“I’m awake,” said Bill with an effort. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Nearly nine o’clock—that’s why I’m worried. I just woke up myself—Dad hasn’t called us or come near us yet. Do you s’pose something has happened to him, Bill?”
Bill jumped out of bed. “Wait till I get some clothes on—then we’ll find out.”
Chapter VI
WATCHERS IN THE TREES
“Where’s your father’s room?” Bill stepped into the corridor, Charlie at his heels.
“There—that one opposite—the door’s open. He isn’t there—I looked before I woke you.”
“The bed hasn’t been slept in either—come along downstairs. He may be there.”
Bill had had an impression the night before of the solid comfort of the house. But it was not until they descended the great oak staircase in the morning that he realized, in spite of dust sheets, how exquisitely the place was appointed. In true manorial style, armor hung in the hall, marble busts gleamed against the dark, beautifully carved panelling, and half a dozen riding crops dangled from a pair of antlers over the low fireplace.
Here Charlie took the lead. They went first to the library, with its secret door in the panelling, through which they had entered the house from the garage. A flashlight lay on the table, amongst the remains of the sandwiches. Bill appropriated it, and after Charlie had opened the sliding door by twisting a knob on the fireplace, they investigated the tunnel and its outlet. But the garage and the underground passage were empty of any human being.
They returned to the library, and made a round of the rooms on that floor; a small den, two large living rooms, and a dining room. All the furniture was shrouded in dust covers. The rooms looked gloomy and un-lived-in. Scarcely any light came through the closed shutters. Bill’s feeble flashlight seemed to accentuate the cavernous depths of the huge apartments.