiles, Miss Keren-happuch," said Bob. "But I don't mind; I'm public spirited; ready to be butchered to make a Roman holiday."
And Bob departed, whistling in a way that declared that for him the loneliness of the morning had been dissipated. He came back bearing a quantity of keys, the hammer and chisel, and Miss Bradbury's permission to investigate the Bittenbender trunk. He and Gretta dragged it forth from its long established retreat under the eaves, into the light of one of the four gable windows. Here the poor thing looked even shabbier than in the shadow, and smaller.
"It seems to be shrinking from the garish light of day," suggested Happie.