“A professor’s library.” The words had intrigued him. The very word professor had a glorious sound to him. They had been so good to him, the professors of his college.
Without more than half willing it, he had begun bidding on those three heavy black boxes filled with books. In the end they were his, and his pockets were all but empty.
After the affair was over he had hunted up the auctioneer and secured the name and address of the professor.
“I’ll sell the books back to him,” he said to the auctioneer. “Surely he must have some money, or will have in a month or two.”
“Well, maybe.” The auctioneer had shaken his head. “Lots of folks pretty poor these days. Too bad!”
“And this,” Johnny told himself as he continued to pace the floor of that mysterious room, “is the professor’s house. Seems more like the haunts of an evil genius.”
He felt an almost irresistible desire to find his way out of the place and make a dash for it. But there were the books. He must manage to get his money back somehow. He had hoped the professor might be able to pay him the money and take the library.
“Cost hundreds of dollars in the first place, those books,” he murmured. “You’d think—”
Again he broke off to listen and stare. Strange noises, curious flashes of light, and then the door swung open. The golden-haired girl appeared. The door closed behind her.
“He—he’ll be here soon.” She seemed breathless. “He—he’s working at something, a—a sort of trap. Do you know,” she whispered, “this is a terrible neighborhood—truly frightful! That is why we live here.”