“Here ’neath thy window, Love, I am waiting,
Waiting thy sweet face to see,”
he declared, strumming the while on an imaginary guitar. But the verse came to an end without signs from the window, and so they climbed the stairs. The “Ranch” was deserted. But even as they assured themselves of the fact by looking into the bedroom, soft footfalls sounded on the stairs from the third-story loft, and a moment after Pete, looking like a conspirator, crept into the front room and softly closed the door behind him. Then his eyes fell on Allan and Tommy, and he grinned mysteriously.
“Where’d you come from?” Allan demanded.
“Up-stairs.”
“What’s doing up there?” asked Tommy, suspiciously.
“Nothing at all.” But the grin remained. Tommy sniffed.
“I’m going up to see,” he threatened.
Pete sank into a chair, took up his pipe, and spread his hands apart as if to say, “Please yourself; believe me or not, as you like.” Then he lighted his pipe.
“What have you done with your coat?” asked Allan. “And why are you festooned with cobwebs and decorated with dust?”