is nothing in there but papers."
"I see," said Sherwood gravely, as if the matter were dismissed. "Now, this house, it’s a double house, is it not? Do you happen to know what is on the other side of this mantel? Have you ever been in the other house?"
"I have not," said Romayne haughtily. "The house is vacant, of course, you know."
"Yes?" Sherwood lifted his eyebrows in that maddening way he had done before, as if he doubted her word. "Is the house for rent?"
"I believe it is," said Romayne, vexed. She felt somehow that he was making game of her, yet his tone and manner were entirely respectful. There was about him an air of knowing more than she did about the things she told him. If he knew things, why did he ask? Was he trying to get her tangled up? Oh, if Father or Lawrence would only come home. It was outrageous! But perhaps she ought to play the game and keep them here till one of them did walk in, so that these intruders might be brought to justice.
"Do many people come to look at the house?"
"I really don’t know," haughtily again. "I’ve noticed an agent once or twice. It may be rented now for all I know."
"Yes?" And then quite irrelevantly, it seemed to her, "And your father’s business is?"
"He is a manager of a corporation. It has to do with ore and oil products." She waved her hand toward the bits of rock and oil tubes on the desk. She had the air of endeavoring to graciously satisfy an insatiable curiosity on his part, endeavoring to show him how contemptible he was. But his quiet, grave manner did not alter.
"Miss Ransom, have you ever been down to the cellar in your own house?"
"Really!" she shrugged. "How absurd! Of course."
"Can you tell me what it contains?"
"Why certainly. A furnace, and a coal bin, and a woodpile."
"Where is the furnace located?"
What possible interest could that be to these strangers? "Why, almost directly under this room, I think."
"Yes? And the coal bin? Is it located on the right wall or the left?"
Romayne stopped to think. This was rather interesting, like a game. What could the man possibly be driving at? Or was he merely trying to kill time and asking any question that came into his head?
"It is on the right wall, just in front of the fireplace, I believe. Yes, I know it is. They fill it from the basement window on the sidewalk, just under that window over there, I think. We haven’t been here long, and haven’t needed to get coal yet."
"Did you ever examine the coal bin?"
"Well no. I couldn’t possibly take any interest in a coal bin. Father always looks after those things."
"Then you have no knowledge of a door or passageway leading from that coal bin into the cellar of the next house?"
Romayne gave a startled glance from one intent face to the other. For the first time it seemed to her the men were off their guard and openly watching her.
"Of course not," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. Oh, if Father or Lawrence would only come. "You must have been reading dime novels or mystery stories."
The young man controlled a desire to smile. She could see it in the quiver of his lip. He had a nice mouth. But how outrageously impertinent.
"Did you ever notice anything else in the cellar?" went on the steady voice.
"Nothing but some boxes and barrels that came from the mine and have to do with the business," she said wearily. Would this inquisition never end?
"I’m hungry," she said suddenly. "I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I go and get something to eat, will you? In my own house?"
"I’m sorry, Miss Ransom, but you’ll have to remain right here in this room for the present." She had a strange sensation as she swept him a glance of disdain that his eyes were asking her pardon. "Hollister here will go where you direct him," he added, "and get something for you. You can trust him to find what you want, I’m sure."
"No!" said Romayne contemptuously. "I certainly cannot trust a person who had done what he is doing to an old friend. Thank you! I will remain hungry!"
The color swept in a crimson wave up to the roots of Chris’s hair and he turned swiftly toward the window once more.
"I’m sorry," said Sherwood with genuine concern in his voice. "It was no part of my plan to drag you into this mess, Miss Ransom!"
"Oh, yes, you’re very sorry!" retorted Romayne angrily, and suddenly sat down in the chair he had offered her several times, with a defeated look on her face, and stormy eyes. Oh, if her father and brother would only come. It was ten minutes after six! Surely they must come soon!
And then there was a sound of a key in the latch, a tense silence in the room; the front door opened, and Mr. Ransom, followed by his son, entered and looked around with white, startled faces.
CHAPTER III
In future years when Romayne looked back on that silence that followed her father’s entrance into the room, it seemed to her to have lasted for years, and to have encompassed three distinct eras of emotion.
There was the first instant of relief that her father had come and that now all would be set right. During that instant her own firm little chin was lifted just the slightest, haughtily, with an assurance, the perfect assurance that she had always felt in her father to dominate any situation; an almost pity for the cocksure young man who had been so condescending and so dictatorial to her in her own house, and she swept him a brief glance of contempt that included the whole room. The boy, Chris, seemed suddenly to have been submerged in the amber-colored curtains. She had forgotten that he existed.
Her eyes went back to her father’s face, expecting to find a certain look, the expression of an aristocrat who had arrived in time to discomfort interlopers. She knew the look, he had worn it often through the years in protecting herself and her mother from impudence or presumption on the part of servants or officials. It became him well, that look of righteous indignation, tempered with severity. She was always a little sorry for anybody who had incurred his displeasure when her father was really roused. He had a command of fine, terse sarcasm that was really withering to listen to. That he would use it now she did not doubt. She waited to hear him speak and realized that the silence had been long, with something vitally terrible in it that she did not understand. Of course, her father would be much disturbed that she had been here alone in the house with a company of men of this sort. He would be fairly overwhelmed.
She turned her attention fully to his face again. Was it something in the expression of the uniformed man who stood at his elbow that made her look more closely? Why, her father’s face was ashen! His eyes! There was nothing haughty in them. They looked—why, almost frightened! Perhaps he was sick. The doctor had said there was a little weakness of the heart—nothing serious. It was not good for him to be excited. She flashed a glance of condemnation toward the leader of the men, who stood just ahead of her to the right. Then her eyes went again to
