CHAPTER XXV.
A TRAGICAL AFTERNOON.
ONCE out of sight of Libbie, Di bounded upstairs, three steps at a time, flinging herself down outside the door, breathless with speed and suppressed laughter.
“Oh! I’m glad you’ve come,” said Andrew, “it’s been quite horrid waiting up here alone, with all that horrible noise going on all round.”
“It sounds rather eerie, doesn’t it?” said Di.
“Yes, really I do think it is rather dangerous,” began Andrew, “I—”
“Then run away,” said Di, “only leave me your tools.”
“No, I didn’t mean to say that,” said Andrew, “only—”
“Now, look here, be sensible,” broke in Di, “just hold this chair steady, whilst I stand up on it. I want to have a good look at this door. Here’s the candle and matches, just light it, and hand it up to me, when I’m safe on the chair.”
From her exalted position and aided by the light of the tallow dip, which Di had abstracted from Polly’s box in the scullery, she proceeded to make a careful inspection of the door and doorway.
The labours of many generations of undisturbed spiders had resulted in layers upon layers of cobwebs, which hung in grey misty folds all about the panels and locks, and cracks, and hinges, of the long dis-used door.