Was he a friend of the law, or its enemy? A friend, Johnny would have said. And yet, as he recalled how Spider had barely escaped death when he attempted to take a picture of that mysterious man of the tower, he could not be sure. Spider had not repeated his hair-raising experiment.
Curiously enough, it did not occur to one of them that they might slip out quietly, pile into their cars and go speeding back to the city. They had come here with a plan. They were to hang up their stockings, each of them, as if he were once more a small child. They were to stay all night, the ladies sleeping upstairs, the men and boys in two tiny downstairs bedrooms. There was to be joy in the morning and feasting at noonday; a twenty-five pound turkey awaited Madame’s skill at stuffing and baking. Who should interfere with these glorious plans? No one, surely!
* * * * * * * *
In the meantime, Grace Krowl in her parlor in the distant city had received a strange visitor.
Hardly had she returned from her little journey dispensing Christmas cheer, when there came a knock at her door.
“Who can that be?”
Springing up, she threw open the door, and there before her, smiling like some fairy, was a tiny little lady all dressed in furs.
“I received your letter.” She stepped inside. “I came to see about the little trunk.”
“But you—you’re not Emily Anne!” Grace stared with all her eyes.
“Oh, dear, no!” The little lady’s laugh was like the jingle of a silver bell. “I am her niece, Miss Baxter. Aunt Emily is dead, I am sorry to say—has been for two years.”